I lean in close, my face inches from hers.
"'Subject H3 shows increased aggression response. Recommend escalating the fear protocol.'" My voice mocks hers, nasally and clinical. "I was eight years old. I didn't have a name anymore. I didn't have a family. I didn't have anything except the cage youput me in and the lessons you beat into my skull. And you talked about me like I was a science experiment."
"You were." The words slip out before she can stop them. Old habits. The arrogance of someone who's never faced consequences.
I break her nose.
The crunch of cartilage is satisfying. Blood gushes down her face, spatters across her expensive blouse. She screams, high and shrill, the sound of someone who's never experienced real pain before.
"That's for calling me a subject."
I grab her hand, bend her index finger back until the joint pops. Another scream.
"That's for every child you strapped to a table."
Another finger. Another pop. Another scream.
"That's for every needle. Every electrode. Every hour of conditioning."
I work my way through her fingers, methodical, precise. Each break is a memory. Each scream is a child's voice that she silenced. By the time I'm done with both hands, she's sobbing,snot and blood mixing on her face, her ruined fingers curled uselessly in her lap.
"Please," she gasps. "Please, stop."
"Did you stop when we begged?" I circle behind her, grab her shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Did you show mercy when we cried? When we screamed? When we tried to die just to escape what you were doing to us?"
"I was following orders—"
"You gave the orders." I spin her chair around, make her face me. "You designed the protocols. You refined the techniques. Every horror that happened in the Foundry, in Geneva, in Singapore, in a dozen other facilities around the world... you're the source. The monster that made all the other monsters. You created the Harrison Protocol, which was used to enhance Project Omega. You created my brothers and I and you tried to fucking destroy us. You’re a fucking demon."
"I'm not—"
"You are." I crouch again, bringing us eye to eye. Her tears leave tracks through the blood on her face. Her eyes are wild, desperate, finally understanding that there's no escape. No negotiation. No clever words that will save her.
"Tell me something." I keep my voice soft, almost gentle. The same tone she used when she was breaking me. "How manychildren have come through your programs? Total. All facilities, all years."
She doesn't want to answer. I can see her calculating, trying to figure out what response will buy her mercy.
"I asked you a question."
"I... I don't have exact numbers—"
I grab her broken hand and squeeze. The scream that tears out of her is animal, primal. When I release her, she's shaking so hard the chair rattles against the floor.
"Try again."
"Thousands." The word comes out wet, garbled by snot and blood. "Over the years... thousands."
"Thousands." Death is too kind for a person like this and rage fills me. "And how many of those survived deployment?"
Silence.
"Answer me."
"Seventeen percent." She's crying now, ugly sobs that shake her whole body. "Seventeen percent survival rate post-deployment. It's... it's within acceptable parameters for—"
"Eighty-three percent." I stand, pace away from her, trying to contain the rage that's building in my chest. "Eighty-three percent of the children you tortured are dead. How many is that? Do the math."
"I don't—"
