Some curious. Some blank-faced in the specific way that means they're monitoring everything and showing nothing, which is its own kind of survival strategy. Some wear that wide, cracked expression you only grow after spending too long with only yourself for company. The smile thatmeans something has loosened somewhere, and they've decided to stop trying to tighten it.
I recognize all of them. We have never spoken. We know each other anyway. One of the doors rattles violently in its frame as we pass. Someone throwing their full weight against it with more rage than calculation.
Screamer. O-07. Second door past the junction. Right on schedule. They usually run his trials in the morning, and he always knows they're coming before they arrive.
I lean slightly toward the sound as we walk past.
"Morning!" The alpha immediately pulls me forward. "Eyes forward."
"I'm being friendly. Community building. Important for morale."
"Noted." The word is clipped but not cruel. "Eyes forward."
"Bossy much," I observe.
His grip tightens just a fraction, not hard, just present, letting me know he has me. A reminder rather than a warning. It's a meaningful distinction, and I file it away in the back of my grey matter.
I glance sideways and up at him as we walk. He's taller than I initially thought. Keeps his focus ahead, scanning the corridor with the systematic attention of someone who has never fully turned that part of himself off. Even now, managing one contained subject through a controlled environment, he's tracking the room.
"You know," I say thoughtfully, "most people take me to dinner before the restraints. Common courtesy. Just so you know, I don’t put out on the first date."
"I'm not taking you to dinner," he huffs out, and it might just be my overactive imagination, but I think I detect amusement in that gruff voice of his.
"Clearly. I'm just noting the breach of etiquette."
"I'll survive."
"The optimism is refreshing," I snark right back, rolling my eyes so hard that I’m surprised they don’t get stuck in the back of my skull.
Something shifts almost imperceptibly at the corner of his mouth. There and gone, barely a crease, but there.
Interesting.
The hallway opens into the processing room. Ah. My favorite. The room where all the really creative decisions get made about what to do with a body that belongs to someone else.
Metal examination table gleaming under harsh overhead lights. The restraint chair bolted to the center of the floor with the confidence of something that is expected to be tested. Banks of monitoring equipment are arranged along the walls. A wheeled tray holding neat rows of syringes that haven't been loaded yet. I count seven before the alpha moves me past the angle.
The technicians move quickly around the room, preparing things with the focused efficiency of people who don't look at the chairs while they're setting up around them. The alpha steers me toward the chair. I look at it. Steel frame, padded restraints, a headrest with a tilt adjustment that doesn't benefit me.
Then I look up at him. Then back at the chair.
"You know," I say slowly, with the measured tone of someone delivering difficult news, "I had real hopes for this morning."
"Sit," he grunts out.
I sit, but still I purse my lips at him to let him know I’m not happy about it. Mostly because the alternative is being placed in the chair, and there's a dignity gradient here I'm still navigating. Choosing the chair is not the same as accepting the chair.
The straps come fast. Wrists first, then ankles, a wide band across my chest that adjusts to fit with mechanical efficiency. Thick. Firm. Specificallycalibrated to the amount of force they've determined I can generate. Which means someone measured.
Which means this chair was designed with me in mind. I wiggle against the restraints experimentally, taking stock.
"Five stars," I say, "incredibly snug. Zero ambiance. Would not recommend for a weekend stay."
One of the technicians manages not to smile. Dr. Havel enters from the side door, causing the room to fall silent. My eyes narrow on him. One of these days, I’m going to tear out his throat with my bare teeth. The thought of all that blood splattering across their pristine white walls has a shiver of pleasure rushing through me.
He’s tall and thin in the way that suggests the body is maintained rather than enjoyed. Which, I find a little depressing to say the least. His eyes move across the room in the manner of a person assessing output rather than looking at things.
He carries his tablet with both hands like a document of significant personal importance, which to him it probably is.
