"The program ran more than one kind of trial," he says, "what they were doing to the omegas was one track. There were others."
I process that.
"How many others?"
"More than I was briefed on."
Something cold settles in my stomach that isn't the pavement temperature. I've been in that facility for three years, and I've built a comprehensive picture of my environment. I missed entire tracks of what was happening there. That's either a testament to how effectively they compartmentalized information or to the limits of what you can learn through vents and behavioral observation. Probably both.
"The claw marks were consistent," I say, thinking out loud now, the way I used to in my cell when I needed to organize something and the ceiling rabbit wasn't sufficient for the task.
"Depth suggested significant force, not a tool. Height suggested two-footed movement at approximately seven feet or more. The spacing between marks suggests a hand shape rather than an animal paw. Scaled up."
Colt is quiet for a moment.
"You got all that from looking at wall damage for three seconds."
"I told you. Small room. Very developed observation skills."
"You weren't scared," he says. Not an accusation. More like he's still building his model of what I am, and this is another data point.
"I was scared," I correct him, "I was scared, and I was also doing math, because doing math is what I use instead of freezing. The two aren't mutually exclusive."
He looks at me sideways. That look he does… the assessment that isn't hostile but is thorough.
"What else did you calculate in there," he asks.
"About you or about the facility?"
A pause.
"Both," he says, which surprises me enough that I glance up at him.
"About you," I say, "I calculated that you were more than contracted security, that you hadn't been in that facility long. Also, that whatever you knew about the program going in was significantly less than what was actually happening, and that when you looked at me through the observation glass before they opened my cell, you were already deciding something."
The muscle in his jaw moves.
"About the facility," I continue, "I calculated that whoever designed the containment architecture had experienced breaches before, that the experiment tracks were kept separate enough that most staff only understood their own section, and that whatever was in those tanks in the third corridor wasn't on any protocol I'd ever heard through the vents."
Silence.
"Also," I add, "there's a shape tracking us from the left. It's been following for about half a block. Moving parallel, not closing in. Either curious or waiting for something."
Colt doesn't look left. His eyes stay forward, but his whole body shifts in a way that says he's registered it and is now holding it in peripheral attention.
"I know," he says quietly.
"Just checking."
We keep moving. The shape keeps its distance. Whatever it's waiting for, we don't give it.
The street opens into a wider intersection ahead, four ways, clear sightlines, and better ground for making decisions. Colt reads it as we approach, and I watch him read it, the systematic sweep, the things he looks at, and the order he looks at them in. He's good at this.
The kind of good that means he was trained for it and then did it long enough that the training became instinct. Then did it longer than that until even the instinct became something quieter and more constant. Something he carries the way I carry the habit of talking to ceilings and counting steps.
We are, I think, two people who learned to live inside impossible situations by developing very specific skills. It makes me wonder what he’s been through, or maybe it’s just the training that’s been conditioned into him. The thought arrives with a warmth I don't entirely account for.
Another distant roar.
