O-12.
O-09.
O-15.
Omegas.
Every one of them.
I've worked enough contracts to know what that means, and I've read enough between the lines of enough briefing documents to know what "genetic development subjects" is a polished way of saying. The company literature calls this place a research facility. The company literature also calls its security personnel "asset protection specialists," so I've learned to translate.
Lab rats.
That's the word nobody uses in any room with recording equipment. We turn a corner. The corridor opens into a larger containment wing. The ceiling lifts here, ten feet at least, maybe more. More doors. More cameras are mounted at intervals along the ceiling, their red indicator lights steadyand patient. The fluorescent fixtures overhead buzz at a frequency just below conscious annoyance.
You don't notice it until you stop moving. Then it's all you can hear. Silence, otherwise. Until a voice suddenly drifts through the ventilation system overhead.
"Morning, screaming rabbit."
I stop.
The guard next to me groans, not alarmed, just resigned. The groan of a man who has heard this before and had been hoping, without real expectation, that today would be different.
"What?"
He jerks his chin toward one of the cells halfway down the hall.
"Zero's awake."
I follow his gaze.
The door reads:
O-00
The observation glass is already fogged with breath from the inside, a faint haze spreading outward from a central point where something (someone) has been leaning close to the surface. A dark-haired omega stands inside, forehead pressed against the window, arms hanging loose at his sides. The posture of someone entirely unconcerned with how he looks.
Even from across the hallway, I can see the grin on his face. It's crooked and wide. The kind of expression that belongs on someone who just thought of something they probably shouldn't do and has decided to do it anyway.
He's talking to the ceiling.
"Morning, creeps!" he calls out suddenly, pivoting to address the camera above his door with the easy familiarity of someone greeting a neighbor. Pearce sighs through his teeth.
"That one never shuts up."
Zero waves at the camera. A real wave, fingers spread, arm moving, completely committed to the bit.
"Hope you slept well!" he continues cheerfully, "I had a dream where one of you idiots left the door unlocked."
A pause.
"Technically, it was more of a nightmare. Because I woke up."
I cross my arms and study him. He doesn't look like what I expected. I've seen omegas in containment before. In different facilities, different programs, and different bureaucratic justifications for the same basic situation.
They tend to look a particular way after long enough. Quiet. Watchful in the manner of animals that have learned to anticipate the next bad thing. Eyes that have stopped expecting much.
This one looksentertained.
