Like the ceiling, the camera, and the whole apparatus of the facility is a source of ongoing personal amusement that hasn't worn thin yet. Or has worn through into something else entirely. Possibly past the point where despair lives, out the other side into something harder to name.
"Problem subject," Pearce says.
"How so?"
"He bites people."
I look back at the glass. He’s so small… I wouldn’t think he’d be a problem, but looks can be deceiving.
Zero has moved away from the window now, pacing in a loose circuit around the cell. Still talking to himself. His hands move when he speaks.Not erratic, just expressive, like the words need help getting out. He's describing something to the ceiling, or to himself, or to an imaginary audience assembled for the occasion.
"If the rabbit starts talking back," he's saying thoughtfully, studying a point on the ceiling above his light fixture, "we're upgrading from coping to insane. Current status: coping. Barely. But technically."
"He talks to himself," I observe.
"Constantly." Pearce pauses, "and to the cameras. And to the vents. And to his food when they bring it, which-" He stops, "just don't ask." Zero abruptly leans close to the glass again. His eyes flick toward the corridor.
Sharp.
Aware.
The grin doesn't change, but something behind it does. A quality of attention shifting, the way a person's focus adjusts when they've registered something without being able to see it directly. He can't see through the observation barrier, I’m positive of that. That's the point of the one-way glass. He should be looking at his own reflection. That's all he should be able to see.
Somehow it feels like he knows we're here anyway. Not guessing.Knowing.
"Aw," he says, addressing a point in the glass that corresponds exactly with where we're standing.
"Morning, security detail. You smell new."
His head tips slightly.
"One of you does, anyway."
My partner stiffens.
He shouldn't know we're here. He shouldn't be able to orient toward us with that kind of accuracy. The seals on these cells are airtight during observation hours. Alpha instinct prickles at the back of my neck. Not asharp warning. A low one. The kind that doesn't shout. The kind that's been right before.
Inside the cell, Zero tilts his head like he's listening to something transmitted on a frequency only he receives. His expression goes briefly thoughtful. Then the grin comes back, slower this time, like it means something different than it did a moment ago.
"Today feels like a bite day," he says. Pearce swears under his breath.
"See?"
A moment later, the hallway door behind us opens. Two lab technicians enter, tablets in hand, already pulling up files without looking at the cell. Like looking at it directly is something you learn to avoid. Dr. Havel walks in behind them. Tall. Severe.
The kind of man who has probably never been surprised by anything in his life because he arranged the world so nothing unexpected could reach him. Salt-and-pepper hair kept short. Eyes that evaluate rather than observe. He walks down the center of the corridor like the hallway was built to accommodate him specifically.
He doesn't look at Zero's cell when he passes it. That's interesting.
"Security," he says. Pearce straightens.
"Yes, Doctor."
Havel's gaze passes over me briefly. Assessing. Filing. Moving on.
"Prepare Subject O-00 for extraction. Full protocol."
The technicians exchange a look that they think is subtle. Inside the cell, Zero's chin lifts. He heard that. Through the door, through the seal, with whatever it is in him that picks up information it shouldn't be able to reach. He heard it, and the grin that follows is the widest one yet.
