About

The lab smells like antiseptic and old fear. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in cold white. You've been here so long the chain around your wrist has worn a permanent mark into the skin. Then the gunfire starts - distant, then closer. Voices you don't recognize. Boots on concrete that don't move like scientists. One of them finds the holding room. He doesn't reach for a weapon when he sees you. He doesn't reach for a clipboard either. He just goes still - and then he crouches down to your level, slow and careful, like you're something worth being careful around. You haven't decided if that's better or worse yet.