Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Therapy.

You thought therapy was supposed to make you feel better, not worse. In fact, you were further down in the pit than you were when you got here.

Therapy. Dr. Easterman. What was the point?

Each morning remained the same in the sleep room. Subtle differences to smack you in the face with, more bruises on your legs stringed together like a set of pearls. But you knew they were fingerprints, not anything made with hard work, just painful hidden memories of the day before which you could never remember.

It was probably the reason you always ached whenever you shot up from your bunk drenched in a clammy sweat and rapid breaths, like your body knew something you didn’t. The nightmares always lost themselves on you, no matter how hard you tried and forced yourself to remember. A lost link. Memories petrified to stone by your brain stem just waiting to sever itself.

Each morning was the same. Same breathlessness, creased sheets between your fingers that moulded to your hand shape by now. The shock of the ice cold tile under your feet woke you up further, but it was more painful than it should have been.

You padded over to your desk this time, having slipped out of bed with your little robe, a gift from Dr. Easterman when you first came here.

This time came another note nestled on the cheap wood surface. ‘A gift for completing the trials in the first part of the program.”

Trials? Your therapy hadn’t begun just yet. Most days were spent moping around the sleep room, playing a misremembered card game of solitaire or taking to Nurse Barlow.

She was a barrel of laughs, talking about organs at the slightest drop of a hat, complimenting your teeth and high cheek bones. You never quite took them as compliments, not when she watched you like a hawk whenever you were in her eye line and she ripped away her gaze from her magazine.

It just made you contemplate why you were still here.

The gift in question, a scarf. Pure silk.

A beautiful gesture from a man you had never met in person, never heard in person. Seeing the man on the screen, taking note of his voice on the radio became a part of your routine, almost comforting. The day almost never felt right until you heard his voice, his words to greet you in the morning.

Still, letting the silken cloth fall through your aching fingertips that morning felt wrong, delayed to match the sickening churn in the pit of your stomach. Your nightmares, the sensation flashed over your body like a rash susceptible to full blown hives, to the point of anaphylaxis.

Everything about this scarf was wrong, yet you ignored it. Just like how you ignored the massive worn bags under your eyes every time you looked into the little cracked mirror above the sink, the toothpaste balancing on the edge of the ceramic.

The only tasteful thing through your day, minty and refreshing, though it had an odd after taste. You assumed it was the fluoride ingredient they were adding, the whole clinically proven talk you’d heard on the television once. It was supposed to be scientific, though you didn’t exactly understand the science behind it. Yet, you brushed without hesitation every time and just winced at the new ingredient before breakfast.

Sitting by yourself in the sleep room led you to a lot of lonely thoughts. Was this just a trap? Something you’d regret immensely? Perhaps Dr. Easterman had forgotten you were here for therapy. Looking at some of the people here, banging on the walls and muttering to themselves struck an idea that maybe, you would end up like them too.

If you couldn’t start sleeping properly, that is.

You’d been keeping a detailed journal of your sleeping habits. Torn sleep, sweaty sheets that stuck to you like glue almost cringing your tactile factory system. You always sat in a state of discombobulation when you came round, if you weren’t screaming, you were sobbing and couldn’t tell why.

That journal stayed hidden under your bed, hopefully one day to bring you an ounce of strength to remember even a slither of your nightmares. Maybe that’s what Dr. Easterman was waiting for, to know what troubled you and then talk about it in therapy.

Yeah. It must be that.

Being plagued by dreams you never remembered started affecting your eating, hopelessly pushing your food side to side on the plate like it would somehow make it disappear. When it didn’t, by the time you tried one bite, the cold texture caused your gag reflex to trouble you. Drinking water and brushing your teeth became the only consistent parts of your routine. That, and watching others step through those twisting doors, almost like futuristic turn styles.

You chose to sit down there on the table, reading a book Dr. Easterman gifted you, one about the war, recently published concerning chemical warfare.

It was an odd book to give with such a kind note.

"Your willingness is exemplary, your diligence makes you special.”

The note slipped between the pages, marking the place you’d already read twice before, but took in the pages regardless, cover to cover and waited for the people to come back.

Each time, they’d come back different, a little less than themselves. They drooped, their backs hunched over with exhaustion, sprayed and some dripping with blood. It looked like paint lacquer, thick in places and cracking with each movement back to their rooms, mumbling to themselves like no one was around.

You caught glimpses of their one sided conversations, drabbles about monsters and explosions, and a glowing police baton. A team of blood spotted individuals staring off a thousand yards until they were called upon again to war.

The clincher being they went voluntarily.

Until it was your turn. And that was not voluntary.

Two guards approached your table, though it wasn’t as though you were avoiding therapy, Dr. Easterman just hadn’t called you to discuss tailored methods. 

They said you name with such familiarity, such supercilious determination.

“Yes?” You said, laying the book down on the table, open on the last page you had read.

“You’re late for therapy, it’s time to go.”

It didn’t click when, not before they were dragging you away because you lacked the reason to articulate an answer. It clicked when the metal pod opened like a set of jaws, still flecked in splashes of crimson from the last people that came out scathed from the horrors that hid behind them.

You struggled, panicked to get out of their grasp, for Dr. Easterman to step in over the intercom and stop the misunderstanding. Though he didn't, no one did, they didn't even register your calls for help.

“I’m not going in there!”

There wasn’t a weapon on your person, no aid or items that could prevent the same fate happening to you. You knew some people didn’t come back, they went missing forever and no one mentioned them after.

Forgotten.

Vanished.

Nothing to arm yourself with.

As far as you knew, a flesh eating monster lied in wait to consume your soul and put you back into the sleep room like a zombie from fiction novels. The closer you got, the more your gut sang into the funnel of your own demise.

The pod closed before you could attempt to escape, the sound of your fists banging against the titanium strips absorbed your fear and vulnerabilities so that it laughed at you. The pod spat you out onto the floor into a shuttle with four, browned dentist chairs, they were stained with red too.

There was even crusted over red in between the grates in the floor, it clung to your pants and nails as you clambered to your feet. The pods remained closed, though no monster waited on the other side, the negative space became the intimidating entity.

“Please, sit down in your designated seats.”

You ignored the intercom at first, shuffling along the wall and wiping what left over paint came from the floor onto the wall.

“Please, sit down in your designated seats.”

It came in quick succession, no more demanding yet more passively aggressive. The message was aimed at you, no one else.

How many before you had been told the same?

For some reason, you complied and instantly regretted it. The restraints you failed to see in your panicked haze constricted you, forcing you to see, to hear.

A television dropped down right before your eyes and you couldn’t look away. A silhouette of a man, flickering before your eyes, the words PREY, DISOBEY, RECTIFY in bold replaced him.

“You are a damsel in distress, neurotic and emotional. Tear down the pillars of your vulnerabilities and keep your biological defences in check. Be a victim no more, and decide your own fate.” 

"D-Doctor Easterman?!"

You couldn’t move, almost zoned out at the television for purchase of the minimal familiarity of the man you'd never met, something suddenly soothing enough to breathe deeply yet keep your senses on edge whilst the silhouette came back.

“Here you’ll learn the true horrors of the male gaze. Defend yourself. Show them just how special you are.”

As the television lifted again, it let out a shrill high pitch wail. Then the gas came.

Holding your breath did nothing as it filled the back of your throat regardless and made you choke on it as though it was a solid, a vile reckoning that your life was in more than just danger. People came back from this, though much less of who they were when they came in here. Voluntarily. The gas could be addictive and noxious, bitterness to match on your tongue like acid or rotten limes. Still, you inhaled it by no choice. 

And the hallucinations it induced were something not out of a nightmare, but hell itself.

Gore, and ankle deep blood like red wine glistening under the depressive, discoloured fluorescent lights. Disfigured heads dripping with corrosion and hatred. Countless bodies before you were brutalised, abused in a fashion you never thought possible, torched and shocked on chairs like dolls and Halloween attraction dummies.

By now, your fingers had seized up, gripping the chair tight enough your knuckles lightened and wrists reddened by how much you pulled and tugged against the restraints.

Then, the main event. You screamed at the sight so guttural it put pressure on your core muscles, tore into your ankles with cold hard steel.

… An electrical cattle prod.

A police officer.

He touched himself, grunting, lips groaning around his lit cigarette in a way it looked like he enjoyed mere metres away from you. The electrical cattle prod that kept your breath in rammed into his crotch with a life of its own, zapping his body rigid. Still he moaned, sang something under his breath and lunged for you. You could not move. You screamed again.

He vanished.

The restraints released you and threw you out of the chair, wrists and ankles red raw and muscles peaky with myalgia. The entire shuttle appeared like it had before, isolated from anywhere comforting. The pods on the other side opened, and without thinking, you raced for them back to the sleep room. It must have been a gas experiment, people must have hurt themselves getting out of the chairs, it would have explained the blood entirely.

A courthouse replaced the sterile comforts of the sleep room, scattered papers littered the steps with news articles you’d missed and random stories with sad endings or missing children. It was entirely abandoned, no soul in sight to give guidance or advice, just uncomfortable mannequins pointing towards the courthouse double doors.

“Every time… every time he does this- I can’t take anymore of it!”

You could have missed him on the ground there, crouched into a ball and rocking while he mumbled random things to himself. He didn’t notice you, or maybe he ignored you. It was evident by his bare feet and tragically haggard clothes that he was in the same boat, but much wider spread.

Perhaps he was trapped here.

“E-Excuse me… do you know where I am?”

“Walk over there- no over there! I want to go home- I have to get out!”

“Excuse me-“

“NO!” 

He lunged towards you, scratching at you like a feral, starving animal until you backed away far enough. You slipped on the littered newspaper and hit the back of your head on the car behind. You winced and yelped, scrambling away from him towards the courthouse steps.

He laughed, scraping around on the floor, sniffing the air. “You’ve got a pretty cunt!”

It took a second to register what he said, feeling yourself violated. “What the hell- what did you just say?!” You looked around for assistance, yet no one emerged.

And just like that, the man crawled behind a bin and muttered to himself like you didn’t exist, hiding from something unseen and rubbing his balding head in repetitive waves and left you alone. You had heard one or two others in the sleep room talk like him, maybe he just needed help too, despite how disgustingly crude his words were.

Edging up the steps away from him, your vision blurred, the impact was more forceful than you realised, the harassment ingrained in your brain more forcefully than you anticipated. It set your gut on a teetering point of a sharp blade of your own moral judgment and fear that threatened to consume you entirely.

There was no way to go but forward, inside the pace of judgment to find a way out of this hell on earth.

And find Dr. Easterman for help.

Chapter Text

If this was therapy, where was Doctor Easterman?

“Hello?”

Was there an office somewhere? Some sort of sign that indicated a facility within the aura of justice to help you. That’s what therapy did, help people, right?

So where was Doctor Easterman’s office?

The desolate resignation of it all unsettled your gut, dislodged it from the comfort of the sleep room to free float until it banged into something to throw you off. Up the main staircase, painted with a symbol you didn't recognise, turning right up some more filthy carpeted stairs and down a long hall. Nothing greeted you except wooden crates and generator power cables.

Interior decorating was lost on the stylists, practically abandoning an entire building for drab essentials for those who stayed. Well, no one stayed, it was as though everyone just upped and left everything behind before a natural disaster or mass unemployment.

Did Doctor Easterman leave too?

Maybe this was a test. Being put outside of your comfort zone and having to find him may be the most unorthodox method of therapy you’d ever heard of.

“Doctor Easterman?!”

Nothing. Eerie silence lost on you for how deafening the halls were.

Something broke that silence though, just up ahead over a balcony.

“Oh my god!” 

Covering your mouth so you didn’t scream kept you from passing out, a kept breath so sacred you held it to your chest. Suddenly you were too fortunate to let it go than the poor soul hanging from the gallows in the opening under the balcony. They writhed, groaned in muffled drawls as their hands shook between the bound rope that suspended them over the serrated grinder at their feet.

“Hang on! I’m coming- I’m coming!” You’d never raced down a flight of steps so fast, gripping the hand rail like a life line to extend to them. “I-It’s alright, I’m going to help you!” 

But how the hell could you help them? It wasn’t like you had a stepladder in your back pocket, or a rather long hook to pull them away from danger. The person wriggled and groaned in a panic though their legs remained still and lifeless, almost mannequin like by the shine of the sweat wrapped around their shins.

“How can I help? How do I help you?”

There. A bunch of blank television screens behind them, coded key pads that were possible reasons to aid them.

“What do I do? Uh- oh shit, what do I do?! Doctor Easterman! This isn’t therapy, it’s sick! Stop this, please!”

For the first time, an alarm sounded, flashing lights lit up the top of the stairs by the balcony.

Doctor Easterman?

The door opened, and closed in quick succession. “Sounds like the lil bird’s escaped ‘er cage.” 

A quick safety net of words. Someone was actually here.

“Excuse me!” You waved to catch his attention. “I need your help, I think there’s been a mistake-“

Then you saw him. Like actually saw him, and his electrical baton.

He was real. He was fucking real.

The person shook and cried above you, physically reacting to the man though they couldn’t see him. It must have been the distinct and sickening crackle of the electric current stomping towards you.

Frozen in fear. Frozen in the reality that Doctor Easterman was most likely never here.

“I’m…” You watched on as he stamped down the stairs getting closer. “I’m sorry… I need to- I’ll come back-“

Backing up against the wall, you tripped and staggered, scrambling for purchase to pull on and launch yourself out of the vicinity for non-existent sanctuary.

“I’m coming back!”

“Runnin’ from the law abides no safety, Missy. Come ‘ere so the law can punish you properly.”

You ran, looking back every so often though his heavy boots told you exactly where he was, close behind you around the next corner. His police baton called to you with clacking obscenities and voltage wanting to embrace your muscles and short circuit your bodily functions. An evil piece of weaponry with no real cause.

Where do I go, where do I run to?

Clambering upstairs, you struggled up on all fours for somewhere to hide. A place up high seemed like a good idea at the time, an instinctual and conscious decision for some sort of solace away from him.

“Yer flyin’ too close to the sun, lil bird.”

You ignored him and made a break for darkness over down the hallway to the right, tripping onto some glass on your way into it. It cut into the palms of your hands, making you recoil though you were certain that he’d come in looking for you being so close to the outskirts of the light. Still, you bit your lip to keep the pain from giving you away and waited for his move.

Though he didn’t. He stood there looking through the pitch black like it was a force field caused by a super hero in those comic books you often saw in the post offices. His baton quivered and glowed, watching you more closely than he did before he smirked and hummed to himself. He huffed on his cigarette to light up his face and exhaled like he was giving it to you. 

“Rest darlin’, I’ll come see to you later.”

And then he walked away.

You moved off of the glass when the room and hallway sat in silence. Sliding back until you pressed up against the wall gave you adequate cover behind something should he come back. Giving yourself a second to ease your breathing, you went to pull down your goggles that the sleep room was insistent on you having. A useful tool to check your hand if anything, though before doing so, the air in the isolated hallway changed.

Still pitch black in front of your eyes, you weren’t alone.

“Aren’t you a pretty little glow worm?” There was never any time to scream or pull away, having your wrist yanked by an invisible force.

In one quick fit of clarity in the mixture of panic, you flicked your goggles down and saw the stuff of nightmare fuel, worse than anything on that shuttle amongst the noxious gas.

“I like seeing you bleed.” He said, covering your mouth with his hot, calloused hand, pinning your other bleeding wrist down on the floor. “Why don’t we test your body out, hm?”

Your goggles came off in the struggle, leaving you in an utter fire fuelled terror, having your body groped by a robotic fucking robot with glowing eyes right in your face.

“I wish you could see what I see.”

By now, your moans were unhinged behind his hand yet muffled out of existence. If that man with the police baton appeared, would he fight this thing? Rip him off of you and defend the law he seemed so eager to mention?

Of course not, not if he was talking about punishing you for no reason.

Despite your struggle, the man on top of you didn’t move, pushing himself between your legs to expose you.

“Mmm… I wonder if they make these things for looking through clothes.” His laugh rattled through you like poison pills, a leering closeness to your face. “I want to know if you’re wearing panties, whore.”

You managed to shake his hand off from your face, gasping for air you held by yourself. “Please- please let me go. I’ll leave- if you ask Doctor Easterman, he’ll tell you I’m just here for therapy- I’m only here for therapy!”

He cackled again, inhaling your scent right up to your arm where he licked your bloody hand. “Tastes so good. So delicious in the dark and I see everything.”

“Wha- no, please stop!” 

His hand found its way between your legs, rubbing over your clothes so tenderly, you kicked your legs at him though he just rubbed harder. Firmly playing with you, as though laying on a bed in the dead of night with an old lover.

“Easterman isn’t here, glow worm. You want him, go get him. I want my fill first, oh… I need your life.”

He licked your hand again, slobbering at your wounds and shifted to your face and ear, tonguing your earlobe and hair. Your cries and cringed yelps went ignored, laying on the cool tile amongst the glass and grime digging into your arms in the struggle.

Frozen in fear, you sensed his hand paw at your pants, cheekily laughing at your own twisted expense. He grabbed at your breast, kneading it like dough and pinched it against the outer casing of the rig.

If I let him do this, he’ll go further. He just-

“So… are you wearing panties, glow worm?” 

He tugged at your waistband, delicately brushing the tips of his fingers over any exposed skin going down to your groin. He caught your wrist easily as you tried pushing him off, shoving him as hard as you could though it made no difference.

“That’s not nice, little mouse, won’t you keep me company? I’m hard enough to break glass, and your attempts to hurt me are making me worse.”

“Please, let me go!”

He purred by your ear, running his tongue up your face to taste you. “You chose a dark room. You wanted this.”

“I didn’t!”

That’s when you felt it, his hardened cock strained in his pants, he forced you to feel. “See what you did to me? I see it all, clear as day. You wanted this.” 

You couldn’t pull away, he wouldn’t let you. He ground his hips against your hand, groaning like the humiliation was on him and not you. But the fact that he was enjoying it became stagnant news and made his demented cock twitch. In one aggressive tug, he yanked your pants down and your private area was exposed to the cold. It tingled, you shivered, trembling in a frightened peak on the chance he’d attack you if you fought back.

The look of his face, those consistently glowing eyes and rotted away mouth made you believe he could. Perhaps he’d go feral and attack you like a wild animal fighting for meat with testosterone.

He’d batter you senseless.

In the heat of the adrenaline rush, your arms laid flat on the ground, unused and unguarded. But you knew he’d be watching as those two glowing eyes moved down between your legs. He lifted them, essentially folding you in half to get closer. For a moment, only the aura of his eyes were visible, not directly in your line of sight. 

If you couldn’t see two glowing bulbs in pitch black, then maybe he couldn’t see what you were doing either. So you felt around for something to hurt him with, taking slow breaths and remembering what Dr. Easterman said.

Be a victim no more and decide your own fate.

Broken glass on the ground could wound him if you could get close enough, but reaching him from where he was sounded almost impossible. Ideally something heavier, wider with more force when he came back up.

But I’m doing so, you’d have to let him-

“Look at this pretty cunt.” He pressed his tongue against you without hesitation, licking up the entire length between your legs like his last meal. “So beautiful in the dark. Delicious core, all mine!”

You’d have to let him take advantage until he was confident enough to give you an opening. Until then, you had no choice but to let a monster lick you like a ravenous dog and play with you the way someone did with a toy they didn't respect. He ran his slobbery tongue all over you, slipping it inside you like he owned you, groaning and humming into your pussy as though it was his first time.

You continued working, feeling around for anything noteworthy. At first, your hope died along with your dignity, and self worth. Then, a beacon of hope beamed down in the form of a rather large brick. So, you clutched it in the life ring you threw yourself and formulated your next step. As he ate you, his fingers dug into the plush of your thighs, threatening to bruise and mark you. Excitable.

I can’t believe this is happening. I want Dr. Easterman.

“Fuck… oh my god-“

“You finally make sweet sounds I can see, little mouse. You did want this, didn’t you?” He shoved his face between your legs, sharp metal snagging at your thighs, an icy scratch and burn to remind you later. His tongue moved overtime, flicking your clit and sucking until it hurt.

“Y-Yes, oh fuck yes, I’m close, I’m-“ extra shallow breaths to sell the illusion, you added in a quick buck of your hips to further the lie. “I’m coming!”

Like he’d know if you were coming or not.

And like magic, he pulled away and fumbled with his pants, keeping your legs folded over into a mating press. He snatched your free hand to feel his short, thick cock, giddily huffing to ready and line himself up to slip himself inside you.

But before he could, you lunged the brick at his head, clanging against the metal and his immediate moan with pain. He stumbled back, cursing and yelling obscenities as you hit him again and staggered to pull your pants up.

“You fucking bitch!”

You couldn’t get your footing, crawling was adequate to get into the light, to which he didn’t follow. But hovered on the cusp when the darkness backed away from the light on two separate worlds. 

“Mother…fucker, that’s bright. Fucking light bulbs ruining good pussy. I’ll keep a look out for you little glow worm, come back to the dark when you want me to finish you off.” He laughed and disappeared as though he hadn’t just assaulted you.

But alas, you were away from him for now.

“Yer up to all sorts of trouble, huh? I think it’s bout time I clipped this bird's wings before it shits all over me.”

The electrical baton. 

The police officer.

And one heavy boot to your head to turn the lights out.

Chapter Text

You couldn’t speak, gagging on the rubber obstruction in your mouth, barely breathing through your nose. Your eyes were wet for no reason at all except for a foreign object by your lashes.

Stagnant air perhaps? More of that hallucinogenic gas you inhaled coming back to haunt you?

Who knew.

The cop trudged around a small room you did not recognise, muttering to himself and singing.

“This lil light of mine… I’m gonna let it shine. This lil light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…”

Watching with frightened curiosity and survival instincts kept you quiet enough to study him. You couldn’t see his eyes behind his darkened sunglasses to speak to the man who could easily kill you, and you weren’t confident that he would even remotely bend to your pleas if you could talk either. 

He trudged back and forth, grabbing mysterious items with his back to you and singing most disturbingly. The surface clattered and scraped, twisting your stomach inside out at what torturous horrors he had to his disposal.

Your hands were tied, he could pull every fingernail from your nail beds and cackle in your ear until you passed out or surrendered yourself to him. In fact, it was possible due to your exhaustion to why your eyes stung like he’d thrown sand in them. Just the worry of torture was tiresome.

Sleepy.

“Well shit, look at you.” He turned, still huffing on a cigarette without a care.

It reeked, maybe being the cause of the irritation. It stung your olfactory senses, threatened to ruin them if he got any closer, not that he cared.

“Yer takin’ that ball in yer mouth better than I thought…” He studied you like a science experiment. “It’s provocative, but yer quivering’ lil bird. Ain’t no whores or scum who shake like a leaf in a hailstorm.”

He turned back around and sang, ignoring your existence entirely. “Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine…”

All of a sudden, you couldn’t breathe, gagging on the lump in your mouth filling with an endless supply of saliva and panic. Coughing didn’t help, your nostrils seized up and put your body into crisis mode. When the cop turned around, he grunted and mumbled something under his breath about expectations and being bored with the new toy.

He yanked the ball gag from your mouth, filling your lungs with that biological necessity until they seized and couldn’t cope with it. He hummed to himself again, though this time it became more of a condescension rather than anything thoughtful.

“Can’t take what I put in yer mouth now, huh?”

“Please-“ you coughed again and gasped for breath. “There’s a misunderstanding- I’m here to see Dr. Easterman! I’m not here to cause trouble-“

“But y’are, aren’t you?” He gripped your chin, squeezing harder than most. 

“I’m here for therapy…”

It ached, had he pressed any harder he could have easily broken something. Not that it bothered him, when he pushed you away and turned back around.

“Therapy is somethin’ for workhorses and fuck-o’s, I don’t see no place for you in there. So what are ya doin’ here? Using yer woman parts to fool men into temptation?…” The long pause was excruciating. “I can put those parts to good use.”

That’s when it caught your eye, a mannequin in the corner, bent over and glowing from every orifice, smoking and mutilated. You reacted like any person would, and screamed.

The cop grabbed your face to quieten you, chuckling to unsettle you further. “Save the screamin’ for later, sweetness. I’m nowhere near hard enough, squirm first and then I can fuck you silly.”

How idiotic to think this man would have ever helped you away from that night visioned robot man. He would have probably joined, or watched from the corner until he could finish.

“P-Please, don’t do that-“

“Mmm, go on, beg for it, lil puppy.” The crackling police baton sizzled in his hand as though to mock you.

“Sir… call Dr. Easterman- he’s supposed to be giving me therapy. Call him and he’ll tell you. T-This is all a big misunderstanding.”

At this point, you weren’t even sure if he actually existed. Despite nurse Barlow’s gushing conversations over the man, and the gifts in your room now and then, his voice on the radio was all that proved there was a man behind the name.

Wasn’t exactly convincing evidence.

The cop ignored you, turning around with his baton in one hand and a… what the fuck?

“You’re eyes… dramatised.” He read the packaging like an infant. “Roll… professional eyelash curl- fuckin’ fifty-nine cents? Thieving bastards.”

What could he possibly use that for?

“W-What is-“

He groaned and glared at you closely. “Yer a woman, a provocative one. Y’don’t know what this is? Pfft, what they teachin’ young folk these days?” Then he grumbled. “No respect for the law, not fer themselves, youth is wasted on these fuck-o’s.”

With a slam of his baton on the table, you struggled a little against the restraints. What else was he grabbing? Something to poke your eye out with? A hot poker or skewer sticks to blind and violate you?

No, just mascara.

“How the fuck does this shit work?”

So what, he was going to dress you up and play dollies instead?

He made a whole library of displeased sounds and studied the open brush of the mascara. “Easterman wants you lookin’ pretty. Why pasting cake shit on yer face makes it that way is not worth my time, and it ain’t a concern. I wanna destroy that ass fer disobeying the law, but then I’d have to deal with that little half-man asshole.”

Maybe it was his strained words, or his hesitant behaviour all of a sudden that slowed the adrenaline in your body. He was holding back. But Dr. Easterman existed.

“So he is real… I’m not going crazy.”

The man cackled, hunched over in reaction to the biggest joke he’d ever heard. “I saw you sling that brick at that prick, crawlin’ around like Bigfoot in the woods with those creepy bug eyes! Yer crazy enough.”

When he got close to you, there was nowhere to move. He was going to poke your fucking eye out.

“Now stay still. Can’t believe they got me doin’ this fluffy shit… bet Barbi uses this to curl his pubes… fuckin’ man baby.”

Still. Dead still though drowsiness hit you like a train after the amount of rush flooding through your veins. The abuse. Taking advantage of someone unarmed and now a make over by someone who didn’t strike you as the type to take care when applying mascara so close to your waterline.

“Red looks better on a woman of your voluptuous persuasion. Red and bloody.”

You wanted to respond, yet before you could, he shoved the ball back into your mouth. It pushed your tongue down and triggered your core muscles to contract. Gagging and wrenching were nasty business on a good day, horrid bile just waiting to spew down the front of your shirt. 

And your eyes started to water and blur. He seemed to enjoy that.

“Now that’s better. Black all smudged down yer face, mhmm, gag for me, sweetness.” There was that oversatisfied groan again, and an inhale of his cigarette. “Now that’s what I call a punishment.”

He grabbed a hold of your face and inhaled you, humming a song and blowing his smoke into your face. It temporarily blinded you, stinging like fuck. You couldn’t even cringe or move when he licked up your face right to your eyelid.

“Ugh, tastes like fuck though. Blood is better. Mhm blood is better.”

So tired…

What could he do to you if you passed out? Everything.

The panic being short lived, the cop palmed his crotch, relighting the cigarette with his baton. The areas around your eyes were not only getting dark because of the wet mascara, you just couldn’t keep your eyes open.

And then, he laughed, sickeningly putrid. “Until next time, lil bird. Better run fast ‘cus I’ll find ya, and you’ll be pissin’ blood.”

You shot up in bed, screaming like every morning, sweat ridden and wrapped in your sheet like an unethical embrace. Aching more than usual, you tucked your legs to your chest and ignored the stinging fire over your thighs. Like this room could actually protect you from your nightmares, your body reacting to stimuli you couldn’t find. 

“Why does this keep happening to me- wait…”

Through your silent tears, your palms were cut up and throbbing suddenly. Tiny micro cuts embedded along the curvature of your hands, little etches like glass ready to scar if you didn’t keep it clean. How did you get them? And when you pulled away the covers, you froze again behind the similar marks all over your thighs. Simple fingermark bruises, dried blood in splotches and drips you never made yourself. You couldn’t prevent those tears now, dripping and wetting the bed fabric with giant spatters.

What was happening to your body?

Nurse Barlow should know.

Slipping out of bed for your robe, you switched the radio on for anything to claw back the desolate isolation you were drifting through.

“Excellent work, Darling. You… I just can’t tell you how proud I am. I know it’s hard, but you have to trust me.”

It should have been reassuring, warmer than an embrace for someone familiar. But it wasn’t. For the first time, hearing Dr. Easterman’s voice brought you no solace in what good sat outside those doors.

“How can I trust you if I’ve never met you?” You sniffled, wiping the wet away from your face and shoving the radio button to silence it.

You left the room right in your robe, straight to nurse Barlow. She spotted you trudging towards her before you did, staring off into space and heading there by muscle memory.

“Oh dear, you aren’t looking so well.”

“I…” What could you possibly say to her? “I’m… I’m hurting.”

She smiled in that matronly way she always did. “Well let’s see what’s in the medicine cabinet. What exactly is hurting?”

You couldn’t even bring yourself to speak aloud. “Everything… I keep waking up with marks. I-I don’t know how I’m getting them.”

“Well therapy is challenging. I’m sure it’ll clear up, want something to take the pain away- not too much though, or you won’t know how well your therapy is working.”

“I haven’t had therapy yet.”

Every aspect of this place was so hell bent on mentioning therapy and rejoicing therapy like it was the cure all which hadn’t even been given to you.

Nurse Barlow titled her head to appear concerned. “Come to the back room, I’ll check you over.”

When you did, pulling your robe away to show just how much damage your body had taken, she didn’t even flinch.

“Oh you silly thing, I thought you’d hurt yourself.” She pulled your robe back on and sat you down on the creaky office chair. “This is your own doing in your sleep, it’s the reason you’re undergoing therapy in the first place. Dr. Easterman was quite clear when you arrived here to keep an eye on these sorts of episodes.”

So you were crazy. “But I don’t remember having therapy… I haven’t met Dr. Easterman yet.”

Though he was all you could think about.

“I want to see him. Can I see him?”

Nurse Barlow threw you the same look. “I’m sorry, dear. He’s very busy tailoring your therapy, he can’t just come here to see you whenever you feel like it, you have to be patient and trust him.”

“But-“

“Enough of that, here's your prescription.” The same pill bottle as before, no notable changes. “Go take a shower and brush your teeth, I know you’ll feel better after that.”

She just politely shooed you out, sitting back down at the front desk and reading her romance novel. “Have to keep that hippocampus healthy, now that’s my third favourite part of the brain.”

The pill bottle shook in your hand, trembling back to your room. You sat it down harder than you meant to and carried on your usual routine with an overwhelming dread and blank pressure in front of the mirror.

Like brushing my teeth will make me better.

Looking at the toothpaste served a cold reminder of how mundane your life had become. A crumpled tube like your own body. Setting it down today, you decided not to use it in spite of Nurse Barlow and the entire sleep room. Only the residual paste from the day before touched your tongue and teeth, little remnants of the day you forgot and became another wasted memory.

When will this get better?

Just how cruel can Dr. Easterman be to abandon me like this?

Chapter Text

The day came over in a blur, hour by hour, drip by drip, sinking into your spinal column like an infection. Numbing cream over the afflicted joint for comfort.

Every step, each echoing sound from the sleep room grated your brain and pressured your irritability right through until dinner time.  Again, the usually appealing looking food sat on the metal tray untouched. It had long since grown cold whilst you sat there in the corner, zoning out into space.

“Well, look who it is.”

The subtle hint of cigarette smoke morphed about through the mess hall, nothing like the harsh types the guards smoked through the fencing at the end of the hall. You sighed, slowly coming back to the present yet clouded around your own mind that it muffled the room with an edge. The area around your eyes stung with grit and sleep, it scratched with each blink.

“Pardon?”

There sat a woman opposite, leaning to the side with a guarded air of nonchalance. You noted her scar every time you saw her in passing yet never mentioned it, never enquired to how she lost her sight in her right eye. Dorris, you were sure her name was.

“I know, I’m pretty.” She dragged on her cigarette to fill the space in the mess hall when it quietened down all of a sudden. “But you look like shit.”

“Um… I just need sleep, that’s all.” Before you knew it, your dry eyes were watering. “Just waiting for my therapy. I’ll be alright after that.”

She scoffed, huffing away like a lunch lady. “Girl, you don’t wait around for it, you go get it. I’ve seen you being dragged here, there and everywhere, they’re already working on you.”

“No… no, I haven’t seen anyone.”

Was everyone out to make you believe differently? Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Rumours, lies and subtle shifts in the truth to turn your brain to a sludge your head couldn’t contain anymore. It wouldn’t be long now until grey matter started dripping from your ears.

“I’m supposed to see Dr. Easterman any day now.”

“And you know that, how?”

The gifts. The notes and messages. All proof he existed. “He… He invited me here... I think. He gifted me a scarf, my robe.”

“So he’s taken a liking to you, typical.” Dorris shifted her weight on her stool, clearly amused. “No one comes here unless they choose to, they gotta sign up for it, you don’t get a personal invite. But if he’s dropping contraband on you proper like, he’s up to something. He’s always up to something. Maybe you're the exception.”

But you did get a personal invite, not sure how long ago, but you definitely received an invite to the facility for Dr. Easterman’s tailored therapy. Though about him wanting something, the idea was lost on you. 

“You’ve met him- talked to him?”

She cleared her throat, watching those who finished their meals and retired for the evening. “Y’know, I been here long enough that I’ve seen Easterman’s face. You’re new meat, you’ll never get that opportunity, he operates from the shadows now, rather himself a New Testament God. Pfft, he’s just a person, like anybody else… if he's taken a liking to ya, it’ll be sexual, nothing else.”

“Wait- that’s not-“ You stammered, unsure how to respond to such an allegation. “What are you talking about?”

“Tell me something. What sort of warm fuzzies do you get thinkin' about him?”

Warm fuzzies? This was all too much to contemplate in your state of exhaustion. But the basic thought process allowed you to consider Dr. Easterman as a figure of comfort most of the time. Well, you sought him out in times of distress though never having been in his presence.

“I don’t know what you mean-“

“Look, I ain’t lookin' for friends or swapping cute little stories while we do our hair and clip our nails. And after this, don’t come looking for words of wisdom or songs of praise… But you look like a girl who keeps up with her hygiene.”

“Excuse me?” 

Saying something positive forced your brain to think the opposite. Did you smell? Maybe the sweat from your nightmares hadn’t cleared despite your vigorous showers.

She leaned close, the stale cigarettes lingering on her breath. “You think I have fucked up teeth like this by choice? There is no choice. Just a thought.”

Dorris said nothing else, just turned her back to you and refused to speak further. If you called her name, she shrugged. When you stepped around the table to meet her gaze, she turned the other way and mumbled to herself. Okay, so she must have been hallucinating or hanging a hard time adjusting too?

None of it made sense, only that she had seen Dr. Easterman in person, therefore she must have had therapy with him. So how could you do that also? You ruminated on that the entire way to your room, conscious by Dorris’ other comment.

Hygiene.

A shower might help.

Casting aside the toothpaste for now, you took that shower as it started getting late. No one was in there, leaving the entire communal shower to yourself and your boxed up brain.

Why were you here? There were flickers of time where the facilities seemed familiar and in tune with your coordination, it must have been a number of days isolated in this underground fortress you’d forgotten. 

Dorris said that people came here of their own volition, so what played in your mind was how bad must your life had been to drive you underground. To drive you away from people you knew, family perhaps? Nothing came to mind when you thought of that word.

The facility wiped that slate clean when you entered, clearly. There was a gap of time you couldn’t place, not knowing where you lived, or what your hobbies were besides reading the same old chemical warfare book until you knew the words by heart and could recite the side effects of mustard gas and other nerve agents. 

Muscle contractions, breathing difficulties, seizures and paralysis with severe exposure, often resulting in death.

But what you didn’t know was if you enjoyed gardening, or taking a Sunday stroll out into the community of an evening for fresh air after a delicious meal. You weren’t sure if you liked dancing on the weekends with a suddenly brave man you’d see at church, his mother would own the florist in the town square who made delicious crumble from the apple tree in their garden.

Perhaps you didn’t appreciate any of that and preferred the solitary life as a loner, enjoying your own company and eating meals for one from the grocery store while your favourite show was on the television. 

The fact of the matter was, you didn’t know and weren’t sure how to find out. Everything was robbed from you, it seemed like Dr. Easterman was the only man to help you claim it back. Never seeing him didn’t make things clearer, in fact it muddied the water, ruined whatever progress you made that now reduced you to a pathetic mess.

Turning the water on, you stepped in and submerged your head under the hot spray. You stood there, closed eyes, mulling over and over where to move now.

What was Dr. Easterman really like? And you weren’t going by the radio broadcasts or the television clips he spoke into, as though speaking to you directly. You knew they were pre-recorded, they must have been. They were one way radio’s and if he was as busy as Nurse Barlow claimed, he would have no place occupying the radio waves with words of praise than completing others therapy so they could leave and rehabilitate.

So what was the point?

What was the point of the gifts, and the handwritten notes? You kept all of them, nestled in between the pages of your hidden sleep journal. Each one meant something, a well placed synergy of his own actions, and those in the sleep room to solidify the line of defense in keeping those from relapsing.

You couldn’t relapse if you were better. It was clear you had received no therapy, no support though you couldn’t remember it or prove them wrong.

Wiping your hair away, the wet splashed over your face and into your eyes forcing you to close them. Darkness became your own therapy, something freeing the aching pressure from the four walls, yet it embraced the nightmares too.

So exhausting, violating and forgetful.

If only you could remove your head for a little while and tae a well deserved a break, because those prescriptions Nurse Barlow kept writing you did nothing.

You were certain that they were making you worse.

If I stop taking them and see a sharp decline, then I can start taking them again, that’s how this can work, right? Dr. Easterman isn’t doing anything to help me. I’ll need to help myself if I want to get out of here.

Warm rays of sun became a commodity, Nurse Barlow often said herself that she missed the sun. You did wonder where she lived, she always seemed to be at her desk whenever you were around. Who could live underground willingly like that? Deciding to forget the sun for a job like that.

So isolating, lonely.

Not much different to the people getting therapy when you thought about it.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been in that hot water when the door to the communal shower slammed open. Tutting away to yourself, you ignored whoever it was, knowing plenty of people here didn’t value property and company facilities like you did. It was none of your business.

None of my business.

But this? This was your business.

Whoever it was, yanked you from the shower still naked and dripping. Struggling didn’t help against from what you saw, two guards with raw strength, harshly tugging under your arm and throwing a towel at you.

“Hey! You can’t do this- I’m indecent!”

“You’re late for your therapy, it’s time to go.” Almost robotic, sterile.

“Hang on, no one called me, it’s almost sleep time- how can I be late? At least let me get dressed!”

They ignored you and dragged you down the stairs, soapy feet slipping down the cast iron steps and catching the edges of your toes on the non-slip surface. Irony be damned. Irony couldn’t beat those titanium pods closed that people stepped in and out of, they came back completely different people, stained with blood and dripping parts no one should see.

“Wait! No, no, please, I’m not ready- I’m not ready!”

One guard shoved your nightvision goggles towards you. You received them when you arrived though never used, beat up from the person before you. And a rig to wear for a stun you were given, but again, never used. No other weapons, no first aid, nothing to help you or keep you company in the form of someone else.

Just you.

Only you on your own.

Just me.

The guards pushed you into the pod and it spat you out on the other side, throwing you off balance to fall back and gash your elbow. It stung, leaking onto the towel draped over your body, mixing into the dripping soaped water from your hair and down your arm.

Naked and alone.

“Please, sit down in your designated seats.”

It came over the intercom firmly, telling you off with authority like a child. You didn’t sit down, just searched the room for a camera or microphone and held up trembling hands with the towel barely around your body.

“T-There’s been a misunderstanding, I’m hurt, I’m bleeding… I need first aid, I’m not appropriately ready for therapy, I need help. Please…”

The voice came over yours with the same condescension. “Please, sit down in your designated seats.”

“Please!... I’m hurt! This is against my human rights or something, I need help!”

Quiet, nothing but a low hum under your feet, splashed with red and lathered, shivering shower water. The adrenaline poached your stomach, threatening to push the bile to your throat for the pain, to take your mind off of the aggressive loneliness.

“Please, sit down in your designated seats.”

“Please!”

Nothing.

Green gas sprayed from hoses right in your face out of nowhere, it stopped you from reacting and blinded you by its proximity. You choked on it, gasping for a breath that never came until you passed out and hit the floor.

The shuttle was sending you downtown.

Chapter Text

When you arose from groggy, awkward sleep, you spring up from a oddly placed bed in an unfamiliar room. Pitch black and cramped with the eerie sensation that you weren’t alone.

One foot down, flat on grime and dust between your bare toes. You were still dripping wet, soaking into the mattress and towel to allow the chill in. Another foot down for balance and it cringed your body in ways you hated.

Dirty, filthy grit and little rogue pebbles stabbing until it hurt. You were anxious to turn your night vision goggles on, having never used them in the past, their suitability hung over your head in that storm cloud fashion. But you were alone in this room. Edging closer to the stairs, and when you crept down to the ground floor, then, suddenly you weren’t alone.

Thumps, almost comically heavy footsteps that vibrated your chest wandered past the open door to the outside you assumed, grumbling and an enormous silhouette to match. What was that thing? You weren’t sure if you wanted to ask for directions, someone that tall could easily overpower you if they managed to catch you.

My rig.

It was a stun if you recalled, crouching down to take a look. It sat nicely in your hand and was ready for use in the event of an emergency. Well it wasn’t an emergency just yet, but you kept it close for your own peace of mind.

“I don’t deserve any of this… if I could just stop dreaming.” A woman, a rather large woman in view of your night vision.

Could she help?

You tip-toed over to the door despite the growing beating of your heart so she could at least see the outline of your body, you didn’t want to frighten her despite her stature. Walking around in the dark didn’t make it good on the eyes. So you stood up slowly and waited for her to take notice, and when she didn’t, you waved a little to make yourself look bigger and spoke as gently as you were brave enough to give.

“Excuse me-“

“You!” She turned in a dime and swung her gigantic arm at you. “Fucking bitch!”

She ran, causing you to stumble back and fall out into the street with your goggles still on. You flicked them away in one second of clarity and began crawling away past a parked car, ignoring the pain and hyperfixating in the rapid thuds and grunts behind you.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you! I-I don’t know where I am!” 

Finally, you got purchase and clambered to your feet with everything you had, standing upright to a woman who towered over you more than a few metres away. You’d never seen someone so tall after you slouched over to get through the doorway.

There was a gate at the end of the section, a busy part of the city with no one in sight. Maybe if you could get through that part, you’d be safe.

“Okay… okay… the gate. I’ll open the gate… shit!” 

The woman launched something at you. It looked like the impact on the car matched something heavy like a trash can or rogue mail box landing on top of it. You barely dodged it, yanking your towel up and forgetting the painful stabbing your feet had to endure to get to that gate.

“Kill. Kill you, bitch!” She swing again and missed, animalistically screeching and stomping.

You reached the gate. Pulled the lever. It didn’t open.

It’s locked- it’s fucking locked?

No. A countdown, a timer.

Five…

Four…

“Open up- open the gate!” 

She was getting closer, faster, louder and deafening with a fury you’d never seen someone display so easily. 

Three…

Two…

“You fuck!” Her guttural growl rumbled your insides. Closer and closer.

One…

You yanked at the lever in hopes it would stupidly speed up the process, as though anyone was watching. “OPEN THE GATE!”

When it did, the overgrown woman was right there, lunging for you until you practically fell through it, rolling to the other side and narrowly avoiding the ear splitting clang she rapped her fist against.

She never came any further than that, turning away and retreating back to the building with no interest in you. “Hiding… hide from me.”

Out of sight, out of mind you guessed. For a moment, you sat up and rested against the gate, praying that was the only narrow escape you had today. No help and nothing to-

“Oh, Jesus…” The stun being in your hand the entire time.

How did I forget that? Idiot.

Embarrassingly forgetting your little faux pas in the heat of terror, the adrenaline partially wore off. Your body started to sting and throb. The list of injuries went as follows.

A rather deep, dripping gash across your elbow, possibly during the escape, and a matching break of skin on your leg by the knee. If there weren’t glass and debris everywhere, you might have prolonged the inevitable and saved your feet. And there was no way you were using your wet towel to clean them with.

You’d happily take the chill over full nakedness in a bustling town like this, regardless of its abandonment. There was probably a first aid box somewhere, and by the looks of it, there was a theatre just down the way. You saw the sign pointing away from the gate, making the conscious decision to flock to it.

“Prime time?” 

Another sign, flickering on an old television on the wall outside of another building. Similar to the ones used in the sleep room. A television show, perhaps? Not that watching television even occurred to you at this point, yet it just displayed more words.

GIRLS

GIRLS

GIRLS

HOTTEST

SHOW

IN TOWN

GORE

GIRLS

GIRLS

Spelling errors, passable. With error came human interaction.

With all logic you had, albeit minimal, you could assume it was something to do with the theatre, meaning there must be someone who could help. Maybe they knew where Dr. Easterman was, or at least knew a way to actually contact him.

So you began walking, looking for something to cover your wounds until you made it back to the sleep room, even a snagged piece of cloth or bottle of water to wash away the grime. Who knew what bacteria was getting into all these wounds?

Nurse Barlow is going to have a field day with this.

It was odd. Not only the abandoned streets as though people had just upped and left everything they had, whatever they were doing. Not even the partially opened store fronts with their doors cracked open, eerily beckoning you to step foot into putrid darkness.

Not a chance.

What was odd to you, was the fact that whoever left, had plenty of time to move and pose the mannequins in such a provocative fashion, indulging in such debauchery and vulgar positions. Why? You couldn’t possibly understand or arrive at a conclusion that would make any sense.

The mannequins remained that way the entire walk over to the theatre just in view, abandoned cars out front still with their lights on, some running and chugging into the street waiting for someone who never came. The unsettling word ‘SLUT’ painted and plastered across the theatre portraits, all under its programme.

TONIGHTS EVENT

BLO DY FOLLIES EXTRAVAGANZA

It was just as beat down as the rest of the town you’d seen thus far, looming a depressive atmosphere over the entire street as though it was the beacon of the whole area. An oasis to wet the old joy-of-the-arts whistle.

“The only cure for temptation is indulgence! Step on in and let your wildest dreams come true!” There was no man there darting about the path for passersby, only a speaker or intercom.

So it was that kind of show.

You smelled it before you clocked on, a handcuffed man, dead, brutalised and attached to the booth on the side of it. The person in the booth held no mannequin qualities with their jaw torn off and an air of the stuff of nightmares. The putrid stench made your mouth salivate, hunch over in the street to vomit and whimper into your bloodied hand.

“Franco’s girls are always in the mood!”

“What did they do to you two? Who...” You managed to say, edging closer out of a sick, newfound morbid curiosity.

Whoever it was, was no friend to you.

“Let Franco’s follies, fondle your filthiest fantasies!”

Suddenly you weren't so confident in going inside the theatre you had been thirty seconds ago.

Creeping in, you were cautious to look around corners and see your path forward, never really taking in the aesthetic or the functional chandeliers hanging dead still from the ceiling. No one came to greet you or steal you away for the same fate as the two people outside.

No one was here.

More mannequins, the entire way up to the theatre balcony.

That’s how you found the moaning, the commotion. Because the doors downstairs were locked. When you saw it, you understood why.

A show. An odd sex show containing paddles and crops. Four women- no, mannequins. They whipped the man, whacked his skin and although he seemed to enjoy it because he never got up and left, his moans transformed more into strained whimpers.

And the man watching- Was he masturbating?

You shouldn’t have been looking at something so indecent, watching a man so transfixed and touching himself during something so private. But you couldn’t help yourself in that same morbid curiosity sitting on your shoulder, it wanted to see how this played out. The first human you’d seen that you didn’t learn to give blind trust to, so you watched him. But how could it deviate from the way it would always play out?

“Deep breaths baby!”

No spatial awareness. Idiot.

You flew across the floor in an instant, landing against a set of metal lockers in a haze. There wasn’t time to escape, no time to even look away when there was a gruff hand pinching your cheeks so hard your gums throbbed.

All you saw was that military style gas mask, a reminder of the hard times the country faced. Rationing, starvation, poison gas to end the lives of the innocent. But this monster wasn’t so innocent, not by the way he yanked you closer and studied you behind the lenses of his mask you couldn’t see.

“First my hose, then my cock!”

He forced your mouth open and pushed a long nozzle between your lips, flooding your throat and lungs with a noxious substance. It’s rotten taste of sour milk choked you, made you lurch forward so that the hose went deeper.

“Oh baby, if I was goin’ where you’re goin’.”

The room spun when he pulled it out of you, coughing and spewing everywhere with a greenish hue over your eyes in the fashion of a acetate reel lens. It was as though you’d just inhaled three white wines and no chasers, drooping against the locker with no body co-ordination.

Why was this happening to you? Any person you came across just wanted to hurt you. Perhaps this was a parallel universe you’d read before in those same comics, a brief read while waiting for your mail you collected in town before going home to… somewhere.

A parallel universe that attacked any person that moved, or a sick game where you became the hunted.

The man down in the gallery, could he help? Would he help?

“Open wide, this’ll last a long time.”

No choice but to do as he bid, limp and undergoing a bad high. Mouth open, drooling. Was that his cock, or were you hallucinating? You couldn’t fight it, not when you were grabbing thin air thinking it was something to hold onto.

He pulled your mouth open wider with his fingers, tugging your bottom jaw down. And there was his cock, albeit a fuzzy view of it under the influence, but there nonetheless. It twitched with excitement, curving off to the side in a thinner fashion yet still managing to point towards you.

It moved closer to your face even with your struggles, the tip brushing along your bottom lip to warn you of its abrasive nature. And in your disruptive rhythm, your brain still connected the dots on the salty taste of his precum, leaking from his tip. Bitter, unwelcoming.

“Say ahhh.” He said, slipping his cock between your lips and groaning something chronic in the air.

He pushed himself into you all the way to his hilt, gagging you, making your eyes water though your coordination still hadn’t returned. There were noises from your throat you weren’t sure were in your head, they echoed like a dream and matched the beating pace of the blood gushing by your head.

You couldn’t breathe, he cupped the back of your head to keep you still yet you kept sluggishly fighting it. 

“Now, now baby. Don’t pull away, you’re makin’ me self conscious! There… take it like the good girl you wish you were.” He laughed, slowly thrusting his hips flush with your lips and tugging that fist full of your hair.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t breathe.

I can’t breathe…

Was there hope in the heat of your drug induced hallucinations to help you? Did the man walking towards you exist simply in your mind, or in reality.

The man with tendrils out of his head.

Yeah… might be real.

Chapter Text

Tendrils.

Tendrils?

What right did that man have wearing tendrils on his head? He came closer and as the other man fucked your mouth, the flesh peeled away from his skin and revealed a skull behind his eyes.

The cock in your mouth touched the back of your throat, brushing each taste bud with pure sweat and grime with each thrust, each groan in pleasure. But there was a skeleton with fucking wriggling tendrils poking out of its head.

Despite the pressure and raw strength of the man inside you, you yanked away from him, taking some hair out in the process. “Get the hell away from me!” 

How you were able to get to your feet and make a break for it, you weren't sure. It could have been your fight or flight response, though however impaired it was, was a mystery. Yet, you did, you got up and ran into a corner.

“You clipped my dick, bitch!”

Now that you were on your feet, the floor threatened to tip  and cause you more damage to your already fucked up body. Blood, gut twisting pains forced you to vomit all over the floor, body shocking hallucinations to throw you off sight. In an attempt to stop it, you threw the stun you had at the skeleton man. But it missed and exploded behind it, never making a dent or throwing it off course away from you.

“What the fuck is this?” Someone said, you weren’t sure who. “Goddammit, I was THIS close!”

The masked man stormed over, the nozzle clipping and gasping in his hand. “I’m not done yet, get on your knees and finish me off!”

“There’s a skeleton- there’s a fucking skeleton! I have to get out- I need to leave before I become one too! It’ll kill us all, it’s right there-”

He pushed you down on the floor to your back, looking up at the ceiling at that same chandelier you never paid attention to. Hanging, dripping in jewels, probably fake ones. No, little worms, glow worms, glowing with little birds and electric batons surging the voltage.

“Ahh!” The chandelier exploded on your face with screams leaking out of it, you tried covering yourself to protect your eyes.

The skeleton grew closer, the gas masked man pulled your arms away and crawled over you, forcing your mouth open again to fuck it properly. Unable to move, you laid there, thick tears in your eyes while he rutted into your mouth laughing.

“I’m tryin’a entertain my guest, here!” Someone said again, utterly pissed off and echoing around the theatre.

“That’s it, baby, take it like a champ.” He groaned, ground himself and rubbed his balls over your chin and throat. “Make me come before the real fun starts. Hehe… We never get the fun like they do- we ought’a, fucking that sweet mouth into the ground. God! The things you’re gonna see- just don’t bite my dick off.”

You were already seeing them, the skeleton was close enough to grab at your feet and wrap its tendrils around them and crawl up your leg. It didn’t, but a large tentacle that erupted from the ground did, snatching your leg tight until it stung yanking you open.

“My god-damn guest, didn’t god-damn finish!” You‘d zoned that other voice out by now, disappearing into the background of nothing.

“Oh… that’s good.” Your towel came away from your chest. “Unwrap you like a present. Just my luck. Seems you take my hose and cock pretty good. Why don't we do both?”

He shoved the hose in your face again, clicking and pumping horror into your soul. More skeletons, more glow worms and birdies. No, it was definitely real, it couldn’t be fake. You refused to believe that it was fake.

If it was fake, the tentacle pawing at the plush of your thigh wouldn't have worked its way between your legs and rubbed in a way that only sent pleasure and electricity to your groin. Something a lover did, slow, gentle, caressing you like no one else had. An involuntary moan rumbled in your throat as it moved, making you convulse and writhe under the masked man’s weight.

“Take it in, baby!”

When the hose spewed its disturbing scent, you tried holding your breath as he fucked you in one ditch effort to stop the skeleton and tentacle feeling up your leg despite its pleasurable sensation. It made it worse and far more intense than you could deal with. The rubbing pace increased, pulling away your towel from your body entirely, circling around your clit as though it knew what to do with you, knew your body too well. The skeleton stopped where it was, just watching you, waiting. 

Waiting for you to come? In the disturbed illusion, the man humped you like a dog, grunting and pumping into your mouth. He uttered how close he was, the messed up thing was so you were too.

Who could finish first?

Just by clitoral stimulation, the tentacle kept hidden, pulsating and teasing your entrance to penetrate. Though it never did. Your legs tensed up, eyes rolled and you came right on the floor of the theatre with a stranger 's cock in your mouth.

“Oh yeah… This’ll be a big one, baby. Take it all and I’ll give you all the gas you want!” His pace grew sloppy, you didn’t care. “Fuck- fuck, fuck!”

A chest bursting bang ripped through the air.

He should have come right there, but the forceful removal of his cock let all the air in and you came around nothing, eventually groaning to no one in particular. You were too busy riding off your own orgasm to even notice the ropes of semen splattered across your face and chest.

“You think ya clever, you lil shit?!” Another bang, a gnarly grunt and spit on the floor. “Fucking dogs humpin' their way around this fuckin' place."

The tint over your eyes faded. The skeleton disappeared and the tentacle left your twitching pussy alone. You jerked on the floor, naked, damp, under the mercy of whoever pulled that man off of you. His saltiness dripped into your mouth, at the corner of your lips, sticky and repulsive. It was natural and instinctive to lick your lips clean, or wipe the fluids from your lips with disgust. You had no feeling in your heavy arms after the drug exposure. Like you weren’t in your own body or had control over it.

You saw him then, your saviour. But that hope was short-lived. In a suit far too big for him, head larger than average, carrying a mean looking sawn off and sitting behind a horrid grin aided with a pacifier.

“Look at you.” He crouched over you with his gun towards the ceiling. “You sluts are always the same. Nothin’ ever changes.”

You yelped at the sting of the slap across your face, but what chilled your core and had you fumbling for the towel on the floor, was artificial crackling coming from up the stairs. Its sounds came before you saw it. You heard his unbothered humming before you saw him.

“Well, well. A lil bird with her wings clipped.”

“You…” Your body still refused to move. “You’re the- that police officer that everyone is-“

Terrified of.

The man in the suit growled, pointed his gun at the cop. “Back off, pig. You had ya fun, now it’s my turn. A wasted opportunity if y'ask me.”

“Followin’ orders, fucked face. Like you should be keepin’ to the law. Carryin’ around that gun, you ought’a be compensatin’ fer somethin’” The officer adjusted his pants, huffing on his cigarette he lit from his baton. “And that’s Sergeant Coyle to you.”

“Pfft! You got no titles from me, pig. Why don’t you fuck off with that cock in yer hand y'can never put away?”

Coyle. You’d heard that from someone once. 

He grumbled, clearly frustrated though his face remained neutral. The other man stayed over you, watching Coyle stomp over.

“You don’t follow the law, the law comes hard. Criminals like you are what’s wrong with this country. I saw ‘er first, so I go first. We abide by the rules here, runt. ”

“Ha! Back in Cuba, I was the law, hillbilly cop!”

“Yer the load your mother should’a swallowed-“

"You talk about my mother?!" The gun went off again, aiming near Coyle’s head, it made your ears ring and fuzz over while they exchanged more words. “I fucked yer mother! Let’s see if y'wanna talk big with no fuckin' kneecaps!”

He clambered off of you and shot his gun again, barking at the officer and vanished momentarily into the hallway. Another shot and a crackling zap of that baton.

"Waaaaa!"

“You don’t get to fuck her if I don’t, half asshole! Quit with the baby shit.”

“No, that prick said don’t harm the broad, not that we couldn’t have fun with grade-A tail. You don’t wanna let your cock weep- which is a first- be my fuckin’ guest, pig. But if I can’t hurt her, then I’m gonna touch her!” He reappeared and slammed the door shut behind him. “Now stay outta my way- and keep my fuckin' mother outta this!”

The room was suddenly ripped into silence, awkwardly as you watched him circle you. You hyperfocused on his shallow, grubby breath, still unable to move from the spot on the floor and covered in semen.

He laughed boredlined ecstatic. “Not the biggest melons I ever seen, but they’ll do. Franco takes care of mommy, and I’m thirsty.” Franco dropped to the floor, his gun still latched in his hand and crawled over like some cryptid until he was over you again.

“What are you going to do to me?” It came out with a degree of calmness, though you put it down to orgasming not long before.

“All ready and ripe for the pickin’...” So he was ignoring you.

“Hey! Tell me what you're going to fucking do to me, right now?!” 

Foolish really, shouting at him like that when he had the gun, it was something that escaped you being so helpless. If they wanted to kill you, he could have. Coyle too. But neither of them did. 

Franco’s response made that obvious. 

“Oh, mommy…” He whimpered, delicately and helplessly. “If I tell you, will baby need discipline? All I want is a taste, baby needs milk.”

You couldn’t move, he laid down over your arm for access to your breast. He wrapped his lips around your nipple and suckled, smacking his lips and nuzzling into your body heat. A taste was generalised verbal garbage for a sick fantasy, you had no milk to give and no maternal instinct he clearly wanted.

Mommy. You were no mother. There was nothing special about this moment, nothing beautiful about a grown man latching painfully on your breast. Sharpness for adult teeth, crooked ones that caught the sensitive skin hardened naturally with stimuli and heat from his mouth. He fondled your other breast, pinching the nipple and twisting it to his own rhythm. It had nothing to do with your own individual interests, Franco dominated the room entirely.

“Jugs so good baby’ll suck ‘em twice.” He swallowed nothing. “Drink these like fuckin’ milkshakes.”

You winced, biting your bottom lip to fight the pain. Biting your lip until it bled. Swallowing increased saliva with your bruised throat. It was all wrong, every goosebump lining your skin said so, you were sure to catch a cold and stay bedridden for a week.

Where did that police officer go, did he really just leave? I want to go back to the sleep room… Would Dr. Easterman stand for this if he saw?

How embarrassing. How painful.

Franco left your breast and continued sucking, rumaging around somewhere at your side, rustling fabric. “Tell me I’m bad- Oh, tell baby he's a bad boy, mommy.”

Repetitive motions, and a little huffing with each suck. He was masturbating.

“Hey!” He looked up and gave you a real good look at his disfigured face. “Tell me I’m a fuckin’ bad boy, slut.”

Silence.

Pressure.

“You’re a bad boy, baby... so bad.”

“That’s right- That’s right… bad baby. Bad baby”

Then just like that, he continued, sucking and touching himself. Little mutterings and sweet gasps filled the room for a whole few minutes as you laid there on the verge of tears. Your body was adjusting to rest, aching and full of glass.

No wonder you couldn’t move your body.

“Baby's bad, mommy!”

Just like before, the familiar feeling of semen splattering over your hip like a dumpster of sex and heat. And as the hot ropes of infantilisation hit you, so did a wave of tiredness, and possibly utter exhaustion.

“I’m done with ya.” His tune changed, getting up and crawling away from your ruined state. It was more like a sign of pity. “Just like all the other broads and slut’s, none of you are like her.”

You wanted to call out to him, argue at the state of your engorged breast riddled with teeth marks and horrid wet all over it. But you couldn’t speak now either, overcome with a such drowsiness, the room started dimming and going dark.

Coyle’s baton became a substantial pinpoint in reading the room dowsed looming cold. He had entered the room and came back to you, approaching you with no protests from Franco.

It was all you remembered before sitting up in bed in the sleep room, screaming bloody murder and struggling for breath.

Only this time, you didn’t fully forget. This time, your nightmares came to you like a patchwork quilt, bit and pieces.

All you had to do was fit those pieces together and work out this mystery.

And then, maybe you cloud sleep soundly for once.

Chapter Text

It started off as a snippet, a flash, a photograph from a book you only saw briefly and never had the courage to ask for another look. A muddled section of a newspaper misplaced and strewn amongst the grocery coupons that did not belong there. 

A nightmare, an action, a face.

A sawed off shotgun.

His face was the nightmare. You recalled the way his head was disfigured, though no name sat further than that on your tongue. Eyes wide and bulging in the grotesque fashion of an injury, a painful one. What happened to this man that caused his ailment that far? 

You sat up in bed, hands visibly shaking, tingling no matter how much you tensed them, unaware that you had control over them. Hands that held no coordination in that nightmarish setting, a storage room- no, something more grand than that.

Rubbing your dry throat and coughing didn’t clear it, in fact, it made it worse. It was as though someone had stuck a tube down your throat, the kind that surgeons used, or force feeding your stomach as the suffragettes were.

Painful, stiffened neck, your entire body matched. Head throbbing, hair matted. It was unclear if you were in some sort of fight, or went ten rounds with Floyd Patterson. But that didn’t matter right now.

Think…

Think of anything that might serve your nightmares to you on a silver platter. Caught in a safety net to retrieve and piece together.

A man with a shotgun. A place you had no recollection of but could find out. The sensation of violation, abuse and humility suffered around you, sitting on your shoulder until you faced it and recognised what damage it had truly done.

You stumbled out of bed, barely standing, balance nonexistent. On came the robe and you reached for the radio with clockwork precision.

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t belong. You are perfect for this.”

Something was off. Directly aimed at you? Possibly. Part of you assumed that’s what Dr. Easterman told everybody who cared to listen. You had to find him, to speak with him, demand the therapy that was promised and end this horrible string of nightmares.

Therapy would silence the dull throbbing in your elbow, scabbed over and hiding its own story like the other marks. Bruises like stamp collectors books, grazes and cuts if it were down to an artist to make an exhibition piece. Where they came from and how was the top priority in this case.

someone had to know what happened.

The mirror looking back at you jollied in your presence, probably laughing at your expense and understanding the full story whenever it watched you at night. It eerily observed and held your reflection captive until morning, and even then it still had your face ingrained deep inside it, in acetate film.

Picking up the toothbrush became second nature under the cracked glass too, though your gut made you pause and study the tube on the shelf. MENTOK, spearmint. It always tasted weird, a metallic base, tasting better if you just placed pennies in your mouth. It wasn’t as hot and the alkali temperament emphasised its chalky, gritty texture.

You set your toothbrush down and backed away from it, it may as well have been radioactive.

Tomorrow. I’ll brush my teeth tomorrow.

Your journal had reservations first. What could you write? Thinking harder made it more fuzzy, distant beyond your reach. So you wrote what your hand chose, letting the poor font write itself.

I had another nightmare, I remember a man with a large head, wicked grin. His gun was louder that I anticipated, but at least he didn’t point it at me. I think…

Associating a person with pain is something my stomach regrets. What that pain was, I don’t know. But it was there, my body can feel it. Smells are funny, they appear real, like the smell of the smoke from the gun barrel, and some rotten sulphur gas, but I cannot link it together.

All I know was that I needed help.

I keep listening to Dr. Easterman on the radio and can’t help but think he doesn’t want to help me. He would be here if he did, not spewing righteous sayings over the radio like they were made for me only. The only thing that conflicts me is that the logical side of me wants to leave and dismiss every claim of the therapy, but my heart… I want to meet him, to hear his voice in person and maybe that will help me heal.

What was that? Your recollection became a gush over Dr. Easterman, now your head was empty and blank white. Dr. Easterman was not helping you, he vanished on you and left you to rot in this room. You were only getting worse.

Closing your book, you decided to take it with you and hoped that maybe something could jog your memory for a solitary second. You walked laps around the sleep room, mumbling to yourself and back again, right through the end towards Noakes’ section.

“You’ve been kinda quiet, Tango Everything alright? I’ve seen you walk past my desk ten times already.”

He spoke before you even registered him, your brows still furrowed to try and unlock your brain, tapping the journal in your hand in some sort of unconscious morse code your body tried learning. 

“I don’t know…” You said, stepping closer and only then realising you were barefoot.

“Not good to keep things bottled up.”

Every time you ever asked him anything that didn’t mention your rig, he always hammered on about being no one’s therapist. He’d only turn you away now if you came clean about it. But then, could you trust him? He could easily refer you to nurse Barlow and she would probably just give you more prescriptions that didn’t work.

Then again, he might have the authority to call Dr. Easterman down here.

“Can you get in contact with Dr. Easterman?”

Noakes grumbled, tinkering with a circuit board he’d only recently placed down on his desk by the ream of paperwork he neglected to write on. “Bit early to be askin’ that sort of thing.”

“Can you? Or can’t you?”

“Bit of advice… stay away from that Doctor as best you can. You seem like a nice kid, so don’t get yourself killed.”

“Killed?” You edged closer to the window out of sheer curiosity. “I’m having trouble sleeping, I’m waiting on therapy, this isn’t a war zone.”

He grunted passively, sniffling the air with a twist of his screwdriver. “So they already got to you then, of course they did… Take it from me, Tango. You ain’t ever gettin’ outta here, take a page out of Dorris’ book, stay in the sleep room and watch your back.”

“Noakes. What is going on-”

His hand slipped and sparked off the end of the screwdriver, cringing its way down the circuit board and sparking a flash with a crackle.

An electrifying police baton. It zipped through your head faster than a train, pushing against the sides of your skull. You hunched over, clasping your sides, retching and gasping for air.

“You alright kid?” Noakes peered over his desk.

“I’m fine- I’m okay.” You lied, gasping the desk with everything you had. “I think I’m just hungry, that’s all… Thanks for your insight, Noakes, I really appreciate it.”

He gave an understanding grunt and left it at that. You however, strode over to the cast iron steps and plopped yourself down trying to adjust to the new rush of adrenaline. Finally, you had something new to put in your journal.

The police officer. I remember him, an overweening and looming presence, an electric baton that lit up like a christmas tree and crackled like rain on the window during August. He spoke to me, though I can’t remember what, but my gut tells me it wasn’t good.

Still, I can’t help but feel like he is the lesser of two evils between him and the man with the gun. I can’t link them, but they must know each other, otherwise they wouldn’t both be in my dream. Would they? I fear that if I close my eyes, they’ll appear again. If they do, I have to speak to them, have to demand they stop invading my dreams and let me sleep.

Demanding a man with a gun… that's smart. And what of the officer? He could kill me with the electric in that baton. But it’s only a dream, just a dark nightmare.

I should have control over it.

This is what I’d tell Dr. Easterman if he actually spoke to me.

“What am I doing?” You caught yourself before you could drift too left field. Mentioning the Doctor, again.

You had to stop thinking about him while you made leaps and bounds in progress on your own. The sickening reality while walking to Nurse Barlow’s station was that in order to understand everything, you’d eventually have to speak to Dr. Easterman, an endless cycle of perpetual dead ends.

“Oh dear, what happened?” Nurse Barlow placed her novel down, nodding to your arm.

You should know, someone kind of patched me up. I know the wounds are clean, at least.

Yet the wound opened up on its own. Nurse Barlow already pulled the side door ajar for you. You entered without a word and sat down so that she could dress it properly this time.

“Let’s take that pain away.”

“No- I mean… It doesn't hurt.” It killed, throbbing and weeping. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay then.” She placed the needle down and dressed it in silence.

“So…” You winced whenever she wasn’t looking. “I had a dream last night that I remember…”

She hummed. “That’s nice, dear. I knew your therapy would start working just fine. You always have to trust Dr. Easterman’s methods. Though they might seem unorthodox at times, they truly are marvellous.”

Each sterile cotton pad dropped into the metal tray with a plop, covered in your own blood and thick with crust and artificial fibres from your clothes.

“That’s the thing, I know I haven’t been given therapy yet.”

“What are you talking about? Of course you have, little lamb. It just takes time.like the saying goes… a human heart isn’t built in a day, it takes over nine months.”

You were certain she was trying to sidetrack you to your own morbid discoveries. “I’m having dreams about a police officer and a man with a gun. It’s not something I should be experiencing on my own, when therapy is so important. So where’s Dr. Easterman? If I’ve had therapy, then I can’t remember it, try and explain that, Nurse. What is going on?”

Nurse Barlow stood from the chair and disposed of the wet cotton pads. “Dear, therapy is what we make of it. But above everything, please trust in Dr. Easterman. He really is the best.” It was formulated, almost robotic. “You’re all clean now, so why don’t you go and shower, and brush your teeth? I know you’ll feel better after. Can I get you another prescription? They really helped me overcome my headaches.”

Could you trust her at all? Clearly not.

She had access to syringes, to creams to dull your mind and keep you that way once you started. You’d seen the way some of the people in here acted, their bodies hollowed out to replace someone else and then they weren’t themselves. It wouldn’t have surprised you if she had a key to a special cabinet somewhere in the depths of the sleep room that contained certain gases to make you sleep or-

It was as though your head had been split open, tearing and ripping into the skin until it exposed the skull. Gas, skulls, your throat.

You were violated, and no one did anything about it.

“Tell me everything that’s happening?” Nurse Barlow took you by the shoulders with a delicate grasp, her tone almost excited. “Have you been taking your prescriptions?… Do you need a lobotomy? I don’t really get to do those anymore.”

No, you hadn’t. And no she didn’t.

“Yes. I-I have. And no, I don’t think I need a lobotomy.” The lone fluorescent light became something of a hinderance. “I think I’m just tired. I’ll go and lie down.”

Your fingers searched for the wall while you tried to adjust your vision. “Yeah, it’s an exhaustion headache.”

Nurse Barlow slouched though she tried to hide it. “Oh… right. Well, you know, I had one of those headaches before. You know what helped me? A nice shower and a cup of coffee- decaf, you don’t want to get the hyper fuzzies while you’re so tired.” She helped you out of the door where it was darker, the images behind your eyes eased off a little, became easier to react to.

“Thank you Nurse, I’ll take your advice and go straight back to my room.” 

And you did, straight back there to sit at your desk to share your morbid thoughts. More thoughts than you knew what to do with. How you held it together this long was entirely a mystery.

I remember the smoke, the gas, the assault, the man-child who spilled himself all over me. A man put himself in my mouth and no one stopped it. I’m damaged, spoiled. Writing this in tears, recalling the taste of him on my tongue and that god awful smoke.

It made me see things that weren’t there, give me this sensation that I enjoyed it in this state of misguided euphoria. Why did no one stop it? How must I have control in my dreams and how much do I have to endure that kind of treatment until it stops?

Is that why I’m getting these marks and bruises on my body? Am I really doing it to myself when I have no proof that someone else did? It is all in my dreams, right? No way Dr. Easterman would stand for something so vulgar and demoralising.

It’s all dreams.

All dreams.

It must be.

Wiping the collected wet from your face, you stood up and dragged your next breath to calm you. It didn’t help, how could it? You had just uncovered more about yourself in the last few hours than you had the entire time you’d been here, and it was horrifying.

And in pacing around your room trying to calm yourself, you hadn’t noticed it when you came in, and just as your faith was starting to waiver too. Another gift from Dr. Easterman.

“You’re exemplary, taking your therapy when I give it to you. You’ll go far, baby.”

A suggestive note, and a dress.

A red dress.

Chapter Text

A red dress.

A fucking red dress.

“Dorris!” You stormed over to her, eyes wet and swollen.

She barely registered you carrying that silken red dress with every meaning other than it just being a gifted dress from your therapist.

“Tell me what this means- what any of it means? You know something about Dr. Easterman you're not telling me and I’m going crazy over it. He’s doing something to me and I can’t tell what it is- you mentioned warm fuzzies, this interest being sexual. Tell me what it means!”

Dorris didn’t even flinch. “You’re either stupid or on somethin’, maybe both. But don’t rock the boat, and the waves won’t sweep you under. Stay out of whatever this is. Just some advice. Now get lost.”

You pulled her shoulder back with an aggressive tug, swinging her pissed off face towards you. “I remember what I’ve been dreaming of. I remembered.”

“So you stopped with the toothpaste, hm? Good for you, now scram.” She shrugged you off, but you didn’t let it deter you.

Getting down on your knees in front of her, you tugged at her pants by her knees, looking newer than most in the sleep room. “So it is making me forget? Why- why would they do that? What about Dr. Easterman?”

Dorris pushed you off and tugged you close by the collar of your shirt. “Stop acting a damn idiot and calm yourself. I don’t cause waves, I don’t ride ‘em either. Figure it out on your own, I just wanna live my life without those assholes interferein’ got it?”

“Just tell me what I need to know and I’ll never bother you again, I promise.” 

She didn’t let go, because if she did, you wouldn’t get anything in return. However, she whispered something chilling, right to the bone.

“Don’t trust Easterman, or none of 'em. They take ya in the dead of night and drag you here kickin' and screaming. There’s no gettin’ out of here so just cool it. I haven’t made it this far to end up someone’s science experiment for yapping my mouth to someone I don’t care about.” Her gaze flickered from you to the adjacent doorway. “I ain' t telling you nothin’, so go on, get out of here.”

It was an act, you saw the sudden oppression flash over your eye. They took you away with a harsh tug, whoever they were, Dorris growing smaller with each squeaked step over the linoleum.

“But you said- Please Dorris! I need answers. I'm going out of my mind!”

It was a pair of guards, yanking you away and hauling you towards your room. They didn’t know about your journal until it slipped out from under your shirt with the most patronising slap you’d ever seen.

No…

“What’s this then?” One picked it up, flicking through the pages unbothered.

“A notebook.” You said. “I like writing stories, it helps me sleep. Just stories, fiction.”

His eyes read left to right, eyebrows furrowing, exchanging expressions to utter suspicion with the other guard. The air hung overhead stuck like fog, looming to choke you and watch you suffer in its presence by their ruling.

“It’s just stories, I promise.” The guard's grip dug harder until the skin pinched. “I promise!”

“You don’t need this any more.” Page by page ripped from the spine, your nightmares going up in ashes.

All of Dr. Easterman's notes. Irreplaceable.

“I need that! Let me go right now! It’s my property, it was a gift from Dr. Easterman! You’ll be sorry when he hears about this- mark my words!”

They ignored you, obviously, and dragged you towards your room. The guards shoved random sheets of paper in their own pockets, practically laughing at you with unwavering neutrality. You couldn’t get purchase on the floor, it burned the soles of your feet and slaps echoed through the hall along with curses and the determination to remember.

To write something down in case you forgot again.

If you did, well, you wouldn’t remember, but the pain you’d gone through getting this far wouldn’t only be a waste, it would be an absolute travesty. Pointless. Worthless.

“Let go of me, what kind of facility is this?!”

You grabbed a hold of the doorway into your room and refused to let go with everything you had. It must have been the required adrenaline to turn the tides. You weren't fighting to get out of there, or just to get away from the two men overpowering you the entire way from the mess hall. You wanted to wait there and hope to tire them out, even just to upset them, to drive their day into one inconvenient one.

They’d taken your only source of comfort.

“Get her in! Hold her still and keep her mouth open- Stay still, bitch!”

It took for you to give up fighting when a fist connected with your jaw, silencing you temporarily. A dull ache and shooting zap matching your heartbeat, gagging too when they forced your mouth open on your knees.

“Keep her mouth open.”

One guard by the mirror, the other over you, forcing you down with so much force, if you relaxed, you would have smacked the floor. Maybe lost a few teeth in the process if you weren’t too careful.

He huffed frustratedly, almost angrily, and shook his head from what you could see. “If I get my fucking fingers bitten off with this, I’ll be suing you personally.”

“Whatever, just don’t let her bite you then.” The other fiddled confidently with something on the shelf.

“Yeah… says the guy with his fingers not in a crazy’s mouth. Tsk. Just hurry up, I’m on break after this.” 

“Sure thing.”

What would they do to you in the comfort of your own room, was this it? They’d somehow reenact the nightmare you fled from every morning. The abuse, the assault, pretty sure one even had a gun.

The act itself was nothing like you thought, yet it was all the more terrifying. Spearmint toothpaste, lots of it, shoved into your mouth and kept there until you swallowed some of it.

“See?! She almost bit my fuckign finger off, we don’t get paid enough for this shit-”

“Hey! Watch it. Make sure she doesn’t choke. The big man's listening, they all are, so shut your mouth before you end up costing me my job too, dick nuts- what are you doing? Don’t let her spit it out!”

He was really struggling against you now that your body had slipped into a survivalist pandemonium. “Then you hold her mouth shut, she’s stronger than she looks y’know?”

“Jesus- look. Rub her throat and she’ll swallow.” You did, no matter how focused you were on not doing it.

Dorris was right. Don't trust any of them here in the facility. it was enough to patronise you. Pathetic. On the losing side.

“There, see? Now leave her too it-”

“What’s goin' on here? You should leave her alone. You have no right stepping into her room like this.” A voice. A man.

Both guards dropped you instantly, leaving you laying on the ground with nothing, spluttering up white drool and excess paste over your hands. No journal, no sanity. No dignity.

“You alright? Sit down.”

Nodding, you let him help you up. You took his warm, calloused hand and agreed with yourself as though you’d believe it eventually. At some point. Maybe.

“I have to go back and get my journal- I have to catch up with them.” You wanted your shoes.

He sat you anyway. “I think it’s best if you sit. They were rough with you, you’ll fall otherwise.”

“No, no-” Your eyes closed to keep out the intrusion, you hadn’t even looked at him properly. “I have to find it, it’s the only way I can remember.”

You fought against his grip, not hard, just firm. Almost reassuring the way he held your arm, in a fashion of an embrace. “What do you need to remember? Tell me and I can remember for you, there’s no way they’ll give what you lost back.”

“My dreams, they- I just need to-” Even though you fought, you let go eventually. “The toothpaste, don’t use the toothpaste. It’ll… It’ll make you forget, I just know it. It’s why Dorris doesn’t use it, I have to talk to her too.”

For the first time, you looked up to meet his gaze. “Who are you? I’ve never seen you before.” Then, you restored your energy. Spitting out the remnant of toothpaste and yanked your arm away.

“I’m stuck in here, just like you. I only wanted to help.” He backed away, holding his hands up as though to tame a wild animal.

“Are you real? Oh fuck, you aren’t. I’m going crazy.” Unstable enough to start yanking on your hair, pacing erratically. “What are they doing to me, I’m hallucinating!”

You backed right up against the wall when he approached, letting the pins of the hanging poster stick into your back without a care. “Stay away from me!”

“It’s alright. I can help you… Just put the pen down.”

What? Looking down in your pale hand, you gripped the pen you had so hard, your knuckles were white.

“Oh god…” It clanked on the floor, splitting apart in sections and spread across the floor right under your bed. Not that it was much use anymore. It made your hands tingle, clenching them to relieve it, but it didn't cease. “I’m so sorry- I didn’t mean to… I’m going out of my mind here. I have to do something before I forget again."

“Forget how?”

“So…” You hesitantly took a step in his direction, studying his face. “You’re real?”

He adjusted his clothes, nervously adjusted the rig on his chest and looked away. “I should hope so, I can’t complete therapy if I’m a hallucination.”

It wasn’t enough, nowhere near enough. Physical touch might just be something you relied on in the future. “Hang on a minute... “

Calloused, not cold to the touch and just as firm as they were. Nothing changed, he gave you his hands willingly. From your dreams, the only man thus far that had shown any kindness, besides Dr. Easterman, though debatable.

Can I trust a stranger? Should I?

“So, you’re real then. That’s good… I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to do with myself right now.”

“It’s okay. Being in a place like this can do some stuff to people. You wanna tell me what that was all about?”

Moments went by where you couldn’t trust yourself with the truth, let alone relaying it to someone else. But he just stood there, waiting, never pushing you, never ordering you to speak despite his own calmed aura. Kind to you, yet a matter-of-fact and confident person, like he’d walk into any room and not demand the spotlight, but force the shadows to agree with him.

Maybe you were just too far gone and misread him completely.

Plopping down on the bed, you bent over to pick up your shoes. “My nightmares, I’m finally remembering them, they gave me the toothpaste- don’t use the toothpaste, it’ll rot your brain, make you forget things. Time is moving too fast.”

“Right. He said, sitting down on the bed next to you, studying the carpet. “The toothpaste.”

“That’s what they were putting in my mouth when you came in. I probably won’t know who you are tomorrow.” You said it wistfully, as though he was an old friend, not a complete stranger.

“Well, we can’t have that. Here.” From his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief with little embroidered letters you couldn’t quite read. "Then you'll remember me tomorrow."

“It’s blue like-“ You observed it closely. “Your eyes are-“

It sat in his own hand, the one balancing on his cane you’d only just noticed.

God, I’m in such a state I was about to attack a man with a cane. And using a pen too.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even see, oh my god.” You placed your head in your hand shamefully. “I’m such a mess.”

“Not a mess, a work in progress.”

You snorted, an odd way to put it. “I guess.”

A work in progress.

To make progress and get to your therapy.

“I’ve gotta go, there’s some things I have to take care of.” Shoes on. Before you fell asleep and lost your memory somehow.

“You have to go right now?”

“Yeah, I have to go. I need to find Dr. Easterman. I think he’s avoiding me for some reason and no one seems to know where he is or refuses to contact him. I’m gonna get to the bottom of it.” 

"Easterman?" He followed you out of your room, totting off down the hall to the main atrium. “How will you do that?”

“Those.” The titanium pods.

People came through them like a revolving door, covered in blood or empty husks of themselves. The mere thought terrified you, but you were up against time. Maybe it was why you hadn't processed, because you were terrified of going in.

“I think they’re the key, so I’m going in.”

He said nothing, standing there watching you like some science experiment. A fool.

“I’ll come back. I don’t have much time.” They were familiar, consistent yet entirely brand new. “If I forget, then it’s all over.”

No time to think. No time to regret it.

“Oh… I’m sorry, I never asked your name.”

He eyed you closely up to the pod, open up to your presence. You backed up, waiting for a response, like some weird little comfort to send you on your way. 

A total stranger.

“It’s Clyde.”

Chapter Text

In the depths of the Sinyala facility, Hendrick Joliet Easterman perched on his chair in the very dark he hoped to bring out of you. There wasn’t a minute that went by that you weren’t up on the live security footage in some shape or form while he worked.

He lost valuable sleep to watch you sleeping, his perfect angel descended from the heavens as his ultimate project. A hidden weapon for his use only. There was a comfort he sought, as though you were there in the room with him when he grew lonely, which was more often than he liked to admit.

“The shuttle is sending her to the toy factory. Is she ready for that?”

Hendrick ignored Clyde Perry, glooming the corner up with his hands neatly behind his back, waiting for ammunition. He knew what he said in this room would go straight to Avellanos, anything to use against Hendrick was of least interest in your progress. The pit of vipers had opened right under Hendrick's feet, caution was imperative to navigate his way out of it.

Essential to keep his immaculate darling, taking steps closer to his arms by the day. He’d set up everything for you, listening to your whimpers and his name under your breath when you slept, and how you kept his gifts as though becoming religious artefacts to worship made him practically giddy. You were so close to evolving permanently. So close.

Soon enough, you’d be worshiping Hendrick personally, that ideal balanced in the probability you’d complete your therapy to his expectations. And if you didn’t, then he’d just have to keep you instead.

“She’s responding to her therapy as I anticipated. I only put you in early because of the toothpaste variable. There are only three trials left, it was only a matter of time before you would have been put into play. An unfortunate hiccup, but her rehabilitation is very much on track.”

Now type it up and send that to Avellanos.

“And she’s taken to your presence better than expected.” Hendrick's tone came dry, almost bothersome.

While Clyde Perry was very much a necessity of Hendrick’s plan, he never shied away from the pang of jealousy that came with watching you converse with him, touching his hands so willingly, and what was to come. Not when your previous interactions with Hendrick had been more than unsavoury.

At least now, you couldn’t remember them even if you wanted to. Should you ever found that detailed journal you kept, with every interaction you had in Hendricks company like in infected rash, it was merely fiction. Everything, every exchanged glance, lingered touch of Hendrick’s fingers ghosting over yours with exchanging paperwork was in that thing. He gave it all to you and you never accepted it.

So he burned the past, the journal, your weak little memories not worth recalling.

But you would accept him now, wouldn’t you? It appeared that he had found his way and burrowed himself into your subconscious like a valuable tick, always there for you, caring for you in times of great distress. He read your journal entries within the sleep room. The dreams, the way you longed for him to give you just a second of his valuable time. You were leaning to him, craving the absent void to be filled with his mind, his words, his touch. Hendrick was willing to give you all of that when he knew you were ready to accept it fully.

“It’s what you asked of me. Though it’s earlier than expected, I've put a pause on other... projects while I'm here. It'll be in the report. So I report right to you for now.”

Hendrick watched Perry extremely closely, his stance, behavioural language, even how many times he blinked in a minute. All the same as usual, no deviations, no subtle changes in his exterior to display distrust in himself. Still, Hendrick knew Perry didn't just report to him, The Italian would know everything, Avellanos kept Perry on a close leash and Hendrick didn't doubt for a second that she'd hear of this conversation as soon as he left the room.

Yet, Perry was still a good bloodhound, he'd give that to him for now.

“Good, this project takes precedent. Do what you must within reason. Guide her to the path she’s destined to follow, she will do the rest. No getting bored, either. I know how… extreme you can be. She’s a natural, brilliantly responding to everything as planned, so focus on that. She’ll have a baseline at the final trial, so perform how I’ve detailed in the report. ”

“Alright.” Perry never relaxed, standing off by the door as though to make a break for it as soon as Henrick dismissed him.

He’d drag it out just because he could. Although, there was another variable Hendrick had not foreseen. “What of the other reagent?”

Perry cleared his throat, bringing his hands forward in a sign of respect. “Dorris? She’s been moved to another sleep room. You won’t get any more interference from her.”

Hendrick’s lips ghosted a smile behind another lit cigarette in the dark. “Very good… then we are on track as anticipated. This will completely revolutionise political warfare. As soon as she’s ready, Avellanos will secure the additional funding. And Project Swallow will be well underway.”

A buzz came from Hendrick’s desk, a minute red light blinking away with the brightness of a beacon linked to the end of the battered rotary telephone wire. He picked it up to his ear and listened eagerly.

“Right on time… Come in.”

Two guards armed with batons.

“Of course, in way of keeping things consistent, you’ll either need to undergo a trial now and then, or let her think you have.”

He knew what he’d rather, because Hendrick knew what was to come. It made his stomach lurch with the possessiveness of a common hippopotamus. For you, he’d defend his territory with his mind, slipping past the politics undetected.

Despite Murkoff’s involvement, they weren’t getting their hands on you.

Perry huffed into the room, taking his hat off with a quick brush of the rim. “So face a prime asset again, or take a beating?”

It’ll keep him in line. Put that in the report and see where it gets you.

Now, Hendrick’s interactions with Clyde Perry were for the most part, cordial. But in recent days, a storm was brewing, something untouched under the surface he couldn’t quite put his mind to. It could have been how engaged he was with you, monitoring your progress and seeing to your tailoring of your therapy, yet Hendrick grew to hold a little distrust in Perry’s movements.

What it might be, he guessed he’d find out.

“I assume you’re choosing the latter?” He said, inhaling the earthy bellow of his cigarette, lighting up his face to remind Perry who he was.

“I guess so.”

Hendrick hid his smile behind his hand, grinning with his eyes instead. “Good, but do it outside, I don’t want blood on my carpet. And make sure it's done before she comes back.”

The guards took him away in utter silence, the door slammed shut and Hendrick was left on his own in a triumphant silence.

“Good dog…” He erupted into laughter. “Good dog!”

In the wake of his closer relationship to Avellanos, Clyde Perry still had seemingly unwavering loyalty. And to top it off, he’d even chosen a spot where the cameras could see as the guards beat him. They went relentlessly, hitting him with their batons and striking him in the gut with their heavy boots. And the best thing was, he never fought them back.

What a well taught dog. No need for a leash when he fetches every time I throw.

Perry took it like a champ, a well oiled solider accepting violence for the good of the platoon. The beating was over quicker than Hendrick hoped, but just as satisfying to make up for it  Perry laid on the ground a few minutes, clutching his side with stiffness, then stood up with a fiddle of his hat and limped away. Looking away after he’d grown bored, Hendrick gathered up the report he’d been typing before that lunchtime entertainment stepped into his office. A fresh start, a perfect ending to an otherwise dull life. His sweet little masochist looking for harm, to expose yourself to sexual deviancy to show your true path to righteousness.

My angelic little swallow.

He smiled softly, more smugly that he declined to admit to himself, and began typing up the rest of the report so far.

Reagent [REDACTED] has been chosen to partake in Project Swallow.

A series of trials of extreme sexual stress, to rewire the reagents mind to react defensively to sexual scenarios that outline anything other than what is deemed conventional sex. By the end of therapy, Reagent [REDACTED] should respond to an emotional trigger to activate. A separate way of control, avoiding the use of a trigger word to fulfil active duty. An alternative to Sleeper agents discovered on United States soil, a faster and potentially more effective route to political dominance.

Reagent [REDACTED] is the first of seven selected as potential subjects. If she is processed and completes her therapy, it will give the green light to acquire additional funding from and further research support from Murkoff Corp.

I, Hendrick Joliet Easterman, have high hopes that this project will secure a place in accordance with Project Lathe two for further research into the mind sexually. I am seeing to this specific Reagent personally and already see immense progress from her therapy.

She is already displaying promising signs of integration with each new trial, and her fear to new stimuli is becoming more desensitized. The engineered Thalidomide used in the reagents toothpaste has proved incredibly useful to alter her memories.

Hendrick stopped typing, finishing his cigarette with embers by his fingertips, the ash arching over ready to drop on his lap at the slightest movement. He wouldn’t add in the report that you stopped using the toothpaste, only that you’d figured it out, due to interference. Implications of someone unqualified to impede on therapy.

He carried on.

Reagent figured out the toothpastes use somewhat far in due to unforeseen impedance. Reagent Dorris Ritter has been removed from the sleep room to ensure the trial effects are as unaffected by environmental influences as possible, and keep the remaining variables constant.

So far, Project Swallow is in full effect, starting nine weeks ago. I will be giving the full report in one weeks time as the Reagents therapy increases in difficulty. One week and that will conclude her therapy.

A full diagnostic check up will be completed by Nurse E. Barlow pending my requirements. 

Hendrick rubbed his eyes, blowing away the some of lit cigarette ash due to rest in the bottom of the ash tray. Despite his exhaustion, he remained at his desk to watch your next trial. Progress. You chose it willingly, without fear and embraced Henrick’s therapy with open arms a loyal follower would.

One devoted follower finding her way to him, lost in the smoke of judgment and fals promises. You gave him another chance, another reason to get up and watch you bloom and metamorphosise into an elegant butterfly.

You denied his advances once, you wouldn’t again.

 And this report… was bullshit.

Hendrick had no intention of handing you over to Murkoff. His sacrifices to Project Lathe were enough that his entire reputation wouldn’t ride on lifting Project Swallow off the ground. Because if he admitted that it worked, you’d be sent into active duty, he’d never see you again unless you relapsed, unless they brought you because because you failed. All his hard work, disappearing into thin air. He’d rather the whole project go bust than lose you again. His had Project Lathe two, the scientific love. And you, his physical love.

You didn’t know just how much he loved you, entirely willing to shower you with his affections, never having to endure sexual deviancy ever again. Soon enough, you’d thank him for it, for protecting you the way you ought to be safe and secure in his arms. In this office, hidden away.

Of course you’d need to stay hidden after. Failed reagents either stayed in the sleep room for more therapy where they were watched, or they were disposed of. Murkoff couldn’t have you stepping into the outside world a failure.

You were not a failure. But if the chance you could not withstand your therapy occurred, Hendrick would keep you anyway. With enough time isolated in his company, you’d learn to love him eventually. He was your only key to any kind of freedom you might obtain.

But in the meantime, you’d learn to accept Henrdrick’s love during your therapies. The love you declined once before.

Never again would he let you go.

Not when you were showing so much promise.

Chapter Text

“Find yourself and say goodbye to it, you must defend the real you. The perfect you. I can make you see reason towards your true path. I can be your faraday cage, protect you from uncertainty and heal your soul. I am the only one who loves your darkness, the only one who treats your sins as perfumed wishes. Give them to me, and I will dispose of them personally.”

Truly, Dr. Easterman’s words came through as though it was a personal declaration.

But you didn’t care.

Being determined had never tasted so bitter, you were up against time before you forgot, before your memories of nightmares were erased. The man with the gun, the police officer, the electrical current, mannequins and blood. All gone before you woke again, no doubt riddled with sweat and fear for unmistakable horror.

You didn’t care about his words of praise for once, the doctor's soothing drawls over the radio. Still, you missed him. A man you hadn’t even met. Maybe you were just pushing fast against him to figure out the mystery first, perhaps it was part of your therapy? Everything, planned out, the conspiracy to silence you and the emphasis on the toothpaste. You did consider if Dorris was in on it too, playing along and planting outrageous seeds in your head.

Now that’s just ridiculous.

What was ridiculous was pining for a man you’d never seen. Dorris told you not to trust him. It took everything inside you to battle that when all you wanted was to trust him.

“I don’t say this often, but I love you.”

You looked up at the television, mouth agape, mind blank. If it weren't for the intermittent numbness in your hands which by now had spread to a subtle tingling in the soles of your feet, you might have believed that you were in a dream. You had never been told that, not by anyone. No person even expressed their love for you in other ways, then again, this was a man who had never met you, either.

“I know you love me too.”

Did you? How could you possibly know that? How a person could love a man they had only heard of, blindsided you. But you couldn’t deny that there was something there. Something delicate, nurturing, nothing like the nightmares you experienced on a nightly basis to haunt you while you were awake.

It was like you were constantly trying to chase the idea of solace in Dr. Easterman’s name, his soft words, eagerness in his evasion to find him. He was treating you mean alright, though being keen was something to work on.

You ignored his television talk, staring blankly ahead in the odd, yet familiar shuttle. It appeared you had dreamt of this before, recognising a sharp stab in the temple as soon as you touched down. You tried to ignore the blood however prominent it was and focused ahead to find the truth before you forgot. Because if there was blood, then where you were going probably was no safe place at all, or maybe it was just crudely flung red paint.

Blood made the nightmare real, despite how fictional it all was.

For the duration of the shuttle ride, you remained in silence, ignoring the other direct messages Dr. Easterman had given you. Paying attention to them now would serve nothing, not to your own confidence when meeting him for the first time, because that’s what you were going to do.

And for a time, you were confident, ready.

So unlike your spirits once you actually stepped foot off the shuttle and ten minutes later, you were running for your life.

The dreams are real, the dreams are real, the dreams are real!

She had jumped you, how you managed to get away from her before the drill got to you first, you’ll never know. But the important thing was that you did. Ducking, turning round every corner until you were somewhere safe.

You needed paper, a pen.

“Where is it-where is it!”

Up the stairs, down the balcony that ran along the entirety of the enormous warehouse. Through the little maintenance office, you slipped over, legs almost giving out from running. A lack of oxygen never replenished properly, so you couldn't even comprehend of keeping quiet. You rifled through a desk, metal pots full of loose nuts and greasy bolts, hands shaking too much until you found it.

Two scraps of paper. A pen.

It scribbled, but wasn’t providing ink, just scratching the paper like an engraving tool.

“Fuck!” You dabbed it on your tongue in a pathetic hope it would miraculously work.

The drill grew closer.

You rummaged around again and found nothing, heart pounding in your chest, thumping in your ears screaming at you to get out and run.

Run.

Run.

The more you searched, the more it sent your body into a fit of survival that wanted it to flee instead of stay and fight the overall situation, not just the maniac with a roaring drill bit. It wasn’t like you had equipment to fight that witch of a woman anyway.

“Where did that one go, Dr. Daddy? I wanted to play.”

“Always letting them assholes slip away, Phyllis. Did I teach you nothin’?”

Drawing nearer, no choice but to hide under a desk. Barely a hiding spot really. You crawled under it anyway, the scrap paper grasped between your fingers, so they didn’t disappear. 

The drill came first. “Could you waddle any slower? Jesus Christ."

“There’s no rush Dr. Futterman. We’re investigating the naughty brat we get to have fun with.” 

“Well you’re not getting any younger-”

A drilling tool with gnawing teeth and that god awful duck face thing. The woman was controlling it, speaking for it as though it was alive. Full blown conversations with herself, yet knowing she was only one person didn’t stop your body reacting to the instinctive adrenaline pulsing through your head.

I need to calm myself down, or I’ll never figure out what’s happening. It’s clear Dr. Easterman isn’t here, this toy factory is abandoned, but there’s no way out of here the way I came.

Facing your fears meant certain death. One hit of that drill and you’d bleed out for sure. Talking to Phyllis, the woman, wasn’t a route you'd rather go down. No way you could reason with her when she was talking to herself looking for you.

It was entirely an accident, round one corner and there she was. You never meant to face her head on. And that harrowing scream, the animalistic wrenching, running at you with such murderous intent, she almost caught you.

You looked at the paper and waited for the sign to leave your spot, slipping out crouching until you found another pen. You hesitated, the working pen hovering over the paper. After all you’d witnessed today, what was ripped from your paranoid clutches and forced down your throat, what made you think they would actually let you bring this paper to the sleep room once you eventually got out?

No ounce of hope whatsoever.

Taking the pen, you ran, holding that paper so tight, it crumpled and creased. Somewhere else to vanish out of sight, to crouch in the cover of darkness so that no one saw what you were doing. You could only assume that there were cameras keeping a sly eye on you now that something had shifted.

Cameras to observe, not to keep tabs on your safety. Working against you. On their side, not yours.

This place is so fucked up.

You crept down a hall, practically holding your breath for anything out of the ordinary. For that horrifying drill. Nothing, not even a creak of a floorboard or sudden draft through one of the splits in the walls.

Nothing.

Far too quiet.

Slipping into a restroom, pitch black and solitary. You couldn’t see any cameras in there through your nightvision, though remained vigilant. Two pieces of paper, sitting on the toilet seat, scribbling away the best you could.

‘THE DREAM WAS REAL’ Clean, concise, simple.

Now, where to put them?

No place familiar, where they might find it. Bra? Your sock? Your waistband? Places they could search easily. You rummaged through your pockets first to take inventory. Nothing of notable presence, only your handheld stun and a handkerchief.

Holding it up, you studied the letters again, though still sewn so close together, they resembled a C and P. Clyde… something. To remember him by tomorrow, you’d forgotten you’d even brought it with you.

Would he forgive me for writing on this?

No one would confiscate a folded handkerchief, would they? Well, that was riding on you getting out of here in the first place. You wrote on it anyway, dragging the pen over the fibrous material poorly and folded it neatly in your pocket. You fiddled with the material of your waist band too, trying to stuff the first scruffy rolled up note in the top of the inside stocked pocket. You doubted it would even stay there. The second note stuffed into the confines of your sock, under the arch of your foot in silence.

This dream was real. You deserved to know that when you woke up in the morning. Three notes, three chances.

Before you could come out, a siren rang through the hallway, and in your chest. You’d heard it before though couldn’t place it. Unlike Pavlov’s dogs, you did not salivate. You were conditioned with fear, unknown of who was coming.

Then silence, existential dread.

“You can’t hide. You sure can’t hide from the man with the x-ray eyes…” One door opened, another closed. Knock, knock, knocking.

He was no one you recognised. Except, your body had the visceral reaction to his words.

“Where are you little glow worm?” Then it clicked, a little too late.

While you struggled with the sudden shooting pain through your skull, the door to the restroom opened. His heavy breaths suffocated the room, stilled your body stiff. That voice, that fucking voice. It was coming back to you, the court house, the glowing eyes and hideous wetness between your legs. Your body reacted to him, sweating with the numbness in your hands, the pin scratches blanketed over your thighs.

Just how long had you been in places like this, being subjected to horrible gut wrenching scenes? Your dreams… all of them. The man with the gun, the police officer. That disturbing gas mask. The violation.

They were all real. They all happened.

He closed in, prowling by the first cubical, pausing and waiting. You searched for anything to defend yourself, taking a slow deep breath for preparation and wiped your face of all the justified tears. A glass bottle and all of the encouraging words you could think of.

“I smell your pretty body… I’ve had a taste, and I need another. I knew you’d come back for more. I’m waiting to empty myself, little mouse…”

Tap, tap, tap… “Little mouse… Little mouse… Let me in.” Right there outside your door, ready to open it and steal you away.

Tar, tap, tap…

“Fuck off!” Full body weight, you rammed against the door and threw him backwards. “I’m sick and tired of people thinking they own me!”

You launched the bottle at his head before he could respond, and ran out the room into the light, a boundary he was stuck behind.

“Agh, god dammit! Can’t see a fucking thing- you better run, glow worm!” He stumbled and swiped, missing you completely. “Fucking- ah shit.”

Though you wanted to vomit, you ran off again. Looking for a way to exit the place back to the sleep room with your discovery, exhaustion started setting in, wrapping those cool hands of darkness around your throat and pressing down your eyelids.

Running forever, your nightvision battery depleted to less than a quarter left and it had been some time since you’d seen a battery. Where the hell were you going? Running grew to a job, and that jog was what possibly ended your life.

The woman, Phyllis met you at a corner, again, purely by chance. You weren’t fast enough to avoid her this time and managed to get her hand around your throat without issue.

“Phyllis. Look who decided to join us.”

“Well. Won't she make interesting sounds? Such an educational toy, daddy.” She squeezed your throat picking you up off of the ground, the duck drilled right by your ear too.

It didn’t matter how hard you struggled, or scratched at her hand, it was practically made out of steel. She didn’t flinch, nor did she even whimper at any pain you inflicted, she just eyed you like a side of beef from behind her putrid mask.

“You’ve been a very naughty little brat!” 

In one quick manoeuvre she had you over a disused conveyor belt, the metal guard digging right into your hip forcing you to squeal. She may have let go, but she pinned your head down with the duck, mechanically groaning in your ear so it had a good chance of sucking up your hair. Though despite the struggle, you did not move.

“You won’t hurt my babies. I’ll have to teach you a lesson!”

Then, the rough tug of your pants and underwear pulled away down to your ankles, and a sharp crack across your bare ass cheeks. A cane? A belt? A fucking plan of wood?  It could have been anything, it carried your scream halfway across the factory all the same,

“Let me at ‘em, phyllis! This goose is on the loose! Raghhhhh!”

“Has she been keeping her teeth clean Dr. Futterman?”

Another whack.

“Please!” You could have sworn that drilling would cause you loss of hearing. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

And you were getting disciplined like an insolent child for it. “Stop this! Get Dr. Easterman!”

You hoped his name would drive something home to her as she continued viciously spanking how a school mistress might, but it never ceased. And every so often, as the pain got lower down, it was starting to sting and throb between your legs too, an ache you hated, a pain you wanted to bite down on.

“Phyllis, you deaf cow, Let me at ‘er!”

She stopped abruptly, dropping what sounded like a belt on the hard scrap covered floor. “I know, Daddy, you just get so excited... Hmm? Shall we try the attachment the other doctor man gave us?”

“Fuck that doctor! I'm the only doctor y’need. I wanna drill ‘er.”

Your head was pushed back down after you tried your chances. “But Daddy, he told us not to hurt her. Just to… upset her.”

Who was this doctor? Was it Dr. Easterman? Could it…

No, no… No he wouldn’t do that. Doctors help people, not make them worse.

“Well then, daddy, you must wear the attachment, I don’t want to get in trouble.”

You listened because this wasn't the only sound in the factory, your heart attributed to it, it shattered suspecting Dr. Easterman behind this. You’d never even met the man and he approved horrors like this on you? You couldn’t comprehend it.

The duck’s drill trilled in annoyance. “Ugh, I hate wrappin’ it!”

“But, that big doctor man will take away the children if we don’t listen-”

“Then listen now, Phyllis! The grown ups are talking, so shut the fuck up and keep that big old hole shut!” 

It was right there, the painful throbbing from the continuous hits between your legs replaced with something poking you. And as you recoiled and struggled against the extreme tiredness, Phyllis kept you in place and pressed whatever it-

The duck drilled again, vibrating around the area. The sudden fight for life pushed forth the last scrap of energy you had, it never made a difference. So despite waiting for the indescribable pain, you could only scream and plea. You were about to die getting fucked by a ventriloquist drill.

Yet, the pain never came.

“Careful, doctor daddy, you don't want your drill to make any extra boo-boos around her hole.”

Its cackle came from her, but it was the duck’s personality. “ t's a drill, Phyllis, it's made for pussy-holin’.” Whatever this attachment was, it pushed inside you, vibrating and dry, dragging along the sides in a way that made you cringe.

But you had no energy left to fight it, not even when Phyllis wrapped her large hand around your throat again, increasingly squeezing and pumping the vibrating duck in and out of your stinging, swollen pussy. You breathed with difficulty, gasping but never losing consciousness.

“This is a good pussy. Choke her harder, Phyllis. Knock the bitch out!”

“But daddy, she’ll miss all the fun.” Still, she pressed your throat harder, fucking you relentlessly as your legs grew numb, feet tingled. “She needs to be taught proper manners.”

“She’s bein’ quiet right now, so should you! I’m eating.”

Just a pressure deeper into your trachea and things were getting dark, the drill started making sloppy noises, wet and displeasurable but obvious that your body was reacting to it. Now the dryness didn’t hurt much anymore, but your entire body had gone numb and airy.

So airy, you finally passed out after being fucked by a drill and choked by a woman with an enormous hand.

Maybe forgetting that was a blessing? Forgetting every bad thing that happened to you might not be so bad.

Chapter Text

THALIDOMIDE

Easterman Letters

1960.01.28

MURKOFF CORP

INTER-ORGANIZATIONAL LETTERS ONLY

COPY 

INTER-OFFICE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN DR H.J. EASTERMAN AND THE BOARD

Date January 28, 1960

[heading removed]

The solo attempts to introduce Thalidomide into the sleep room were somewhat unsatisfactory. Under the suggestions of Dr. Wernicke, it has been managed and re-engineered, the pharmaceutical compound is much more stable within the body with less physiological effects.

Previous symptoms included Anaemia, increased contusions and peripheral neuropathy. Singular Reagents who tested over a prolonged period of time (six weeks, twice daily) complained of no such ailments. I believe we are able to move on to further testing in link with the proposed Project Swallow.

The test subject in mind is ready to go ahead as planned with the board's approval.

[handwritten signature]

Dr. H.J. Easterman 

—---------------------------------------------------

TIP OF THE APEX - Part 1 of 2

Murkoff Minutes

1960.01.29

MURKOFF CORP

COPY

TRANSCRIPTION FROM TAPE OF CONFERENCE BETWEEN A. BRADLEY AVELLANOS, AND DR. H.J. EASTERMAN

EDITED FOR CLARITY

[Minutes 7-11]

AVELLANOS- What happened to using words as their trigger? I thought systems like this would cause issues. Lathe one was-

[unintelligible cross talk]

EASTERMAN- Lathe one was still a success in its own right, it paved the way for Lathe two. We can’t make an omelette without cracking a few eggs, Alice. I’m certain this will work.

AVELLANOS- Dr. Easterman, you understand why there’s concern for this, if the board doesn’t approve this-

[more heated cross talk]

EASTERMAN- They will. Sex sells. Sex and lust are on completely different levels chemically to the rest of the body. It can be avoided. It’s a need, not a necessity. Every species of shark sheds their teeth throughout their life to ensure sharpness for hunting. It’s mother nature, brutal, the peak of an apex predator. Now that is a necessity. 

AVELLANOS- Okay… and what about a need?

EASTERMAN- Not all sharks breach the water to hunt, especially when hunting in an area where they’re isolated and alone. it can be avoided entirely. Now tell me, is the fact they shed their teeth the real power here, or is it the kilojoules measured to stun their prey so they can kill?

AVELLANOS- The teeth. Hendrick, where are you going with this?

—---------------------------------------------------

TIP OF THE APEX - Part 1 of 2

[Minutes 12-15]

EASTERMAN- Where I’m going, is that a shark with teeth less than adequate to tear through viscera efficiently on the first go, can still kill its prey with enough force to stun it. The kill comes after, but one of multiple ways to skin that cat.

AVELLANOS- So you think she can be controlled entirely through sex. [ referring to the reagent candidate]

EASTERMAN- I do. Put anyone under extreme sexual stress and it alters the way they see it, react to it. They will seek out meaningful relationships, surround themselves with individuals who show no threat sexually.

AVELLANOS- What makes you assume she won’t react to all sex negatively if she’s exposed to the prime assets and Experimental population that way?

EASTERMAN- Harlow’s monkey’s picked the terry cloth for a reason.

[There’s a moment of silence]

AVELLANOS- And you’re certain this won’t add to the quarterly budget? You can ride on the resources Lathe two has?

EASTERMAN- I’ll need nothing else, just time.

AVELLANOS- How much time?

EASTERMAN- Twelve weeks. I believe it can be done in less time, but I must give Wernicke’s Thalidomide time.

AVELLANOS- Make it ten.

—---------------------------------------------------

THE SWALLOW - Part 1 of 2

Murkoff Minutes

1960.04.05 [Ink misprint, estimated date]

MURKOFF CORP

COPY

TRANSCRIPTION FROM TAPE OF CONFERENCE BETWEEN A. BRADLEY AVELLANOS, AND CLYDE PERRY

EDITED FOR CLARITY

[Minutes 2-6]

AVELLANOS- [laughter] You look like shit.

PERRY- Two drones had their fun. I’ve had worse, believe me.

AVELLANOS- Dr. Easterman’s doing?

PERRY- You have no idea.

AVELLANOS- He’s obsessed with that one, isn’t he? [referring to the reagent candidate]

PERRY- You don’t know the half of it, but he’s adamant he’s cutting her loose out there if this works out.

AVELLANOS- That new Thalidomide is working better than we thought. The board has already approved further use on more reagents and not just a select few guinea pigs.

PERRY- Too well, apparently. She remembers nothing. When she woke up, she cried a little and resumed her usual patterns just like before. She just has a cold and I quote, ‘only the sniffles’. I’m surprised she ain’t pissing blood with all the shit Easterman has put her through. Now I’m stuck on nurse duty while she shivers like a finger-O-matic. That’s what Barlow’s for.

AVELLANOS- The body can recover fast, we’ve seen it time and time again with other reagents. It’s growing pains, collateral. And Dr. Easterman has time constraints to complete his presentation to the board.

[There’s a brief silence]

AVELLANOS- So what does he expect you to do now?

PERRY- What do you think?

[Another brief moment of silence, possible whispering]

AVELLANOS- Sleeping with a girl on company time? A reagent, no less. Usually I’m against non-work related instances, but I’m intrigued. Project swallow is highly promising if it works. And the cost doesn’t weigh anything with the budgets. Easterman has a lot riding on this, and if it fails, he’ll be solely responsible. It’s a win-win.

PERRY- And apparently dipping my dick in the company ink pot is the key to everything.

—---------------------------------------------------

THE SWALLOW - Part 2 of 2

[minutes 7-9]

AVELLANOS- She’s very pretty.

PERRY- She is.

AVELLANOS- Then what’s the problem? You aren’t the type to shy away from doing your job. You’re a loyal dog every time, what’s changed?

PERRY- Nothing, just didn’t think I’d be using my cock for something other than pissing at work. I’m better off doing my job, babysittin’ is an odd take. Seems a pretty useless waste of my time by Easterman's hand. Those ESOP's are uncomfortable.

AVELLANOS- There's semblance in realism, we had Noakes make yours special, just like hers. And no doubt she’d fall for your extreme side, so just put up with it for now. But, Dr. Easterman has always been the unorthodox type, maybe you’ll enjoy yourself.

PERRY- Can’t see why it's necessary.

AVELLANOS- Beats finding more with the prime assets, hm? Or is it the torturing you miss?

PERRY- [sighing] You can say that again… It’s a rest for now, I guess.

AVELLANOS- Then rest. We’ll speak tomorrow, no further correspondence. Only in person. Put an ice pack on that face too.

—---------------------------------------------------

WAITING IN TANDEM

Easterman Journals

1960.04.04 [Ink misprint, estimated date]

MURKOFF CORP

PERSONNEL SURVEILLANCE

COPY

PRIVATE JOURNAL ENTRY OF DR HNEDRICK JOLIET EASTERMAN

That woman. That beautiful woman who’s surrendering to her own pain constantly plays on my mind. I see her in my dreams, calling to me, needing me, begging me to end her delusion of her past and make an honest woman of her. I still have immense satisfaction when I watch the holes from the Lupara in my office wall. An active memory.

I’m still astonished that I am no longer married. A part of me will always love Irene, but the past is fungible, the future is set. I want to abide by my dreams and fulfill her wishes, my bodacious Reagent is the future, my future. Project Swallow is going just as I expected, but the most difficult part is to come. She must still see and manage Coyle before her last trial, and Perry is the key. He will test her limits to the conditioning.

If I predict it perfectly, which I do, the results will be most exceptional. Clyde Perry is currently collateral, Murkoff staff will be on standby. We’ll soon be moving into the last phase of her therapy with the board’s full approval.

This day will be revolutionary… for me.

Chapter Text

HOLDING OUT ON DESIRES

Easterman Journals

1960.02.03

MURKOFF CORP

PERSONNEL SURVEILLANCE

COPY

PRIVATE JOURNAL ENTRY OF DR. HENDRICK JOLIET EASTERMAN

She came. She actually came after eight days of silence, knocked on my door and entered my domain like she was meant for it. The ideals ruminating on Franco’s totem have entirely disappeared. Maybe I am in need of assistance, the thoughts occurring inside my head are entirely unclean, vulgar, yet it doesn't stop me thinking them. I find myself encouraging it. Yearning for it to come true.

She stood at the door as though she commanded the room, I could not tell if her demeanour was wholly professional, or a front. Her previous silence was purposeful, now broken, I’m still unsure of this mystery untold to why she accepted my request.

—--------------------------------------------------

February 2nd 1960

“You wanted to see me, Dr. Easterman?” 

You had closed the door to Hendrick’s office quietly, eliciting a thought across his brain that you had done it to keep anyone from knowing. It defeated the object, pertinent to the fact you were walked here by Murkoff staff.

“I did.” He set down his cigarette, now smouldering in the ashtray. “I have an important request I’d like you to fulfil. Exactly as I ask. Can you do that?”

“I uh…” Standing there in your little white coat, fingers fiddling with each other, clearance card dangling from your neck. “Well, it depends what you’re asking for, sir. If I’m best suited for it.”

Hendrick liked watching you, understanding your little tells when you were nervous and on edge. Because you exhibited them when you were around him. He still couldn’t believe that you came after eight full days of radio silence at your end, like you were avoiding him. Eight long, excruciating days of nothing, watching you from afar while his mind ran wild with accusations against himself.

What had he honestly done for your lack of acknowledgement? Or had he said something that had not been encouraging enough to see his intentions clear enough?

“It’s a simple task, but I’ll need your full cooperation.”

Was this sexually gratifying to him should you do it? Yes. He could admit that it was possibly the closest moment for now that he’d get to anything remotely intimate with you. But it was truly for science too.

Hendrick opened his desk drawer and pulled out Franco’s lupara, setting it down over his paperwork with a heavy clunk. Then two rounds he’d taken out after the last junior scientist refused his request.

“You’ve studied Fanco Barbi, correct?”

“Yes sir. I read over Mr. Perry’s report. And I’ve recently been assigned to the observation team.” 

Though it was dim inside his office, Hendrick saw how you avoided his gaze, looking over his desk or at your shoes, playing with the piece of plastic hanging around your neck. He couldn’t deny that the sight of you looking everywhere but him piqued his interest, wanting to savour full eye contact you’d only ever given him once upon meeting him formally.

“Good, then you’re aware of his behaviours, yes?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve spent several hours watching him.”

Perfect. “Then you’re exactly the person I’m looking for.” He lifted the weighty Lupara in his hands, standing at the desk. “You may just be the cornerstone to further my research.”

“What did you need me to do?” You didn’t move from that spot, not when Hendrick skulked around his desk towards you, not even when the barrel of the Lupara pointed in your direction.

Hendrick took that as a sign of obedience. Compliance. “Put yourself in his shoes, what does Franco do? What does he see? How does he react? I want you to show me.”

He held up the Lupara. “His totem, it’s what gives him his power, his charisma cascades in to the trial environments from this. Creating his own buckshot, pressing this to people's heads oozes immense pressure. I want you to replicate that right now for me.”

“By pointing a loaded gun to your head? Sir, I’m not sure that’s-“

“Perfectly safe, actually. They’re blanks, the exact same rounds we gave Franco before he became the teeth collector. Keep your hand steady, and you’ll be just fine.”

They weren’t blanks at all. You didn’t need to know that or it would affect the validity of the experiment.

“Okay…” You said. “May I ask what the purpose of this exercise is?”

“In order to lead the flock, the shepherd must first sleep on the straw he harvests to understand their herd mentality.”

You watched the Lupara like it was a live animal, a cat with silken fur that purred under the touch of Hendrick’s fingers. He expected your expression to shift like the junior scientists had, to that of fear, but it didn’t.

He stepped closer, almost at arms reach. “Can you do that? Or will I be disappointed in another junior scientist who doesn't have what it takes to push through for the future?”

The pause was palpable. Hendrick couldn’t tell what was going through your head, only that you didn’t run, you didn’t deny him.

“Sir…” You actually took the Lupara from his grasp. “If I do this, it’s entirely an experiment, right? No blurred lines. No indistinguishable boundaries.”

“How so?”

For the first time, you made solid eye contact, a determined expression. “If it’s for science. I’ll help you understand the reagents better, but that’s all it is. There are people with tastes like-” Clearing your throat only prolonged your voice. “I won’t judge, but I don't want to be a part of that. Respectfully, of course.”

You were special. You were fucking perfect. How you deduced that in such a short time reminded Hendrick just how perfect you were for what he had planned. Your intelligence was exhilarating, breathtaking, it excited Hendrick to no end.

Quintessential.

“Of course. In order to create their therapy, I have to step into the shoes of those who drift nowhere.” 

A total lie, he lurched with the anticipation of shoving the loaded barrel in his mouth thinking they were specially manufactured blanks.

“Okay. I’ll do it... If it's just science.”

He struggled to hide the devious grin, the one always obscured behind his cigarettes, though the dim glow of his antique desk lamp masked it for the time being. “Then spare nothing, be as close to Franco as you can. Get… physical if you have to, I won’t fight back.”

“Sir?” 

Your hesitation got him off, knowing with enough words, you’d do it anyway now that he'd hooked you. “Validity. We keep all of the variables constant, the difference being, you aren’t Franco. So please, be physical with me.” 

Oh please, be physical with me.

“It’s touching the Project leader in a way that could cause physical harm, I don’t think that’s appropriate-”

“You won’t be reprimanded if that’s what you’re fearing.” No, there were other plans existing in your universe. “There’s no one else I believe that can do it to my expectations, it’s why I requested you.”

Again, you hesitated, cradling the Lupara as though it were a newborn child. You studied the architecture of the steel around the base and trigger. If only you knew your future, how set it was in the stone Hendrick carved out only for you. A marble statue with the precision of a hundred year old stone mason, angelic and smooth to the touch.

Only for you. His celestial darling.

“Okay.” Defeated was a word Hendrick would use right now to describe what he saw in your tone. “I’ll do it, and I’ll go all the way then. For uh… consistency.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you.”

You didn’t physically recoil from him as he gave you the slugs to load in the chamber, you thought you’d hidden it well, but he saw it clear as day that you were not comfortable.

One… Two… click.

Lupara was loaded, and suddenly pointed at Hendrick's face.

“Like this?” You asked, eye contact, parted lips.

So beautiful. Hendrick practically forgot himself. With a clear of his throat, it set a precedent, it was entirely sexual. No science behind it at all.

“Firmer. More presence.”

More attitude being the barrel flush to his forehead. “This firm enough for you? One pull of this trigger and its game over for you.”

Click. Lupara was cocked. Hendrick was conscious of getting aroused too quickly.

Cocked and loaded.

So much power, but she still hasn’t fulfilled my wishes just yet.

Grabbing his shoulder, you forced him down to kneel in front of you. Well, not force, but Hendrick had to keep his willingness out of view. Putting him on his knees the way you did shot electric through the air, it littered his skin with airborne tingles, static with a quick snap in his stomach.

If you told him to bark right now and degrade him, he’d take it. The energy was tangible, edible, malleable. He wanted to eat it, drag his teeth along it and swallow it hole before it consumed him, took him right there on the floor until he exhausted himself just by sight.

“This is just sad.” You said, pressing the gun to surely leave an indentation on his forehead. “It was like you wanted to be caught.”

He did. Oh fuck, he did.

“There’s that much power in this thing to make your head explode, all over the carpet. I wonder who’d clean your brain up after we’re done. ”

Hendrick forced himself to stifle his restless breath. He only managed a pathetic whisper “No one. I wouldn’t be missed. Only forgotten. I failed.”

“Yeah, you did-” It surprised him as much as it did you.

In fact he was speechless. You lifted your boot to his chest and kicked him backwards until he was flat on the ground with a heavy thud. A gorgeous angel towering over him. A move you must have seen Franco do, countless times.

He did it for power, but Hendrick couldn’t figure out exactly why you did it.

“Keep going.” He said, quicker than he should have. “In my mouth. This research is imperative.”

You shook your head a little, pulling you out of a haze. “Your… mouth?”

“Do it.”

“O-okay.” 

Kneeling down at his side, you pushed the barrel to his lips, gently waiting for him to part them. He opened his mouth without delay, accepting the barrel gratefully, gagging at its reach with a firm push in hand.

“It feels powerful.” Tilting your head. “I can see why he’s so upset right now that you took this away from him.”

Having a woman force the barrel deeper in his mouth was exhilarating. He spiffled out a few vowels prematurely, nothing coherent. ‘They aren’t blanks. It’s live ammunition.’

Okay, maybe he got a little too excited. Like you could understand him anyway.

Get on top of me. Please get on top of me.

You stepped over him as though you'd heard him clearly, crouching, never sitting on his chest like he needed, just hovering away from his touch. “Does it taste good? It'll taste better where you're going.”

Out of reflex, he nodded. You were perturbed from that statement by the way your brows furrowed. Maybe that was too obvious.

“Will that satisfy you, Dr. Easterman?” You cleared your throat, pulling the Lupara out of his mouth, the end covered in his drool and aroused tongue.

His light breaths deepened, wanting to make put you in a corner so that you’d have to point the barrel at him in fear, if he was that type of man. He stopped himself, regrettably. As you moved, you lost balance from your foot hooked under his arm, moved at the last minute while he tried thinking of something to say. His mind only screamed about the tightness in his underwear.

Lupara shot the first slug into Hendrick’s office wall as you fell over him. You screamed, dropping the gun and crawling over him away from the smoking barrels, rubbing your ear as the ringing dissipated from the room.

“They were live rounds?!”

Hendrick laid there and studied the way your chest rose and fell instead, licking the part of his lip you indented, savouring the pain in his leg you fell over.

“You… How could you lie like that- was I an experiment too?!”

Yes.

“I must apologise.” He wasn’t sorry. “I felt it necessary you understood they were blanks.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at your silence, perhaps it was because his heart thumped in his chest with the most excitement he’d seen all week. “Clearly a misjudgement on my behalf.”

“You’re…” Scrambling to get up, you backed away until you hit that wall, mouth open, and closed. Then open. “You’re…”

Aroused?

“I have to go. I-I’ll pay for the damage. But I have to go. I…” You paused abruptly after yanking the office door open. “I hope you got the information you needed, sir.”

After the door slammed, Hendrick laid there, laughing to himself. "That worked better than I thought... God, my heart is racing!"

He brought the Lupara over and sniffed the barrel, acrid sulphur. Such an arousing stench he should never have associated with touching himself. Yet he did.

Inhaling the barrel and palming his cock in his pants, better than a considerable dose of lysergic acid. A lightheadedness making him float higher towards the sun than ever before. His cock so hard it ached and only relieved when he pulled it free.

Hendrick did not hold the curiosity back when inquisitive over the taste of the gunpowder, metallic burning on his tastebuds. It was still hot, innocently fired. Your own innocence and a spray of divots in his office wall, each one you created trying to please him.

And you pleased him very well.

Licking the barrel made his cock twitch in his hand, weeping and begging for the release Hendrick craved underneath you, between your legs. The bitterness drove him insane, hot, stifled in his own body as he played with himself. His hand moved along his length, swollen and angry, practically bursting at the seams and he’d hardly jerked his hand.

That’s what you did to him, that’s how you aroused the very core of his soul. Shoving a gun in his face admittedly turned him on far greater than he ever could have imagined. He just had to do it again.

He positioned the Lupara at his lips and pushed, entering his mouth more desperately, solely for the reason of finishing himself off on the floor of his office. Anyone could walk in, you may even come back to apologise. Wouldn’t that be a sight?

Hendrick, sprawled out on his carpet, hand shakily edging his release all over his shirt. He never bothered to pull it out of the way, he had spare shirts in his drawer along with socks should his feet get itchy. His hand was itchy, moving faster, more erratically to get the perfect rhythm and sulphur on his tongue. It built quickly and threatened to spill before he could get a hold of himself.

Then, he gagged, he came all over himself, the most intense sexual encounter of his life.

After pulling the Lupara from his mouth, he clung to air, drool over his lips and relieved gasps coated over the barrel. Hendrick didn’t want to move, for once, resting on the comfort of his darkened office carpet, covered in his own semen which seeped into his shirt.

Irene never would have done that to him.

Yet you did.

Because you were matched for him, just didn’t know it.

"A loving doe, a graceful deer- may her breasts satisfy you always, may you ever be intoxicated with her love..." A line in a chapter he wanted to understand, thinking he'd gotten close to realising with Irene, yet all he could think about when he spoke it was you.

Your erratic chest, breathless words and panic. He imagined what your chest looked like, how the plush of your warm breasts and hardened nipples under the pads of his thumbs. Terrified and startled. Just how much could your love aim to mend little parts of him he forced himself to ignore? The slithers of himself he revealed to no one. Scandalous.

He finally gathered the effort to pull himself up and dispose of his shirt in the trashcan, pulling out another and adjusting himself behind his desk to light another cigarette his lungs craved. It burned going in, the smoke stinging the back of his throat more than usual, mixing with the metallic tang on his tongue.

He took the telephone off the hook and dragged his fingers over the rotary numbers. Waiting for the direct line to answer.

“Yes, Dr. Easterman?”

“It’s time…” His fingers ghosted over the edge of his lips. “Take her in and dose her directly with the Thalidomide. Project Swallow is in full effect.”

—------------------------------------------------

ANGELIC VIEW BEHIND A BARREL

Easterman Journals

1960.02.03

MURKOFF CORP

PERSONNEL SURVEILLANCE

COPY

PRIVATE JOURNAL ENTRY OF DR. HENDRICK JOLIET EASTERMAN

There’s something animalistic in fighting for One’s life when cornered and nowhere to slip out of. An innate response that pulses life energy through the functional system for strength until the last weakened breath.

She fought beautifully. I watched from afar and listened to the pure guttural screams from her throat, like a dying animal with nothing left to lose. Oh, how the pit of my stomach twists not being there to see in person, but I must operate from the shadows within her existence until the time is right.

In the meantime, I must hand Franco his Lupara back. I keep staring at it on my desk, at its visceral power in proximity. It makes me feel things I never thought I’d experience. She put it in my mouth, I want it again. That in itself is innate and ingrained on my brain for life.

I must try it on my own entirely and note down the differences.

[quick, scratchy doodle of Franco’s Lupara]

This journey will be the red carpet to the atrium of my life's work.

Chapter Text

You were sweating again.

Nothing changed, Clyde had monitored you the entire night. He sat with a slouch by the desk, bored and looking for something to do. Your condition hadn’t improved, yet no change was better than getting worse.

Babysitting. That’s what it was, glorified baby sitting. You weren’t the worst person Clyde had ever had to watch over, and the most sane too, considering.

Clyde checked his watch, fifteen more minutes before meeting with Avellanos to discuss your condition. The order had come in late last night after she’d heard that your ‘sniffles’ were more than just a cold, or the flu.

Still, Easterman had refused to step in.

Because that’s the way you treat a lady. Idiotic.

Even before all this, you weren’t really anything special enough to catch the eyes of the project lead, yet here you were. He could appreciate you for what you were, and that was some eye candy. You were pretty, considering the state you were in. 

Clyde partially understood how Easterman came to take notice of you, but it was never just looks with that Junkie, was it? The man had a god complex that confused Clyde with all the other occupations a man like him could go into, though who was he to judge? He had a side just depressingly stained, and he enjoyed it. Clyde's persistence got him the information he wanted, so in a way, he and Easterman weren't exactly that different from each other.

God help me.

It was just that side drew people to Easterman for some reason. Maybe that was the reason he chose you in particular.

You never accepted his words as gospel.

Clyde recalled the day Easterman asked him to follow you, giving him some bullshit excuse at first to find a leak for some private information he wanted sealed. You were the key apparently, wandering home on the shuttle into town and traipsing back to your little one bedroom house on the edge of it. He watched you close to a week. The same routine, same trips to the store or casual conversations with neighbours and store clerks. And nothing. There was no leak of information, yet Clyde still wrote the report up. To this date, he was certain Easterman still had that report in his desk drawer, never officially filed.

Easterman didn’t take Clyde for a fool, he just abused the hierarchy and pulled rank on Clyde’s loyalty to his job.

At least he’s better to deal with than Scarfiotti… barely. Insufferable bastard.

As far as Clyde was concerned, you were a nobody. An everyday civilian if you weren’t tied to Murkoff’s shoelaces. Someone with an average life ahead of them, maybe a partner in the future, or a dog. Either way, your house was sitting empty to this day, neighbours were convinced you had left town to elope with a secret lover and left one letter- forged by Clyde- and left on a doorstep. It was enough to be forgotten, not wondered about by anyone of noteworthy connection who would come looking. No family, that made things easier to fabricate, made things simpler than they actually had to be.

Easterman was impressed, like Clyde actually did much to stuff the cat back in the bag. What pissed him off was his blazé attitude, as if Avellanos wouldn’t hear about it eventually without Clyde's input. But, su[risingly, it went unnoticed longer than he anticipated, it was only when Clyde reported what he was doing did Avellanos step in and question him.

The bastard still managed to slip out of her grip and carry on with it.

Because he had other plans in mind, and Clyde hadn’t revealed anything yet until now. He’d been collecting his evidence, though not much, it was enough. How Easterman mentioned things, used specific words that weren’t relevant to the experiment.

He had no intention of handing you over to Murkoff when he was done with you. He’d grown too attached, he could tell in Easterman’s eyes after each completed reagent left. He asked for constant updates to the point of exhaustion, irritability on Clyde’s behalf and badgered for reports to on end. A man who grew easily attached to a woman who denied his advances on numerous occasions. The man wasn’t as slick as he thought around the ladies, so taking you instead was the therapy's goal in whether he could get you, and this time it looked as though it was beginning to work.

Gotta hand it to him, his persistence rivals mine… creepy son-of-a-bitch, bird-dogging some girl for kicks.

Now, the warmth of a pretty girl never went wasted, Clyde saw plenty of girls he could have pursued had his nose not been fixed on his job, he just never did. The kick he got catching a scent threw his blinkers on when close enough, keeping him on the edge. A company of a woman could have done that too, though not as pungent as chasing an animals tails until it was fresh within his teeth.

He had Avellanos to thank for that, it’s why he took the beating from Easterman’s lackeys to begin with. Like hell would he enter a trial willingly and face those maniacs again. He didn’t ever want to piss blood another time in his life. Unlike Easterman, Clyde knew his limits within his confidence. He fought with his head, not his fists when it wasn’t called for, his reconstructed skull spoke for itself.

The clock on the wall ticked away, Clyde shrugged off his difference and rubbed his eye at another all-nighter. Avellanos was waiting for him.

You moaned in your sleep, frowning into the thin, scratchy blanket, too hot for the covers, yet too cold for the thin piece of tissue paper Murkoff staff gave you. Clyde pulled another blanket over you and wiped your forehead with a damp cloth from the sink, beads of sweat clinging to your skin for dear life.

She’s not getting better. There’s no way she’ll be well enough to finish this in a few days. Easterman’s ass I guess.

He set the cloth aside and left the room to seek Nurse Barlow’s attention.

“Can I help you?” She said, watching Clyde just stand there while he studied the crappy romance novel she had her nose in.

He wrote down your room number. “Go to her room, she’s not showing any signs of recovery. This is more than just a flu.”

Then he left, he didn’t bother waiting for some medical advice or hoping she’d give him some tips to bring your temperature down. It was probably some sort of infection and she had meds Clyde didn’t have.

He exited the sleep room and headed straight to Avellanos’ office, leaning against the wall for her after she didn’t answer when he knocked.

“You’re late.” He said, counting seven minutes past the time she specified on the face of his watch.

“And your injuries are healing already. What bliss.” She filed through and left the door to swing. 

Clyde gripped it and watched the hallway closely. Empty. Desolate.

“So, how are things going? Our little swallow ready to fly?” Avellanos sat down behind her desk, lingers laced in front of her professionally.

“She’s sick. No way she’s doing Coyle’s trial tonight.”

Her shoulders dropped a fraction. “That’s what you get for putting her in back to back trials with no idea what she’s doing… is she at least progressing?”

“She woke up with no memories, not many nightmares either.”

“You think the extra weight has undone everything?”

Clyde shook his head, never sitting down. “I do think it’s worked. But with her health declining, that could be the downfall.”

“Murkoff’s little Nightingale.”

He huffed, ignoring the amusement. “Barlow’s seeing her now, nothing else I can do except cool her down. She’s sweatin' like a paraffin heater. A whore in church is less anxious.”

Avellanos shrugged, leaning back in her chair with a smugness. “Dr. Easterman has four days, and he’ll have to present something.”

“He’s not stepping in, no clue what's going on in that quack's head.”

“Who can ever tell what's going on in that head of his? And if this fails, he takes full responsibility for it like we’ve discussed already. No skin off my nose, as long as it’s not draining funds.”

Clyde said nothing, folding his arms with a thought on his brain.

Avellanos picked up on it immediately. “Tell me.”

“She ain’t passing this. I don’t think she was ever meant to, just don’t know how it’ll work yet.”

“How so?”

“His goal is to have her submit to a man who treats her right, and fight men who don’t. A girl who at the slightest kindness follows like a lost puppy, that’s the theory…” Clyde wasn’t sure where he was going with this, just that his hunches were usually right. He took an interest in her before this project, he won’t let her go easily.”

He watched Avellanos shrug. “Who cares what Hendrick wants? As soon as she can do what he says she’ll be able to do, she’ll be Murkoff property. He won’t be able to keep her anywhere without the board hearing about it. She won’t get far.” She gave that satisfied smirk she held in her sleeve. “Might give the board that push to get rid of the alcoholic junkie once and for all. Again, win-win."

“Then you’ll want me looking for her after if that happens.”

"What better person than my little Director of historical Refinement to find her should she vanish out of thin air. Like an obedient sniffer dog." She sat back, leg crossed over the other. "If Easterman thinks for a second that hiding Murkoff assets is a clever thing to do, well…” Avellanos huffed out her amusement before a subtle, devious smirk graced her lips. “She’s more than welcome to join the experimental population.”

“Make her another pin cushion.” In truth, Clyde didn’t care what happened to you, as long as it didn’t impede his job.

Just another Sinyala piñata full of Murkoff’s corporate cock to sit on and ask how high to bounce. A waste of potential. Clyde figured you fought off the two guards well enough, with training he reckoned you’d be pretty deadly, all things considering.

It’ll make her one hell of a woman if Easterman pulls this off without hiding anything.

“Unless you’d like to have fun with her?” Avellanos let her stilettos clack over to the hidden drinks holder inside the larger cabinet on the right, holding artificial flowers and crap scented potpourri. “I’ll bet you’re bursting to get back into your field. Finding her after if she winds up missing might be a nice treat for all your hard work for me. If she’s deemed a failure, the board won’t keep her on, even if she is actually useful after.”

The idea was tempting, pumping you for information on Easterman should you go into hiding. But you’d genuinely know nothing of interest. Hell, you couldn’t even tell him what your favourite colour was, he gave you test questions on your memory and you only mumbled and shook your head He'd try the test again soon though.

Like you’d actually be of any use to him if he interrogated you.

Peeling your skin back or removing your fingernails would add the fun to it Clyde always expected, the information at the end was the reward along with a twitching body. Just a twitching body alone was no fun, and it was meaningless.

“See how it plays out first, maybe the doctor might actually surprise us all and…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence, because he didn’t believe it. This was Hendrick Easterman he was referring to.

Avellanos began laughing as she poured her whiskey. “Do you really believe a man with a god complex will think of anyone but himself? He’s always trying to please himself-“ She knocked it back and winced briefly. “We really need him out. There’s nothing new he can bring to the table we’re not already doing.”

“If you want him out, I’ll keep my ear to the ground, he’s bound to fuck himself sooner or later.”

“Maybe letting him hide her away is the best scenario here. That way we can get him removed too.”

Sooner or later, if Avellanos wanted to conspire, Easterman would either cause a disturbance big enough to be disposed of, or an opportunity would arise before long that he could be used as a scapegoat. Either way, Clyde could do his job without issue and answer straight to Avellanos again.

“Let’s keep it that way at present.” She said, pouring another drink. “Go for now, we’ll talk again soon with any updates, just… make sure she doesn’t die of something boring at least, there’s potential for additional funding if she actually makes it to completion. That's if Hendrick doesn't mess things up.”

Clyde nodded and left for the sleep room, checking his watch and entering without anyone seeing. He adjusted the uncomfortable rig on his chest and halted his steps, hearing the commotion coming from your room.

“No… please- I just, I’m so hot, I need to sleep… no needles- I-I don’t want needles.” You were delirious, sluggish, moaning and slowly kicking about in the blanket it had tangled up around your feet. “So hot… just need sleep-“

“What’s wrong now?” Clyde watched two guards keep you still and Nurse Barlow pulled a syringe out with a little clear bottle.

“She has an infection from the laceration on her arm. Nothing a few antibiotics can't fix. She’ll need bed rest for a few days.”

So much for Easterman's deadline.

“Stay with her, Mr Perry, and make sure she brushes her teeth. Oral hygiene is almost as important as keeping your last kidney.”

More babysitting. Great.

Chapter Text

“Am I correct in hearing that diagnosis? You want to wait a few days?”

Clyde wound up back in Easterman’s office, subtly swaying on his feet. He needed to sleep at some point and nurse his own health seeing as Easterman wanted him in tip top shape so bad.

But no, he wanted to talk about you.

“You were told she wasn’t fit to carry on yesterday, Mister Easterman. You didn’t want to know-”

“Because there is a schedule.” Easterman cut in, sucking on the end of his cigarette like some youngster in a shake shack. “We can’t divert the therapy’s path. Not when we’re this close.”

“You heard Barlow, she has an infection-“

“What does Barlow know?” He huffed on his cigarette again. “There are no limits the body can endure and she’s endured so much already, just a little further. There’s two trials let to go, we can’t miss this opportunity while there’s leverage.”

Then what the hell am I doing here?

Clyde shrugged, leaning against the wall, studying the empty bullet holes in the plaster. “Look, put her in, don’t put her in, I just have a job to do.”

Easterman laughed, he let out this unhinged chuckle that even unsettled Clyde for just a second. “Your job- your job? Is that why you’re making trips to Avellanos’ office?”

Well, he was bound to find out eventually.

Clyde didn’t say anything, there was no need. He’d let Easterman fuck himself into a paper bag and wear himself out.

“Tell me, why does a politician really lie to his congressional district? Is it for money, or power? Hmm,” He rubbed his chin. “Money doesn’t really cut it for you, ah! The Italian is giving you a new promotion, perhaps?”

Still, he said nothing in response.

“Judas betrayed Jesus for silver which destined him for the crucifixion. And I let you play a crucial role in my project. I’d say I was disappointed, but that would hold no merit to you when it comes to me, would it?”

Nothing, again. Clyde just watched those bullet holes, counting them to keep his temper from flaring, One… Two… Three… Four-

Easterman continued. “Maybe you just enjoy the thrill, it matches your… excited nature for chasing the squirrel, spilling blood all over sinyala’s shoes when someone is less than forthcoming with information.”

Pulling out a cigarette from his little engraved case, Clyde lit it thoughtfully with a click of his lighter. “If you must know, I’ve been conversing with Avellanos on a separate matter concerning another one of my projects temporarily on hold. I currently report straight to you in this case and give you my reports verbally as you requested.” Clyde relaxed his shoulders, and waited for the cogs to turn in Easterman’s head. “And my report is that she’s not well enough.”

He let his words sink in and continued with his report. Maybe Easterman would listen; probably not. “She’s shaking like a leaf, sweating like she just ran the Boston Marathon on her hands and feet. They’re shot to shit, that gash on her arm never got cleaned properly. The bruises on her legs haven't healed from what, six trials ago?”

“She needed her therapy difficulty increased, this was expected, but we can’t shy away now-”

“I’m not trying to get involved here. But you’ll end up killing her if you don’t ease off, then she’ll be no use to Murkoff.”

Easterman laughed again, the end of his cigarette lighting the end of his nose on the half darkened office. He was probably on something again, possibly stronger than before.

“I see… so you’re a doctor now? Well, that’s fantastic! Fix her up and send her on her way if you know her body so well.”

Yeah, he was definitely on something recreational. Clyde saw the signs, it was how his jaw kept tensing after he spoke, the slight tremor in his smoking hand, rattling side to side every now and then until Easterman flexed his fingers to stop it temporarily. His increased breaths after he spoke was a dead giveaway too, its desperation sounded like he could have ran a marathon himself before Clyde came in.

“She’s another reagent, they’re like cattle to Murkoff. But she’s pretty important if you have to make this presentation to the board. My reports won’t be enough if she’s incapacitated. But then, I’m not the one doing the presentation. You are.”

Easterman smoked aggressively, hand still trembling in an awkward silence Clyde welcomed. The pair never exchanged looks or judgment, just away from each other, though they didn’t know that the other was looking at the bullet holes in the wall.

“I am in control… So you keep her on track and proceed as planned. She goes to Coyle’s trial tonight. End of discussion.” He blankly fiddled with shuffled papers on his desk, hesitating. “I’ll… have him receive special directives to… lack of better phrase, go easier on her. Will that satisfy you?”

There was no point in arguing with a man higher than a hot air balloon in a thunderstorm. Clyde nodded and casually stepped away from the wall. “I’ll take my leave then.”

“And while you're at it, don’t leave her side again, not until she’s on the shuttle.”

Great.

“Sure.” Before Clyde left the office, he shook his head and pulled out a handkerchief. His handkerchief he'd given you. "You might want this."

Easterman had picked the cloth up from the desk where Clyde had thrown it. "A handkerchief?"

"I found it on her before she did. Could have caused trouble, along with the other two notes we found on her person before she woke up."

He left it at that, stepping out into the hallway before Easterman could drone on again about how handkerchiefs are somehow linked to something in mythology or dogs walking the street. Symbolism.

For someone as intelligent as he was, Dr. Easterman sure knew how to give himself the opportunity to fuck things up. You almost ruined the entire experiment with quick thinking and now, even with the drugs Barlow gave you, it still wouldn’t take the sweat away for a day of two, but what did he know? Clyde was no doctor, he didn’t want to be one either. He wouldn’t brag, but he had plenty of practice hearing the diagnosis from his own injuries to know what recovery looked like.

Not my problem. Not my problem. If she dies, it’s not my problem. If she lives and makes it, problem solved but still not my problem. I’ll need to slip out to speak with Avellanos at some point, I’ll wait until the trial.

Heading back was most interesting, while Clyde needed to talk with Barlow pending your treatment, he saw one of the reagents at your window mumbling something.

“H-He’ll kill ‘er… Gonna die. He’ll take ‘er…”

“Can I help you?”

Gone for thirty minutes and the leeches came wiggling out.

He jumped out of his skin at Clyde’s presence, repeating something under his breath over and over. You were rolling about on your bed seemingly asleep and uncomfortable. Why in hell was this guy watching you?

“M-Murkoff… Murkoff are murders… He’ll- he’ll kill ‘er.”

“She’s unwell, leave her alone.” Clyde struggled to find a comfortable position with the ESOP, leaning on his cane to rest his leg.  

“No… no I can’t go back in there- she can’t go back- she’ll die. We’ll all die, we have to escape- we have to get out-” His eyes widened at Clyde’s face, taking in his different eye colours into account. “You.. you’re- Just leave us alone!”

Clyde lunged at him and shoved him up against the wall and glanced back at you stirring through the window. His cane clattered to the floor and alerted the guards to his presence. Of course they all knew who he was, that’s why they stood there waiting in the peripheral of his good eye.

“Y’know how impolite it is wakin’ a lady up when she’d bedridden?” He said, through gritted teeth.

All the shit now and what was to come, a crazy with loose lips wouldn’t help. It could trigger your memories,  throw off what had already been done. Clyde read the feedback from staff over your recent altercation with Dorris Ritter and odd behaviour throughout the sleep room.

It was better that didn’t happen again, not under Clyde’s watch.

The reagent struggled, trying to yank himself out of Clyde’s grip. “Please! I know what you are- what Murkoff is- I wanna go home!”

“Too bad.”

He pushed his face further into the wall and nodded over to the guards who came through the gate and took him away. Whether it was another sleep room like Dorris, or straight to biohazard, it didn’t matter to him.

“Clyde?...” Your voice was weak, but it was there.

He turned around and paused.

Shit. 

“What… What were you doing to that man?” You clung to the doorframe for dear life, still sweating, panting.

Clyde swiped his cane from the floor and leant on it, trying to steady himself back away from a little excitement. “He was watching you, he wanted to take advantage of you while you weren’t well, doing something not appropriate for a lady to witness. I had to fight him off.”

You covered your mouth, shocked and frail. “Oh my god- He was always so… harmless.”

He ignored that last part. “C’mon, you need to get back into bed, how did you manage it this far?” He hesitated when you didn’t move with him, thinking he’d knock you over if he carried on. “What is it?”

“I’m… I’m getting a shower. I feel so dirty.” Stepping past him, already holding the over-starched towel with you.

“Easy, no way you’ll make it there.” How the fuck did Easterman expect you to do this trial tonight?

He was serving you up like a side of meat. Right in Coyle’s grasp of all prime assets, it was practically giving him a three course meal on the house.

“But, I need to. Clyde, please.” 

Had you always given people those puppy dog eyes, or was it because you were unwell that they looked more glassy than before? He cleared his throat and studied them while thinking of a response, so doe eyed, pathetically plain yet interesting enough to look at.

“What if you pass out in the shower?”

“Can you help me, then?” It came out so quiet. “I mean… there’s no one I trust really. You have- haven't left my side since we met… it has to account for something, right?”

Would Easterman approve of this? Probably not.

“Okay. But not too long, you have to sleep.”

Clyde managed to walk you over to the showers, you on one side, his cane on the other. As expected, it was empty, no one seemed to use the facilities according to the reports. In fact, Avellanos complained about why they were even built, a complete waste of money in her opinion. It was the ESOP’s, getting them wet and being unable to take them off.

That, and the reagents seemed to prefer using the sinks in their rooms.

Now, he wasn’t a man to get flustered or panicked, it was his job. But he couldn’t deny the subtle pick up of his heartbeat when he helped take your ESOP off, awkwardly slipping out of your clothes and under the hot water from the shower head. He’d rolled his sleeves up and loosened his tie off, ready to catch you should you fall, his rig sitting next to yours out of the way. 

In the end, maybe it was good practice seeing you undressed. If you didn’t come back butchered and still made it through to the last trial, he was going to see you indecent sooner or later. And nakedness didn’t bother him, he recalled Honey Island Jenny’s body on the bed, and that little gremlin crawling out of it. Women had breasts, it wasn’t news to him, just like he had a cock between his legs, it wasn’t a shocking discovery no one knew of.

It could have been because he knew you better than Easterman ever knew, observing you from afar all that time, knowing your routines and interests, he could have been too close for what was appropriate. It didn't help that you and he hadn't met in person before now, even though you were previously Murkoff staff, the paths never crossed.

You swayed on the spot a little, holding yourself up with a hand flat on the wall like it would help. Clyde stepped closer and kept his hands at a distance, ghosting over the curves of your body while you barely rubbed soap over your sickly skin. The gash on your arm uncovered and open, ready for redressing.

Clyde noticed your legs shaking before you did, ready to give out at any moment. He caught you, now fully exposed to the water soaking through his clothes and hair, but he caught you in time.

“Easy there.” He said, not letting go and watching the soap drizzle down your chest and on to his shirt.

That being said, you didn’t pull away either. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to-”

He pulled away some of the stuck hair from your face, wiping the wet away so you could see better. Clyde took the soap from your hand to rub it in your hair and lather it up.

Avellanos was right, you were pretty, more so now than he realised or ever paid attention to before. Perhaps it really was that detail alone that got Easterman interested. He wasn’t sure if the doctor was a shallow enough man given his complex, but as Clyde saw you up close, it was more plausible than he first realised.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, you need to rest.” Before the shit show later.

Clyde kept his unprofessional thoughts to himself and left it at that, washing your hair and zoning out any soft whimpers he heard over the shower, and ignored any bubbles dripping off of your body. Only then was he able to use the fact he was completely sodden in soap and water to concentrate instead of letting his brain run a little. It aided him getting you back to your room in your towel until you had fresh clothes put on.

He dripped everywhere, getting a towel of his own once he’d laid you in bed, receiving a change of his spare clothes from one of the guards. And fuck, the exhaustion hit him as soon as he sat back down in that uncomfortable chair.

“Have you slept?” You were a little brighter now.

“I’m just fine.”

You didn’t sit up, but awkwardly shuffled back until you were flush against the wall, pulling the covers back. “You’re exhausted, right? If you won’t go back to you room… just sleep here if you want. There’s room.”

Clyde almost said yes immediately, but Easterman was watching, he understood his orders. ‘Get on her good side and earn her trust.’ He’d just showered with you, naked, when he thought about it, the order was entirely too vague.

On the balance of probabilities, if he said yes, he could sleep and recover to see you off on your next trial, then go straight to Avellanos and report to her. If he said no, he’d have to wait until you were gone to sleep and even that would only be an hour or two. Then he’d have to squeeze time off to go to Avellanos. But how would Easterman think of this?

Well, he did want me to get on her good side.

She climbed into bed, getting in and laying on his side awkwardly. There wasn’t as much room as it looked, pretty cramped but comfy enough. He only ever looked at you when he knew your eyes were closed, never thinking to speak or make a move when his weary eyes started to close.

You spoke first, half asleep. “You smell good.”

He froze, noticing your head dip forward closer to his chest. “Do I?”

Nodding, you sleepily pulled the blanket up to your chin. “You do, far better than I do.”

Clyde edged forward too, inhaling your damp hair with the Murkoff issued soap, like regular old soap with no hint of floral or earthy smell.
”You smell just fine.”

“I do?”

“You do.”

After that, you and he said nothing else, laying in complete silence until sleep took the entire room over, if not just for a few hours. Clyde took the opportunity to rest and prepare himself for a follow up report of your death.

If Easterman was set on sending you in the way you were, the chance of survival was slim.

Shame.

Chapter Text

Easterman Journals

1960.04.07

MURKOFF CORP

PERSONNEL SURVEILLANCE

COPY

PRIVATE JOURNAL ENTRY OF DR HNEDRICK JOLIET EASTERMAN

So the early bird does catch the worm… it showers with said worm and brazenly sleeps with it too. Well, that doesn’t make the bird impervious from the raw powers of the jaws of a cat, tearing out its jugular and spitting its feathers out in a messy pile by its bloody carcass. Clyde Perry is pushing his boundaries further than I had him pegged for. The man is a rat catcher, a hound. Why he thinks he has special privileges to someone I have to myself is quite frankly foolish and downright pathetic.

If it weren't for the therapy, I'd have him hung, drawn and quartered.

But unfortunately, Alice would never allow that.

[unintelligible words, looks like the word 'fuck' written over and over again until the page split]

—---------------------------------------------------

Hendrick paced about his office, stress cigarette in hand, lysergic acid in the other. He’d already dosed today, but it wasn’t enough to imagine what he was seeing. He’d watched you the entire time, mouth agape at your boldness to stand before a sniffer dog and let him touch you with such familiarity.

It was proving that your conditioning was taking hold, fixing itself inside your head you couldn’t claw at, but now you were just rubbing it in Hendrick’s face.

“Who does she think she is? Everything I’ve given her, and now she sleeps on his chest like a bint in a whore house!”

Well, those girls never stayed after they got fucked. They collected their money and kicked the man out of bed, covered in their own fluids full of shame before heading back to their wives and children. No, you were so much more than that, you were practically the wife Perry came back to after emptying his cock is a sexual farm of disease.

But you, you were of the quality of Hendrick’s wife too, sneaking away from him for the nearest fling you could get your hands on, before he returned from work to kiss his cheek and serve him dinner and a gin.

Hendrick’s tremor vibrated as he swallowed down the chemical compound and followed it with the remnants of his gin glass. He wiped away the alcohol from the sides of his mouth and paced with a rage he kept under wraps quite patiently. He was in half a mind to summon you right now, the other trials be damned to keep you here so you couldn’t fly the perfectly tailored nest into another man’s arms. Hendrick kicked himself at the stupidity of his vague demand, he expected better from Perry, to keep you at arms reach until it was time.

Now isn’t the time to get cosy. Bastard.

“I’ll have that rat catcher strung up if he thinks he can take her away from me, deviate her from her therapy. He’ll ruin her progress like this.”

The thing was, his hands were tied. If the board found out his intentions towards you, god forbid Avellanos figured it out. Hendrick groaned at the implications. That bitch would relish in making you suffer for it, she’d take you away from Hendrick for sure before he could even tell you how high to jump.

He ran the conditions over and over in his head, ensuring he’d left nothing unturned when it came to intimacy with you.

The first and forefront condition Hendrick imposed was at no point could Perry ejaculate inside of you despite a man’s…needs. You’d been in the sleep room for close to two and a half months, you had no protection from pregnancy. The new contraceptive pill had been approved, but it wasn’t the cure all. Hence why he forbade any of the prime assets or experimental population to engage in unprotected sex with you that could result in anything unexpected.

The second condition Hendrick was adamant on was not showing actual care you could cling to. Perry wasn’t there to care or make you think he did, he was merely there as a catalyst for you to accept Hendrick’s love in its purist form after testing Clyde's presence was enough to trigger it. Straightforward love, nothing deviated to what love meant between a husband and wife. 

You needed that type of love, nothing fleeting, or kink laden with filth over your pure body. A love in the traditional sense, conservative in what you’d certainly crave after your therapy concluded.

Perry had already breached one of those conditions, what stopped him from disregarding the former?

Hendrick slumped down into his chair, rubbing his temples to calm himself. A poor technique, but a technique all the same until his lysergic acid kicked in.

“She loves me… I know she does, because I made it so.” He traced the television screen where you slept. “She adores me, worships me in her sleep. She must dream about me too, not him.”

Clyde Perry was a traitorous bastard.

“I know he’s conspiring to get me out- I’m not an imbecile. I know he’s talking with that Italian bitch! Well…” He laughed as his head started feeling lighter, his shoe tapping against the floorboards erratically. “I have my ways… she thinks I don’t know about the affair, that they won’t grasp at the smallest inconvenience to force me out. Ha! Never. Never.”

Hendrick may have had you as a weaker point to his preservation, but Avellanos had Lawler.

“If they try to take me down, they’ll all come down with me.” His tremor fought the gin bottle, pouring more than he needed. “They aren’t taking her away from me. She’ll come down into the pit with me before that happens.” He drank, shaking worse than ever before.

Hendrick laid back in an attempt to rest his eyes, hoping it would calm him down before the trial tonight, or rather, he just couldn't stand straight. Coyle was ready, Hendrick too, for the most part, only he hadn’t slept in over seventy-two hours.

He wasn’t exactly sure whether what he saw was a dream, a hallucination, or both. You were in his office, standing there in your towel, innocent and vulnerable.

“You’re here.” He whimpered, climbing from his seat towards you. “You came. I knew you’d find your way to me.”

“Hendrick.”

Hearing his name on your lips drove him insane, his lip quivered. “Saying my first name… you know how to play the game I taught you. You’re no longer a maverick, but beautiful… look at you.”

You slinked towards him, gripping your towel, damp and scented. “I’ve been waiting so long to see you. Why did you make me wait, Hendrick?” Close enough at arms reach, he could touch you, feel you without the slightest pull away or pointed glance in any direction but his.

You welcomed his eager touch, a moment he’d been craving.

Just to touch him.

“Therapy takes time. Only you can choose when you’re truly ready- though I’ll admit there were time constraints- yet you mastered it earlier than expected. You did wonderfully.”

Hendrick made the move to be nearer to you first, you remained still. “You came to me like I asked.”

Soon enough, you and he were chest to chest, lips in proximity to kiss, sweetly in their own right. Hendrick was hesitant, waiting for you to take that leap and confess to him what he’d been yearning to hear.

I love you.

You didn’t.

“Hendrick… this isn’t real.”

He took a hold of your hands, you let him. “It is- it is real. Because you took to your therapy as I envisioned. An angelic beauty taking everything without complaint, or opposition. You are real. You are a light in this darkened pit.”

You looked away and disagreed. “You haven’t slept in over three days. You’re on your way to overdosing if you keep this up.” He melted into your hand as it caressed his cheek. “You’re still awake, but you’re hallucinating. Go to sleep. I’ll be in the sleep room when you wake up.”

“No… he’ll- I can’t sleep, not yet.”

“Why? Because I’ll be alone with her?” Clyde fucking Perry.

“I asked two things of you, and you became a disappointment. Some loyal dog you are.” 

It was because you’d be alone with him. How could Hendrick even think straight when you were all the way down in the sleep room? With him.

“I’m sorry.” You backed away until you were next to Perry, slipping your hand in his as though you belonged to him.

You did not belong to that half-blind rat catcher.

“Clyde has taken care of me more than anyone has. More than you have.”

Absolutely preposterous. “Of course I take care of you- what do you think I’ve been doing all this time?”

“You want me to go to another trial like this? I’m so weak I can barely stand and you want me to be subjected to those horrors without a chance? It’s cruel. Barbaric. Clyde saw me when no one else did, protected me when I was vulnerable. What have you done to stop it?”

The sight made him want to vomit, Perry ripping you away from Hendrick’s reach, his arms wrapped around your body like a sodden worm with a diseased gaze. He stood there, entirely stupefied, watching your lips meet his so easily, so loosely.

“What- no… you miscreant bastard. ” Hendrick couldn’t do anything about Perry.

He got as close as he could, until his body stopped like it was repelling him away. “You can’t leave me…”

Hendrick couldn’t move, he couldn’t touch you, only watching Perry bite your lip and sit you on top of his desk, letting your towel fall from your body. “You can’t leave! You’re nothing without me- I love you!”

On deaf ears, his words dissipated to nothing, toxic slurry under his shoe while Perry reaped the fruits of Hendrick’s efforts past his nose. It was putrid, seeing you slip from his grasp in quick succession, like fleeting smoke leaving the room to vanish from existence.

So it wasn’t real, yet Hendrick couldn’t see it as anything else.

You gripped Perry's waist with your legs, biting at his lip with so much vigour, passion. Your passion was during the trials while you allowed yourself to be taken right there on the floor, but you would step away from Hendrick’s intentions in the end if Perry was there too?

“You can’t just leave me- after all I’m doing for you?!”

Everything, he was sacrificing everything ensuring you and he were together, that loneliness would never factor in because you would accept his love openly, without protest. He couldn’t see you ever accepting Perry the way Hendrick had trained you, it was unbelievable, but his pessimism was growing like a tumour on his back to weigh him down until he drowned.

Hendrick loved you, and you loved him, he was certain.

Getting as close as he could, he slammed his fist down on the table, snatching his gin glass from the table and knocking back the rest of it until he winced. “Tell him you love me. Tell him how well I’m caring for you- how I’m shaping you to be perfect!”

Nothing, just exchanged gasps, a fiddled belt and zipper. Neither you nor Perry spoke, pretending he wasn’t even there watching helplessly, his fury bubbling just under the surface trying to reach up his throat.

“I… no…” His fists shook, could have been his tremor or a pure visceral response. “You bitch… You bitch!”

You ignored him, opened your legs for a man lesser than Hendrick, someone who chased and never led. A dog who fetched when he was told. Murkoff threw the stick and recalled him whenever it wanted, when it felt like it, when Hendrick like it. He never allowed the dog to climb the table, and yet, here he was. He was visibly humping the desk, barking his own orders amongst the disarray in the house, gnawing at the wood and pissing all over the place.

Hendrick snatched the desk lamp and threw it against the wall, a guttural growl leaving his throat because it was all his body could come up with. You and Perry didn’t flinch, in fact, he took things further. He started fucking you on Hendrick’s desk, unapologetically raw inside you, between your scarred thighs and bleeding arms.

“Fine!” He picked up his large stapler, launching it in the same spot with no reactions. “Fuck him and live a life of misery and pain! In fact, just die for all I care- die and see where it gets you!”

Still, nothing. You moaned, pawing at Perry’s shirt and tie and laid back on the desk. Your breasts bounced and jiggled in the most inappropriate way, provocatively mocking Hendrick. He could literally see Perry’s cock moving in and out of you to add insult to injury.

And neither of them bent to his pleas, or threats. Nothing.

Hendrick dropped to his knees and punched the floor, gasping for air he didn’t own and making his knuckles bleed into the fibres of the carpet. You weren’t noticing him at all, no matter how much noise he made.

A mewl escaped him. “Tell him you love me…”

Silence. A pin dropped in his mind and remained in utter silence besides his heavy breaths. “I know you love me. I know you’re just hurting the one you love.” His hollow laugh replaced the looming air. “I do the same, darling. It’s just how our courtship is.”

“Oh really?”

Hendrick froze, hearing your angelic voice actually respond to him. No breathlessness, no lustful gasps amongst each other. Just you, and him.

“Yes…” He said, studying his torn knuckles. “We hurt each other, and it brings us right back to the other. Because we were made to fit together-”

As soon as he looked up at you, on his knees grovelling, he lurched back and scrambled for the wall. You were not you, Perry had gone and you took the form of something so grotesque, he didn’t know where to look. You weren’t a part of the experimental population, he didn't recognise you, you didn’t fit in with the likes of the Jaeger either.

Long, torn limbs, sharpened teeth like needles fixed underneath a set of night vision goggles, military grade, unpowered. Your fingers gyrated, getting longer and darker, forming tentacle-like extremities and edging closer to him.

“No… no, no-”

 Distorted, your voice was scratchy and unequal, rotting his brain like pure glass dragged across it. “Am I not beautiful, Hendrick?”

“What did- No, No!” He tried to push you away as you grew closer and knelt down over his legs.

“You don’t want me anymore?” You barely gasped, jittering about so close he recoiled at the spines growing from your head, the snake-like tongue slipping out of your lips. “But I want to be with you, it’s what you wanted, right?”

The tongue poked at his face and he did not recognise you, like a mixture of the experimental population in one face, one attitude. 

“N-Not that, I can’t-”

"Love me, Hendrick, before you kill me tonight."

The absolute animalistic screech that left Hendrick’s lungs pierced his own ears, blinded him and thrashed him about on the floor, making him seize and gasp for air until everything stopped and snatched all the light from the room.

Stillness.

Aching silence.

He shot up from the floor and sat there in the dark, knuckles aching and room so isolated. The lamp had broken, smashed all over the floor, office doors poorly barricaded with the desk. His clothes nonexistent. Naked and alone in the dark after what appeared to be a bad psychedelic trip. Too much Lysergic acid. The only light source he had when he managed to move his legs was the television tipped on the floor with the live security footage.

You were still asleep, laying on Perry’s chest just visible by the corridor lights of the sleep room. No hideous characteristics in sight, no sex or infidelity. Nothing had changed, just his own insecurities.

He weighed up the probabilities of your sickness, whether it would really crush the validity of the therapy. Maybe a few days wouldn’t hurt. It would give time for himself to regain his own consciousness and hold it together before the presentation. And you, you could get better and not hold him personally responsible.

Before anyone came in to wake you, Hendrick grabbed the rotary phone that had been knocked halfway across the room. Putting it to his ear, he waited for the direct line to answer, sniffling and clearing his throat to appear put together. When the line dropped, he tapped the bar a few times and it instantly called him.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Easterman?! Are you okay? No one could get in to check on you, you’ve been screaming for hours and your phone has been off the hook! Your door is barricaded!”

“I’m quite alright. Sometimes an artist needs his privacy to develop new techniques to paint the canvas in a new light.”

The caller wasn’t convinced. “Right… okay. Is there anything I can do for you- can I get you anything?” 

But Hendrick could not care less. “The trial set for tonight. Postpone it for three days time.”

“Sir? They’re ready to take her any minute now.”

In a flicker of facing his own failure, Hendrick gripped the phone tightly. “Just postpone it. Now.” 

He slammed it down and slumped down on the floor, naked and zoned out. Would you forgive him knowing that he delayed your therapy for your health? Or maybe he’d become a self fulfilling prophecy. 

More time with Clyde Perry, what you didn't needed right now.

Perhaps Perry wasn’t the best candidate for this last trial, but who else could Hendrick ask? Scarfiotti?

He dreaded to think.

Chapter Text

“Can you tell me your favourite colour?”

You sat on the low stool edge thinking for a second, moving your pawn towards another chest piece. “Um… I think… no, it’s not that one…”

Clyde sat patiently, moving a piece towards your exposed rook on the board. Clyde tapped his fingers, drumming them in a way that was soothing.

You said a colour. “I think it’s that one.”

He smiled softly. “That’s good, it’s my favourite too.”

It made you smile, though it wasn’t a test, you had the sense of accomplishment with praise. It wasn’t the colour itself, it’s what it represented, your therapy.

“Your injuries are healing well.” You said, noticing how the bruises on his face were turning yellow in the middle. “Can’t believe what they put you through, those attackers. I’m glad they managed to keep them seaway from you. Some people can be so vile.”

Two days and you were feeling so much better, like total miracle drugs righting every involuntary wrong your body made.

“Yours too.” Clyde moved another chess piece after you took a pawn off the board. “I was a bit worried back there.”

“I’m sorry.” You visibly cringed. “I really don’t know how I got so badly injured. Nurse Barlow keeps telling me I did it to myself… But I don’t remember any of it. How would I even do that?”

“Don’t apologise. We’re all in here for different reasons.”

You looked away, rubbing the elbow dressing that started to itch. “I guess… It’s just, this Dr. Easterman, I don’t remember meeting him, either. There’s so many gaps in my memories, I don’t know what I’m doing, really.”

He fiddled with a piece between his fingers, studying it while you made your next move. There was something about Clyde you’d come to be in proximity to, something protective, safe, caring for you at your lowest and covered in marks and bruises you were told you’d made yourself. Clyde was gentle, warm to the touch and didn’t shy away from you despite your… tendencies.

It was the way your heart beat faster than ever when you caught his glance, brushed fingers in bed when he laid next to you as his breath tickled your cheek. His presence did something to you, gave you warm fuzzies and seeing his different eye colours fascinated you to no end. You’d never seen anything like it, anything like him.

A breath of fresh air in this place.

“I’m sure it’ll come back to you at some point, just give it time. Why don’t I ask some more questions?” He moved his rook to your bishop and took it.

“Okay… What kind of questions?”

“What about hobbies? Do you have any?”

It shouldn’t have been a difficult question, but it was. You were only playing chess because Clyde suggested it, in truth you were doing everything because he suggested it.

You had a book from Dr. Easterman concerning Chemical warfare during the war. That wasn’t of interest to you, history sat on the edge of a teetering saw which was somewhat fascinating, yet dulled and numb. Some of the history you remembered was ingrained in the country's culture, and some you just wanted to forget. The death, culling, misery on the world and its people.

Who would find that fascinating? Why would Dr. Easterman want you to learn about a chemical weapon designed to kill people? There must have been a reason, and that fascinated you to find out why.

“I like reading, I guess. But I wish there were more books.”

Clyde hummed to himself and figured out his next move. “Maybe we can ask for more books. See what they say.”

You smiled, though you tried to hide it. “I’d like that.”

His presence shifted you into something of a blobby mess, not even realising that he’d put you in checkmate. So quickly, yet unsure how long you’d known him.

How long have I been here? It feels like I’ve known him for years, but in the same breath, only for a few days at most.

“Check.” He said, his voice smoother than before.

Then, you noticed. “Oh shit.”

Your defeat was widely overshadowed under his lighthearted chuckle, it was barely there and had never happened before. Still, you couldn’t deny the fluttering in your chest and did not want to get rid of it.

“You have a nice laugh-” You couldn’t stop yourself in time. “Shit, did I say that out loud?”

“Do I? I don’t have many opportunities in my job to do it.”

Now that fascinated you. “What was your job?”

He hesitated, drumming his fingers over the table, but ultimately gave in. “I was something of a private investigator.”

“Woah… that’s pretty amazing stuff.” You imagined all of the different scenarios in your head. “So, did you find cheating spouses and men on the run from corporate tax fraud? I bet you saw your fair share of fights.”

“You can say that again… it was mostly surveillance though.”

“Oh?” And that excited the conversation. “I remember my job, I worked in observational science- sort of marking down behaviours and-”

You froze, blinking the light away rapidly. What was that? You remembered something, but it was like an out of body experience. It was as though you were watching someone else, not yourself, just for a flicker.

You rubbed your temples and buried your head down on the table.

What was that? An old memory? Or just a figment of my imagination?

“Are you alright?” Clyde came to your side, kneeling down at you and patiently remained silent.

“I-I don’t know… there was something, but it’s gone. I don’t- It’s gone, I can’t remember.”

A flash of lightning, trying to trap it in a bottle just made the entire process that more difficult. Gone in a flash, evaporating from your brain into some dark void.

“I’m sure it’ll come back. Let’s walk, you’ll feel better.” He grabbed his cane and waited for you, taking it slow enough to wander through the corridors around the perimeter of the sleep room.

“Maybe it’s because of therapy that I might be remembering my life. It’s good, right?”

Clyde nodded in agreement and carried on walking. It was a silence you welcomed, just enjoying his company if not anything else. You wandered in joint quiet, watching the sleep room go by in a clarity you welcomed.

It was almost peaceful, covered in a sudden tranquility as it got later in the day. There were the select few who often hid in the shadows under the set of heavy set stairs, they whispered things you never were able to get close enough to listen to. Even the pods in the main atrium weren’t used, or even talked about, just waiting there to allow passage.

Until they were used. Some time between discussing how Clyde had used a gun before, and how gardening didn’t seem like such a messy hobby as one might think. Three people went into the pods while you took a moment to rest at one of the tables, and came back almost an hour later via Nurse Barlow’s station, limping, crying and you could have sworn they were covered in some sort of red substance.

Like blood.

“What is-”

“Out of the way, everyone. “

“Are they covered in blood?”

Clyde blocked your view, allowing two Guards to come through and lead them into their rooms without you seeing. “I think it’s paint, I heard some therapy is harder than others. I would go waitin’ around to see the aftermath. We should focus on ourselves.”

“Right…” 

Your brows furrowed, thinking over and over all the way back to your room. You weren't hungry, neither was Clyde. Ruminating about those people curbed your appetite, they hadn’t emerged from their rooms, you’d heard no upset or pleas either to come out or eat. You were pretty sure they had their food taken to them.

Sitting down on the bed, you thought the facts over and over. “Do you think those people are okay? Like really okay? I should go and see them-”

Clyde waited by the doorway, effectively blocking your way out. “Someone just tried to.” He looked over his shoulder. “They were turned away by the guards.”

“Oh.” Maybe they relapsed or something. Therapy can be difficult. “I guess we’ll find out in the morning.”

“Well, it’s gettin’ late.” Clyde didn’t move, just rested on his cane with the light of the hallway silhouetting his figure in contrast to the lack of light in your room.

“It is.”

He didn’t move to leave, you didn’t turn away from him. Maybe if you asked for one more night while you were still a little fragile, you’d be somewhat back to feeling better.

“I should-”

“Did you-”

You and Clyde froze, like you both hadn’t been sleeping in the same bed for the last few days while you both recovered. It was so heavy, that atmosphere sitting right on your shoulders, there was nowhere to look.

“I was… I was wondering if you wanted to stay for one more night? It’s been nice having someone who…” What was the word? “Who understands me, I think. It’s nice to have company until they send me for therapy.”

Clyde didn’t say a word, but he closed the door behind him, the swiping of his cane drew closer until the the mattress shifted with  body weight dipped on the bed.

One more night.

He laid down, facing you at first as you did with him, resting your head on one pillow together. It felt different somehow, like the air that previously might have left the room, stayed and pressed down on your chest to make it fight harder to keep going, exacerbating its movement for one quick breath.

“So… What do you want to do when you get out of here?” It was simple curiosity.

Eventually, you would leave this place, Clyde too. And then what would happen? A job, a place to live- if you didn’t already have one somewhere out there already- and settle down with someone. Someone safe, secure, maybe even boring if it came down to it. Boring was good. Boring was predictable.

“I guess, I’ll go back to my job, maybe settle down.”

Settle down, those were the words you’d hoped for. Maybe he would settle down with someone like you? No… someone who didn’t end up here in the first place. Look at your body, how you damaged yourself and you didn’t even know how you did it. A man like Clyde, who worked as a Private investigator, would want someone reliable, right? One of those girls to doll themselves up and wear expensive designer dresses in the evening before going dancing, or to church.

One who could recall simple memories.

You didn’t strike yourself as someone who did that. Not by a long shot. You had a big heart, but how far would that carry you if you couldn’t provide and care for him?

Damn it.

“Are you alright? You’re quiet.”

“Mhm, I’m dandy. Just thinking. Settling down sounds like a really great idea.”

He kept quiet, was he watching you? You couldn’t tell, not when it was so dark. When your breathing picked up, his hand brushed yours and didn’t leave, it stayed there as though it was waiting for you to do something with it.

But you were too scared.

Fear of rejection was soul crushing, especially when there was a charming, handsome man laying in bed next to you. So effortlessly charming.

“Right.” He said, barely a whisper only you could hear.

Was it breathless- it sounded totally breathless to you, though not out of place. The saliva swallowing in the back of your throat was the loudest thing in the room.

What should you do?

Chicken out.

“Goodnight, Clyde. Sleep well.”

There was that subtle and minute laugh again. Oh Jesus.

The way he said your name. “Goodnight. You too.”

Oh hell.

Chapter Text

You only woke up because someone was tapping your shoulder, and it wasn’t Clyde.

Tap, tap, tap… It started lightly at first. You groaned and stretched, sleeping better than you had in however long. You didn’t want to get up, the bed being far too warm and comfortable, head resting on something firm and moving in time with your breathing.

“Not now… ten more…” You dozed back into sleep.

Then it came again. Tap, tap, tap… Firmer, more pushy into your shoulder with a jab, making you flinch and jolt up in bed and squished against the wall because you hadn’t realised your slept on Clyde’s chest. You saw it before anyone else did despite the dimness and sleep in your eyes. A bit of drool on his shirt.

Kill me now.

that, and half asleep in a dark room with something jabbing you awake. Was it a ghost? Maybe a demon ready to claim your soul or something, definitely not a guard just standing there in the middle of the room like a stalker.

“What the hell?!” 

You backed up, but where could you go? You ended up kicking Clyde by accident, almost pushing him off the little bed in the process. Right in the corner, he sat up dazed, and visibly relaxed not a second after.

“It’s time to go. You’ll be late for therapy.”

Neither man reacted to the other, Clyde rubbed his face and sat up properly, mumbling something under his breath. The guard stood there for a few agonizing seconds before he moved to grab your arm.

“Don’t touch me-”

Clyde threw up his hand, trying to diffuse it. “Can you give her a minute?”

The guard huffed with impatience, mentioning something about a trial, probably some legal jargon, he slammed the door closed too. Clyde sat beside you, one of his legs over the side of the bed, yawning into his hand.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-” You were such a bumbling idiot right now. “It caught me off guard.”

“It’s fine.” He rubbed his neck and stretched. “I don’t think anyone takes kindly to a wake up call like that… Idiots.”

“I mean, it's a bit early for therapy, isn’t it? Well... I just- I don’t even know what time it is, it can’t be late at all.” Sliding down the bed with flushed cheeks, you got off at the end, avoiding any contact with him and picking up your rig in the process.

Like usual, you switched the radio on out of routine. “Don’t give in to your temptations.” Whatever that meant.

There was a moment of silence where neither you nor Clyde said anything.

“Well… I better get going then.” So awkward. Adjusting your clothes never felt so uncomfortable. The clock read just past seven in the morning. and suddenly, you were shy. “Thank you for staying.” 

Clyde said nothing at first, straightening his shirt from what you could see, rustling his fabric at the elbow. “Glad I could help. Knock ‘em dead.”

A word of encouragement put a pep in your step. “Sure.”

You felt much better now, the antibiotics worked a treat, you had your energy back. The guard waited for you, suited up as usual, hands flush behind his back with an impassive expression.

“Go to the pods and you’ll be instructed when you get in there, don’t wait around.” 

Boy, he was grumpy, you noticed from your periphery how he slouched in his step, trudged almost out of synch by your feet. Unbothered. You only nodded, not giving him the satisfaction of your sudden energy after all those days of illness. There was still more to gain back, but it would do for therapy.

“Right.” Was all you said. You focused on the pods, deciding which one to choose.

Maybe there was a specific choice, order, therapy would go one way if you chose a different pod because of some case study of choosing the left pod. Because naturally you’d start from the left and go right, but your gut told you to pick from the right. So you did. Second from the right, it opened, welcoming you inside to sudden and temporary darkness.

A shuttle, maybe comfort transportation to Dr. Easterman’s office. You didn’t clock the blood until you sat down, and it was too late to turn back.

“What is- What?”

Blood all over the grates, it had to be blood. A television dropped down from the ceiling right in front of your face.

“I need to get out- someone let me out.” Restraints held you in place, eerily familiar, sickening all the same. "Hello? I need out!"

Your wrists burned, itching against the fabric as the television turned on. MURKOFF CORP. Like the signs splayed on the barren walls of the sleep room. Freezing in the chair meant you were somewhat paying attention, the silhouette, that voice.

“You are the temptress. The body that defies the law and must let it consume you. Sound will be your downfall, be silent and escape the law for good. Tempt the police officer with your silence. And I will let you out.”

“Wait… I remember this- I remember this...” The gas, the visions, hallucinations of the same police officer your head partially recalled like yesterday’s news.

Blood, gore, and an electric baton with enough power to light a small room. You couldn’t flinch, or recoil away from his ghastly posture, grinding his hips and sticking that baton into his crotch. You couldn't look away, couldn’t shy from the vulgarity. Though by the end of it, you were fixated on him, moth agape at his proclivities towards the lone mannequin in the background, ramming it, then caressing it straight after in some form of perverted sex ritual.

When he vanished, you could breathe again. Each hair stood on end, vibrating and making you shiver at his horrifying absence. Maybe it was the visible blanks in your memory, like he should have fit in somehow but never had the capacity to belong.

After the chair let you free, you hesitantly stepped through the pods, taking note of the sign above them, a police station.

If he’s really real, then he must be here somewhere.

‘Tempt the police officer with your silence.’ Was it figuratively, or literally? You couldn’t tell which, anxiously padding through the titanium pod until the other side opened.

Abandoned was one way to put it, depressingly dingy and grimey. But quiet, par the audible flickering overhead lights and creepy mannequin dressed like an air stewardess.

“You’re on your way to getting better.” It said, pointing down the hall, next to a set of televisions on top of each other.

BE SILENT

STATION IS BUGGED

DON’T BE A SNITCH

And attached to the side of it upon further inspection a small note with random list you couldn’t understand the relevance.

Sound gates.

Extra sound traps.

Don’t make noise.

Was this a joke? Or…

You chose not to utter a word, in case this was real and all a big understanding. Yeah, it must have been, you were destined for Dr. Easterman’s office, not this abandoned place. However, you moved on, holding your rig close to your chest.

STUN was on the side of it. You weren’t sure why you’d need it, not unless that police officer came at you with that fucking baton.

He’ll get this right to the face otherwise.

Each step brought more dread than anything else, taking you past a forest of training dummies and signs to a gymnasium. Harrowing. Disastrous.

“Oh my-” You slapped your hands over your mouth, noticing the traffic coloured lights move above the gate.

Sound gates. They must close or something. I can't let them close if I want to get back to the shuttle.

But there were dead bodies hanging for the rafters in the gymnasium, blood dripping over the floor and desperate, smeared fingerprints along the walls. It was a massacre, diabolical carnage.  How you managed to keep quiet while heavily breathing through your nose was a miracle you didn’t scream though your physical body was almost calm.

What was happening to you? You should have reacted differently, your knees should have shaken, your whole body trembled until you couldn't take it anymore. And after you stepped over the threshold of the gymnasium, the gate behind you closed anyway, catching you off guard with a squeak. You’d managed to catch yourself in time, but assumed you had fucked up based on the three gates opening.

All three televisions above the gates showed the words HIDE AND SEEK on the screens. And a countdown of five minutes.

Who’s coming to find me when I find a place?

It had to be the police officer, the only terrifying option.

Gripping your stun rig hard, you bolted for it, taking the left side first and aiming to work your way through systematically until you found the best place. Somewhere dark preferably, only you didn't have your night vision goggles. The guards in the sleep room always boasted that you keep them on you at all times.

For obvious reasons, you were fucked.

Running through a hallway and lone door took you into some parking lot, no windows, just somewhere underground. Out in the open, wide eyed and instantly regretting your choices, you saw the giant thing between the cars.

“Collared like a fucking dog…”

Covering your mouth to a halt before you gasped, you stood still enough to think whoever it was couldn’t see you. So stupidly standing there to be seen, but your legs refused to move. It was a man, a humongous man at that, he must have been close to seven feet tall- no, taller than that. It was because he was hunched over, swinging what looked like a heavy metal arm from this distance. His footsteps thumped the very room, beating your chest as you watched. One hit with his fist and it was all over. But how could you move when your body simply ignored your brain to get it to back out of the room?

He still hadn’t seen you looking everywhere but you, hitting the car with an almighty clang that ricocheted through the entire open room, he grunted and huffed in unknown frustration. It was those chains haunting the atmosphere, dragging and chiming together each time he moved erratically.

“Flies buzzing like chainsaws…”

Sensitive to hearing, that’s what the note said. Don’t make noise. How the hell can I do that?

With one deep breath, you stepped back, taking note of the timer on the wall. Four minutes almost. Moving was surviving, not standing still like a petrified deer in headlights. Moving back, you inched further and further, watching him closely in case he decided to ignore the lack of sound and start looking for you.

Further, further-

Crunch.

Glass.

“What is that?” He looked right at you, gruffly sighing, growling.

You looked at him.

Nothing. 

"Four minutes remaining."

But he shot in your direction, swinging his arm and pulling himself out from between the two broken down cars. In a fit of panic, you stepped away with another crunch and moved over to the side by the cars.

He charged over and swung his metal fist right where you would have been, it confused you how he didn’t see you, then you noticed his eyes now you were closer.

“Scared of a blind man. Oughta be ashamed…” He confirmed it, a rusted metal plate over his eyes.

Relying on sound entirely, probably even hearing your breathing too if you didn’t focus on it enough to try and calm yourself.

Why the hell am I here? Dr. Easterman must be around somewhere, taking me to one of these places is so barbaric. Makes me want to put in a complaint about this sort of treatment. It’s cruel.

“Hm?” His head turned on a dime, breathing heavy. No way he heard your breathing already. “Marco…”

He sang it, like it was a game, even groaning with an excitement you hadn’t heard before. Then, he sent his fist flying again, closer to you, enough to get you to back away and trip over your own foot. Your whole body jolted, sending a shock to your bones as you hit the floor, the wound on your elbow aching and throbbing.

Closer, he lunged again, missing you with his grunts to keep him back, though not long enough after he heard you scramble away and a can dropped from somewhere right on your head.

“Come here!” You had no chance crawling on all fours. He was so fast. “You can’t hide your glow from me!”

You couldn’t hold back your scream, not with the power and raw strength he gripped you with, threatening to snap you in half. Such huge hands, longer fingers and that eerie chain wrapping effortlessly around your ankle.

“Please- please!”

Throwing your stun at him, it got you partially, but he dropped you to the floor with a putrid slap and horrifically bashed knee on the concrete ground. Stumbling away, you struggled to focus on the room to stop it from spinning and encouraging nausea you hopelessly tried to ignore.

“Three minutes remaining. ” The speakers in the parking lot squeaked and gave awful feedback, adding to the disorientation.

Three minutes already?

The stun managed to stop him for a moment, though you were unsure of how much noise you made while he grunted like a lion in heat.

“Ugh… touch me- touch me!”

The huge man was over to you at a speed you couldn't comprehend, grabbing a hold of you again and this time, he squeezed you until you coughed and cried. It was crushing you, forcing the air from your lungs until he eased off suddenly.

“So beautiful… so fragrant.” 

No matter how much you cringed at him, trying to push his face away from you, he moved like you weren’t even there. He pressed his nose to your chest and inhaled you, breathing so predatory it made your skin crawl up your arms and into your ears. And when he changed positions and put you into his other arm, the one with the metal join, the spikes pushed through your clothes and his other hand started to wander.

“You sound delicious…” 

Wetness, it was all you could think of, pulling away at the sensation of his tongue tasting its way up your cheek to your ear. You simply couldn't fight him off, your rig hadn’t charged. The tongue had a mind of its own, running up the shell of your ear and inside. A vomit-inducing, carnal moan escaped him with the stink of his breath encapsulating your head. “

Taste delicious too.”

He moved his hand over your breasts, squeezing hard enough to make you yelp when the plush skin pinched along the side of your rig. Blinking away the tears from the corners of your eyes just allowed new ones to replace them.

“Dr. Easterman…” What could you possibly say to this? "He’s waiting for me…”

Something told you shouting would do nothing, that panicking and making a scene in front of a blind man who relied on sound was a terrible idea. So you kept quiet, hoping maybe he’d grow bored and drop you like a forgotten rag doll.

“Oh, Doctor…”

“Y-yes- yeah. Dr. Easteman.”

A sign of hope?

He licked you again, holding you up to sniff you once more. “Make you perfect.”

“Make me… what?”

You took a deep breath in when he stopped touching you, his free hand moving away and doing god knows what, you couldn’t see, only smelling the foul odor of his breath. It was pungent, gargling breaths as though exhausted from chasing you down a few metres.

“Two minutes remaining.”

Hide and seek was the game, and you were trapped in the arms of a twisted monster unable to get free. Fighting just wasn’t on the table when his grip was tightening like ocean waves on a beach, it wasn't consistent, not even close, especially when his arm dropped the way it did.

“Here I come…”  He said, moving you out of the way so you could see clearly his erect penis in no way proportionate to himself and rife with tissue damage. It twitched, how it still was functional was entirely debatable, yet it still made your heart race when he touched himself.

“Like a toy… you’re done for.”

Maybe it did work.

As the timer counted down, your body all of a sudden went into a type of shock you’d never experienced before. A trapped animal going into survival mode and your brain couldn’t react quick enough. You snatched a hanging can from a piece of string attached to the ceiling, ripping it away and bashing him over the head with it. He had no eyes to gouge out, but if he was sensitive to sound, maybe a can smashing against his head would stop his urges.

He yelled, clawing at his head as you hit him again around the side of his head. “You do love me!”

The beast had you on the floor so quickly, crushing your hips until you cried out when he got down on top of you, his cock hanging lazily between his legs. It rubbed against you like some horny dog, dragging over the material of your clothes until it caught your thighs forcing its way between them.

“Pretty cries. Again-again!”

“Get off of me!” 

You finally broke, smacking the can on any part of his body you could reach as he rutted between your thighs, grunting as though his last breath was inevitable.

“One minute remaining.”

You were dead. So dead. No where to hide and about to be crushed alive by the monster from under the bed you were too afraid to hang your feet over the edge in fear he’d eat them.

No, he just wanted to eat you entirely.

“Get the fuck off of me!” He didn’t react to your relentless smashing, the can bent and moulded to the shape of his head and then didn’t make a lick of difference.

“You don’t keep a rose locked away…” He slurped wherever he could, whatever skin was exposed, hips bucking and poking you until it hurt every time he caught you the wrong way. “Smells so good. Tasty.”

Grunt after grunt, gyrating his hips as though it was the last time before he fell off, curled up and died. His hips moved faster, more desperately, fingertips digging hard into your arm. “Beautiful… beautiful… beautiful!”

Multiple alarms sounded, the countdown must have finished.

I’m so dead.

After his breathing changed slightly, and you would have missed it too had you not been so hyperfocused. If at any time he was close to finishing all over you, now was the time. He gurgled rocks, gravelly and whimpering, yet still so angry and frustrated.

“A little more- A little more!”

The pace of his hips slowed almost to a halt, hot breath right by your eat and the odor of death. You were worthless, about to die from crushing and covered in seamen of an abnormally large man who could stamp you out of existence without a second thought.

You froze, getting the seeping sensation of his fluids all over your thighs. Huffing, panting like an over stuffed pig with some sort of disease over his genitals, totally blind.

“What the-” That crackling. “Down boy!”

The man went rigid, stiff enough to tip over to the side and hit the car with the hardest thud you’d ever heard. That cracking, the artificial light the could only be explained away by electric arcs across metal.

The police officer. The one you hallucinated about. He was back.

Hide and seek failed miserably.

“Seems like y'started the party without me.” He took a drag from his cigarette and grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking you over with him out towards the exit back into the gymnasium. “Time to go, sweetness. We’re goin’ on a lil trip.”

Chapter Text

“You were too easy to find, lil bird… or can ya not read?”

If it weren’t for the excruciating pain through your scalp, you would have just let him drag you. He stomped right back to the gymnasium, towards one of the flat double doors you never tried going through.

On a piston lock, hissing to let him through, ignoring your cries and struggles to find your footing. It opened with a black abyss like an ominous mouth gaping wide to swallow you, it creaked and remained open, just waiting.

“Ouch!” You had no purchase, no way of getting yourself up.

“Thought you’d put up more’a fight… Pissed off yer gonna see this.” He grumbled, dragging you behind him like luggage. “No fun…”

“Stop it!” You tugged on his wrist, heart quickening after the doors closed behind you into pitch black darkness. “Get off of me!”

Still, you fought him. If you couldn’t get footing, you’d hold on to his wrist and let him pull you through his pungent fog of cigarette smoke until he grew tired.

You weren’t using any energy unnecessarily despite your thumping heart, or the ‘what ifs’ on where he’d take you in the dark.

What if he kept you and never let you leave?

What if he touched you and scarred your mind beyond recognition?

What if he took your life all together?

He never said anything to you specifically, just mumbled something to himself incoherently and it was difficult to concentrate while he tugged you through what seemed like a long tunnel.

It went on forever.

“Get yer lil ass struggling, I ain’t draggin’ you all the way.”

He attempted to shake you off him, make you slip and panic yet you kept firm on his wrist. Screwing your eyes shut helped with calming your nerves, focusing on one thing though your body was shaking, wet between the thighs.

Then he stopped, yanking you to your feet and winding you in the chest with the harshest shove you had ever experienced. You were up against the wall, gasping, spluttering with his body pressed against yours.

“I wonder if yer remember ol’ Sergeant Coyle…” He hovered in the anticipation, waiting for it to click. It didn’t, but the visceral reaction was enough to tell you. “Hmm, maybe not. You’re breaking my balls, birdie…”

Coyle… it ran a bell, but the assault shook your brain up too much to even try and register a thought on his name, or his striking appearance to come out with anything coherent.

“I…” Far too difficult to speak words without coughing. “Please, leave-”

You coughed again, gasping for breath and backing your head right up against the wall as though it would allow you refuge away from the flickering anger of his baton.

“I’ve been patiently waitin’ for this moment. You pinko fuck’s think holdin’ back is easy? You ain’t ever had it hard.”

“Please… I- I couldn’t- give me a chance-“

“A chance…” Was he thinking it over? “A chance to run away from the consequences of you’re own actions?”

Maybe if he let you start this over without the interference of that big brute of a man hindering your progress, you were hopeful you could hide from him properly. 

“To play the game-“

“You can’t hide from the law.” He shoved you again, the darkness hiding his face only dimly lit by his baton. “The law always finds the misdeeds of you fuck-o’s, and when it does, you’ve gotta get creative with the room yer given.”

The tension wanted to be cut by a steak knife, rolled out onto sheets and baked until golden. The way he held you, hands tightly grasped and digging into your shoulders. Intimately close and inherently sexual.

“And whatever happens to you in the dark, is just gonna be between us, sweetness…” He breached your personal space to the point noses touched. “Because I just love the possibilities of a pitch black room.”

His comment didn’t prepare you for when he kissed you, not the sexual tone nor body language of his words. He pressed his hot lips to yours, laced with his cigarette he’d discarded on the ground. Hardly breathing, barely standing, struggling to turn your head while he took your mouth.

It was quick, desperate, messy. The act lacked any passion, no lust and it was just sloppy. You could only describe it as distasteful, or taunting no one present.

Coyle hummed to himself, never pulling away to put enough room between you. He was studying you behind his shades, already too dark to see him properly, but you knew. You knew he was probably calculating on how to hurt you in the most painful way.

You expected him to say something, anything. Maybe ‘I had my fill, now you’re going to die in this fucking tunnel where no one can hear you.’ Or perhaps, ‘I haven’t finished with you yet, wait until I’m finished and then you’ll be begging me to kill you.’

Begging wasn’t something you were expecting to do today. And Clyde was expecting you back.

Oh god… he’s waiting.

But Coyle didn’t say anything in particular. No, he let go and pulled out a cigarette from somewhere in his jacket. The leather material rustled, but not in the way a jacket normally would, like it was over-starched.

He shook the packet, maybe only a few left.

“Y’know.” He said, with that dramatic pause as he lifted the baton up at you. “I do love it when a canary sings, but you, yer a lot quieter than you were before.”

He lit the cigarette at his lips with the baton, making the paper end glow and crackle whilst he inhaled its poison.

Besides his name, you couldn’t remember anything. You’d certainly never been in a place like this, you were certain that anyone would remember ever stepping foot in such a depressive atmosphere plagued with bodies like they were going out of fashion.

The fact that there were bodies back there still hadn’t even sunk in. There were bodies, dead bodies.

Dead people.

“You killed people. You fucking killed people!”

“There’s the fightin’ spirit.” He stepped away a fraction and for a moment, you were relieved.

But he took a hold of your hand and started pulling you down the tunnel. And just for a second, you let him. 

“Lady justice needs a helping hand when every waster’s try’na suck on her teats for an easy ride.” He yanked you forward when you started to tug away. “Don’t resist me, not if you ain’t guilty.”

“I-I’m not guilty- I didn’t do anything wrong!”

His harsh grip made you stumble, stagger over a loose rock and slip down onto the floor. He didn’t stop walking, and ignored your whines each time you struggled to get up, hit your knee or the wound on your arm started to throb.

“I’m looking for Dr. Easterman- he’ll tell you, I’m only here for therapy- Please!” 

It came out more angry than petrified, your body wasn’t exactly reacting to him the way it should have been. The way this situation should have gone was, terrified you, panicking, kicking and crying. Yet, you were unusually calmer than you could have even anticipated.

“Dr. Easterman, Dr. Easterman- Fuckin’ Dr. Easterman… delayin’ my fun, givin’ me this treat in return. Like it's the real deal anyway.” He ignored you after that, going off on his own tangent under his breath as though you’d stirred something up in him that wasn’t directed at you. “Fake crap… never get anythin’ nice.”

Coyle turned a corner, and after that, you let him drag you, giving up on attempting to stand all together. “It’ll have to do… wanna taste proper electric in the air. Not just some fancy lightin’ and speakers telling me otherwise… don’t have to piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining.”

He sighed, tugging you closer and slowed when he eventually stopped at another double door. “Mhm, taste the real deal. I will one of these days. That’ll get me off. But this’ll have to do.”

You heard it before you saw it, that off sounding calliope unsettling every tingle in your body. It took time to register that you were outside, weren’t you? You saw the clouds and chill of subtle fog against your face, the loose debris on the floor and discarded trash.

“Can’t believe that towel boy got me traipsing in that provocative woman’s house… Giving her power tools, well done doctor man.”

Coyle dropped you right by the eerie and fully functional carousel. Though there’d been clear signs of use and flaking paint on every moving surface, it rolled by smoother than anything. Great care had gone into maintaining this and whoever did so, loved it very much.

Had he brought you here for some messed up day out? Haunting your memories of something that you assumed did not apply to him. Coyle didn’t strike you as he type to go on a carousel or get sentimental.

He smoked while you sat there dazed, staring up to this beacon of all that was wrong. Regardless, it was mesmerising. The horses leapt over each other on their poles, looking ahead at the one in front. A casual child mannequin sitting on one in erratic positions looked at you, their smiles eerie and wrong.

“Get on.” Coyle tapped your behind with his boot.

“Why-“

“I said get on.” He dug his fingers in behind your arm and launched you over to the base of the carousel, barely missing your head on its spinning edge.

How the fuck would you get on to this while it was moving the way it was?

But with speed presented an opportunity.

You could escape him if you climbed on and jumped off the other side before it rolled around back towards him. If he wanted to see you dance and play, then a game you would give him. It might not have been the best idea, but there was nothing else that came to mind when he was so brawny.

I have to watch out for that baton.

Standing up slowly, you watched the horses go by, gathering strength in your legs and fluid stained pants to step onto it before he grew bored and removed your chance. One horse went by, then another. You glanced back at him edging closer to you and watched two more horses go by.

One… Two… Three.

Making it only by an inch and almost slipping off, you clambered to your feet getting ready to jump off as it spun closer. A groan of utter dread made the calliope bellow as though it was fit enough with its untuned melody to walk down the aisle to.

Then came Coyle’s boots, his thick thud behind you and close enough to choke you. 

“Y’think I’d let you ride alone? Main event’s coming, honey. Don’t wanna miss out.”

He knew, he fucking knew. Coyle snatched your arm again, pressing you tight to his chest, head resting on his heartbeat. It was slow, untouched, but as soon as a flash of light and clap of thunder rumbled around the fun park, it spiked like he’d ran a marathon.

Daring yourself to look up at him, you saw the satisfied look on his face, the type like he’d just pleasured himself, content yet exhausted.

More thunder, and then rain. Not a sprinkle, not even an average spray, it was suddenly torrential and even drowned out part of the calliope’s repetitive tune. Coyle edged you forward right to the curve, the rain bouncing off the carousels roof and floor, splashing and spitting over your exposed ankles and soaking into the material of your clothes.

“I used to stand in a storm and watch the lightning strike the plains and I would think, there you go. That’s justice…. Lightning is an almighty power of god sent to point the finger at those who deserve getting touched by a force equal to justice. A reckoning…” He inhaled the wet air, holding out his hand to touch the pelting splashes. “Lightning is the way for God to touch you, and his touch is spectacular.”

Had he been possessed? Coyle’s formal way of talking was unsightly, eerily unusual. You weren’t sure what unsettled you more, the way he threw his baton around and carried himself with a confidence which could rival even the most prominent politician, or the fact he was mesmerised by a thunder storm like a child.

“My gift for holdin’ back is you. But my storm comes first.”

He stepped off the carousel like the entire thing wasn’t moving, taking you with him. Instantly soaked, horrifyingly watching him as he threw you to the ground and watched the sky like it wasn’t on fire. Arms out wide to embrace it.

The rain really came down, you couldn’t keep your eyes open without blinking every few seconds. Lightning struck again and Coyle kept looking up at it, lifting his arms higher away from you.

Though before you could even edge away from him, he caught you and dragged you up to his face without issue. He gave you no room to stand or attempt to right yourself before his lips were on yours again, hand cupping the back of your head in a heated kiss of passionless lust in the rain.

Again, it was rushed, sloppy enough to cringe at and truly frightening This time, he didn’t drop you and take you off somewhere, he came close and spoke right in your ear.

“Run, pretty girl.”

Chapter Text

How could you be so out of breath, hot, and shivering from the cold? When Coyle said run, your brain went into some weird disconnection, not really believing he was serious.

He was… Just looking at his electrified baton's teeth, how could he not be serious?

You ran, ducking and diving out between the fun park stalls and abandoned games for some sort of solace from the rain. It started hurting, stinging artificially as though it was pressured. It was unlike any rain you’d ever seen before. Angry and merciless.

Leaving only after the count of three, you kept looking back now and then to see if he was close behind or near enough to see where you ran to, but he vanished out of thin air. After you climbed into a game stall, floor rife with little ducks and straw, you scurried under the table for a breather.

The straw on the floor insulated the draft from the floorboards drowned out by the storm outside. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled right inside your chest yet it never shook out the cold, nor your exasperated breath. But it warmed you somewhat, taking the edge off while you tried to compile some sort of logic to get out of this situation.

Those double doors.

They opened when you got close enough to them, it brought you here from that parking lot, perhaps they had a way back to the sleep room.

If Coyle used them, why couldn’t you?

It was just a case of finding one again and slipping through before he noticed, before he could give the chase. He looked like the athletic type if he was in the police, though wherever he came from could take him back and leave him there. But in a position of authority, he clearly needed to face the ramifications of his actions.

No man with his… ongoing actions, should ever wear the badge and live with that honor. That be said if he was even a real police officer to begin with. And if he was, who the hell hired him?

After scrunching as much water as you could from the sodden sections of hair, you dusted yourself off with loose straw and took possibly the longest breath you ever had. Skulking out from the table quickly with a peep and look over the edge of the game stall never seemed so fear-inducing. And when you saw the light of his baton across the way, fight or flight kicked in. Run away from the light like some cockroach under his shoe, or stay and hide, maybe look for something to arm yourself with.

A brick in the corner.

It was like he’d known where you were all along. Even under the sound of the pelting drops on the tin roof deafening the tiny abandoned shack, the heavy, metallic knocking of his baton over the door was unmissable.

Knock, knock, knock.

He’d found you.

Covering your mouth, you shuffled back and closed your eyes hoping he’d stick his head through and leave, letting you escape with minimal damage. Hopefully no damage at all. The door opened and nothing else happened. You waited for what felt like a lifetime, breathing quietly though your nose on the off chance he could hear it over the rain,

Still nothing.

When you opened your eyes and dared to look, he was just standing there, leaning against the doorframe, staring at something. His baton hung in his hand, glaring right at you and if it was capable of speech, it would have told him exactly where you were.

“Lil bird, lil bird, let me in… climbin’ out of her cage and fightin’ her clipped wings.” Nothing. He didn’t make a move or leave. A flash of lighting exposed his thoughtful gaze. “Justice is inescapable, and the finger of god will find you.”

When he received no answer back, he sighed, muttering something himself and turning to leave, but before he did entirely, he said, “You only gotta let yer guard down once. And they’ll hold you down and fuck you dead. All it takes.”

It was a threat. It had to be. So random yet it wasn’t, he must have known you were in there.All of this about god and justice, it wasn’t actually that, was it? A man deluded by his badge that he used it to hurt people instead. You weren’t guilty of anything, yet he seemed so sure you were. 

A gift, Coyle said you were a gift. Who gave you up? Dr. Easterman’s name flickered up in your head. Utter betrayal if he was truly behind this, behind the hurt and pain you’d both endured and seen. The one who you wanted to rely on the most.

No. You disagreed and shook your head, clinging to the brick and climbing out of your little hidey-hole. Vigilance would get you out of here, vigilance and stealthiness were silent, defensive weapons you had on hand to the double doors across the way.

Peeping out through the crack gave you an idea of how far. You could run, make a quick break to it, or get over there at a steady crawl. The rain hadn’t eased up at all, still stinging as you stepped outside, eyes darting to each corner of your periphery. 

In a lapse of judgement, your flight response won. You took off running over to the double doors, waiting for the hiss as they opened.

They didn’t.

You waved your arms, cautious to look behind you, growing more and more panicked as time went on.

“Come on… come on!” Pounding your fists or the brick on it didn’t help either. “Open the fucking door!”

Too late. Coyle was already close by, screaming at you. “I read you like a fuckin’ book! Your ass is mine!”

If a fit of your own inescapable demise, you swung your arm with the brick and bashed him over the head with it.

“Get the fuck away from me!” Barely audible over continuous flashes and rumbles of thunder.

Coyle knelt down on the ground and cursed unspeakable things, grabbing his head though snapping out of it before you could go again. He ripped your legs from under you and send you straight on the uneven ground until he got on top of you.

“Y'think a brick'll stop the authority? Don’t worry, honey, the police are here.” His grip on your wrists were something you hadn’t seen before. Ironclad. “Now tell me somethin’ good. I just wanna hear that lil ass squeal.”

You visibly recoiled at his comical pig squeals at you, water dripping from his face and grin he’d never shown you until now. “C’mon now! Squeal before I take y’to the slaughter house!”

Totally and indescribably involuntary. “Please, let me go- LET ME GO!”

He’d cracked you, beaten your inner strength barely holding it all together.

“There ya go, birdie! Y’look prettier cryin’ than you ever did tryin’ to be a big man. This is gonna be fun!” He hit you, right in the head, on the temple to confuse you.

And when that pushed you into unconsciousness, you assumed it was all over, that you’d die and not even realise what he did to you.

Not by a long sight.

When you woke up, you were dripping, sitting in a random office. It looked like you were in some sort of police station, the mannequins adorned with the shield on their chests were a dead give away.

You couldn’t shake the pounding along the side of your head, it still fuelled you to find something to defend yourself with. He knocked you out, so he would have put you here in the first place. Coyle knew where you were. A glass bottle and some bandages, nothing else. Being so wrapped up in finding something, it took you some time to realise that besides the silent room and your erratic breaths, the only sound to enter was the same crackle which sent you into an alarmed involuntary state.

Turning quick, you threw the bottle at him, barely missing his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch.

“Yer drippin’ all over the place. Get dressed, otherwise you’ll slip, causin’ a mess in my home.”

You didn’t move, there was no point. How would you get out of this unscathed? Drenched, cold, shivering with no body heat. Where he leant against the door just like before, cocky, so sure of himself that if you even thought about trying to get past him, he’d bolt. Like a bear trap. Sharp teeth, never letting go until you struggled enough. 

But with those things, you usually needed someone else to help get you out of it.

I’m sorry Clyde.

Coyle was about to do whatever he wanted to you, and unfortunately you were going to have to let him if you wanted any chance of getting out of here.

Self preservation trumped self-defence on this occasion.

You nodded, watching the rain water pool at your feet.

Coyle skulked over to you, confident, yet cautiously. He must have assumed you were going to make a break for it, though when that window closed, he opened the door to your temporary obedience.

When he was close enough, your shirt tore first, each tear, tugging on your shoulders to pulpit open and toppling your balance. You remained as still as you could get. Could you use your rig against him? He hadn't touched it.

"Don't even think about it." He said, deep and gravelly.

Just then, a solitary tear slipped down your cheek. You had fucked yourself.

“Strip off.” He was behind you now, standing there, reeking of cigarette smoke.

You couldn’t move no matter how much you wanted to and when you didn’t, he grunted, setting down his baton on the desk. He tugged at your clothes, ignored your helpless breaths and silent pleas, ripping the fabric further with his bare hands to expose the goosebump ridden skin along your spine.

It all came off so quickly, emotionless, predatory. As soon as your top half of clothes came off, you rushed to cover your chest and prayed he’d stop there.

Of course he didn’t.

He yanked down your pants and peeled off your underwear, all soaked to the bone. Now, you were freezing and exposed to damp, wet hair and trickling rain drops making you body shudder.

But what made your body react in a worse state than just that fact he’d torn your clothes off, was what he whispered to you in your ear, creepily seductive. “I’m cold too, how ‘bout you warm me up, hm?”

You were in no position to refuse him, completely naked. Even if you were able to make it back to the sleep room, how would you even explain falling out of the pod with no clothes on with the only thing covering part of your body was the bandage on your arm?

Coyle pressed his gloved hand against your back and walked you over to the desk, silently, without resistance. It was plain to see what was coming. Before he could touch you further, you bent over and laid your upper half over the desk the best you could with your rig digging into you.

He chuckled most condescendingly. “Though y’didn’t want this? Is your lil ass ready to admit it?”

No point. He would do it anyway, just forcibly and plenty more pain. No point in resisting anything.

Get this over with quickly. Preserve myself. My life.

You almost recoiled by the cold he placed on your back, the ashtray from the desk. He was smoking, the hiss of the embers were deafening enough to focus on. A human ashtray while he fucked you?

Fuck.

“Now, this is gonna get weird. But I just love somethin’ fuckable.” He leant over you and pointed to one of the mannequins in the corner you hadn’t noticed before. 

The back end of it glowed with embers, like it had been sodomised with his baton. It was then you recoiled, trying to pull away from the desk out of pure survival.

“Don’t go losing yer head, sweetness. You’ll get somethin’ much more useful inside you. Only thing is, can you handle it?”

The best option was to remain silent.

Coyle grunted and gave the most disappointed sigh he could have probably mustered. “Try not to keep quiet, I wanna hear just how good you feel around me. Because the big man was right. Despite bein’ a man who thinks he controls me.”

About what?

“All worth it in the end. I’ve been waiting to see what that fine ass feels like.”

Chapter Text

There was something about textures you never understood.

The wooden fibres under the poorly varnished desk were coming up from a minute spilt, fluffing up under your nail. It should have cringed your entire body, but preferred it over having a man’s hands over your bare flesh. Repetitive scratching, itching, wincing at each indentation of his fingertips past your hips and the top of your behind. It was gentle, caressing almost, yet it was simultaneously robotic.

“You gone quiet again?”

Saying something wouldn’t have made a difference, would it?

“Mm, I liked that squealin’ you did.”

Though the air was suffocating, he doubled it and kicked apart your feet with his heavy boots. You shuddered, fought to stay silent and let it happen quickly. Exposed and cold, sweating against the table with each syllable.

Coyle held your head down under his solid grasp until your cheek squashed on the table, your rig dug into your chest and pinched. “Do it again.”

At first you yelped, realising the searing sting wasn’t his fingers pinching or scratching your vulnerable body, it was the end of his cigarette etching a mark into your skin so that it stuck. A reminder, like the guttural scream the four walls would remember for eternity, forever burned into the peeling wallpaper and no voice to speak up.

The first shock rolled through your body as though he’d used the baton on you, or a taser of some kind. You seized up, fingers stiff and cramping until it forced you to scream out more, bringing out more current through your system, burning you from the inside out.

“That’s it, birdie. Sing like a canary… You just know how to get me riled up, huh?”

How you managed to cover your mouth to keep yourself quiet you didn’t know, an utter mystery. But as you did so, and with a sigh of relief, he took the hot embers away. You counted each heavy breath in the hope to keep yourself from crying in an attempt to take his interests away. Coyle pressed his hips against you, roughly so that your thighs dug into the desk and pushed the entire thing forward with a dragging screech. The tactic in getting yourself to stop crying did not work.

“The way you scream, makes me think you wanna be punished. No good girl screams like that and expects a man not to be aroused.”

One life, you only had one life to live and putting the gaps in your memory, eventually, you wanted to get out of here.

I want to settle down.

The skin he burned still cooked, dry and swollen already, heart soon to palpitate. You came to the conclusion that it wasn’t the only time and tried to prepare for it. But preparing for burns knowing they hurt was something the brain could not short circuit and trick itself out of it.

I want my life back.

Dr. Easterman did not come to your aid, how could you trust him now? The entire idea pulled the tether tighter. Abandoned, left out for the cold and utterly helpless.

Self preservation trumped self defense.

But you had short circuited, remember? “I can’t do this- I can’t-”

Coyle kept your head pressed to the desk as another surge of electricity shot through your entire body until gritting your teeth stopped it. 

Being silent. Tempt the police officer with your silence.

I have to be quiet or I might just have a heart attack.

The ashtray nestled on the flat of your lower back shifted, Coyle kept you right where you were. “Can’t do what? Show a man a good time? Yeah, I sure think you do want to get punished. How ‘bout I pull on that hair and really get you squealin’? Seeing your body jerk about like that is getting me goin’.”

All logic left every brain cell entirely, leaving the irreparable damage internal and unseen. “I don’t wanna die- I have so much to live for-”

He grabbed your hair and yanked it back with a jerk, the electric jolting your body again, he twisted his fist and earned another groan in pain. Coyle leaned over you, cigarette smoke lingering close by, his breath hot on your cheek. “Y’think you’ve lived any life? You lookin’ forward to it?”

Not with the fucking pain passing through your heart, the singe emanating within you managed to quieten you down. It left a metallic taste on your tongue, sucking a handful of coins.

“Life is watching a man’s energy drain from his eyes under the touch of God. You have not lived ‘til you seen a body dance on the end of a set of jumper cables…” His chuckle, that sick fucking amusement took your breath away. “Do you wanna find out? See someone jerking about while I touch you?”

You shook your head, like fuck would you speak again.

“Words.” He tugged your hair until his fist was shaking.

“N-No… Thank you. Fuck!” If it didn’t kill you, this zapping would definitely cause some sort of brain damage.

He sighed, clearly disappointed at your response, but his words said otherwise. “At least ya got manners, thankin’ me like a good girl… But I want you broken. Not good.”

His actions forced another scream out of you, shoving the end of his cigarette into your rib cage with an aggression he moaned at. Could he feel the electric through your body too? Probably. He sexualised it, pressing himself into you with more vigour as you electrocuted yourself into silence. It was clear he was hard, sexually excited at your pain that he’d pleasure himself with.

So much agony, you didn’t hear the sound of his zipper, his anticipation over the afterburn. Not until his belt buckle hit the linoleum floor and the cigarette pulled away. Pinching your ass stung differently, overspilling between his fingers and reminding you just how far you’d fallen.

“Sometimes God’s touch needs assistance to those trying to evade him, evoking his wrath for justice. The law. His fingers come in different forms...” His baton reacted to him, crackling away wherever it was on the desk. “Electricity is simply an extension of his own hand.”

The ashtray still remained, the thick hum of cigarette smoke stayed as though it was solid, either between his lips on in the chilled glass tray. What would leave was your dignity.

If you kept quiet and took it like you were certain he didn’t want you to, or went out screaming, either way, your dignity meant to pack itself up and leave though the nearest locked door you couldn't retrieve it from.

“I feel you quivering like a leaf, birdie. You’re broken, aren’t you? You better be.”

You felt it, his thumb firm against your anus. It was far too late after that. “No- No- don’t-”

The surge seized your entire body, making your toes curl and fingers start to cramp and ache right through to the bone. It was much quicker this time, prioritising calm over yourself before anymore damage could be done, but it was really starting to take its toll.

“And what happens if I press this button, hm? Will it squeeze that sweet music outta yer lips?” He still had your head pinned, audibly spitting in his hand while you had jolted about on the table.

He overpowered you so easily, doubted he would even need two hands for what he was about to do, because he showed no signs of letting your head go. His thumb pressed against you, circling your asshole slowly, but sloppily.

Coyle didn’t care if he hurt you, if it was agony. It’s what he wanted. He didn’t need to verbalise it to make it true.

“Strugglin’ just sets the mood, so keep doing what yer doing.”

The tip of his thumb pushed its way inside you, not deep, like he was intending on at least stretching you out before his intentions carried more weight than they already did. A wiggle, a twist, half his body weight holding you down and the disgust washed over you like a veil of direct and concentrated sadism.

Covering your mouth before silent tears came out was the only thing you could do. It did not alleviate anything. It took much convincing to every cell in your body not to fight him and just remain dead still on the table.

He pushed his thumb in all the way, spitting over you again as if it would do anything for the burning. Gritting your teeth and curling your toes did not take your mind off somewhere else, and you laid there, listening to him play with you, sucking on his cigarette and to fill the empty space and pass the time.

Then, he replaced his thumb with more drool and two fingers. His chuckle came out like dripping poison oozing from a wound, tugging on your hair and aggressively- albeit agonisingly slowly- fingering you to earn a petrified response in return.

Every so often, he’d drop hot ash on your back, letting it sting and burn whenever he decided to pull his fingers out from inside you to take a few puffs off the stick still lit. How could you prepare yourself not to make a noise when you couldn’t see him? It stunk up the immediate area, strongest smokes you had ever smelt, like a mixture of super charged tar and ash found in the bottom of neglected fireplaces, scooped up and rolled in together.

“You’re takin’ this too well, too quiet.” He pulled out spitting on his hand, doing nothing to make it even the slightest bit tolerable. “Can y’count to three? Or are you one of them illiterate folk?”

What?

“One.” The first finger slid in with a deep breath.

“Two.” The second followed suit.

“Three.” A third finger, pushed in more forcefully.

“Fu-“ The electricity surged through your body, teeth gritted, heart palpitating.

Coyle leant in again, hand tight in your hair, whispering beside your ear. “Four? You can count to four? You want four fingers?... I have somethin’ better than that.”

You tried shaking your head, desperately telling him no, but he pushed your head down again, pumping his fingers inside you for a few counts and pulled out. His clothing rustled, fabric adjusting itself. Then, the tip of his cock pushed against your asshole, copious globs of spit dropping and dribbling down with a splat. He rubbed his cock all over it, teasing your hole like you were supposed to enjoy it.

Such a cruel bastard.

Once he managed to insert the tip of his cock, he just kept going, admittedly slower than you assumed, but moved all the same. You couldn’t help the noise you made when every inch of your body told him to stop, screamed at you to stop it.

It was the last time the electric shock ripped through, you swore to yourself as you laid there on the desk jerking about, that it was the last time it would catch you out. It wasn’t for crowd control, or to stop you from struggling when Coyle so desperately wanted it. The tasing was for power, for greed, for minimising his assault.

How you could ever walk around without thinking of this punishment, without associating this with any sex in the future?

And Dr. Easterman was letting it happen.

How did you know this after never meeting the man?

You were never alone, you never had been. There was no physical proof right in front of you, it was all in your instincts. You were being watched, from where, you couldn’t think to even tell. Yet the signs were all around you.

This place must have been your therapy.

Laying there while the sadistic bastard fucked you, grunting and gripping you whereever he could, you knew this was your therapy. Leaving the sleep room on a shuttle to this hellhole, Dr. Easterman never coming to see you and just leaving radio messages that seemed tailored to your mindset.

How did he know? Because he must have been watching this.

The only logical explanation in a whole bucket of shit. Far too many variables to consider when the only suggestion was immense physical therapy, thrusting more trauma on your shoulders so whatever trauma you had originally seemed less than necessary to talk about.

Who knew therapy like that existed? More like torture.

It didn’t negate the fact that you were being sexually abused for a man to study you for some twisted experiment. But what could you realistically do? Let Coyle get on with it and hang on the hope you’d make it out of here and not end up on the news, small talk of the local town or just disappear out of existence so that everyone forgot about you.

Being forgotten… that was difficult to process.

Would Clyde remember you? Noakes, Nurse Barlow?

Why didn’t I make any positive relationships in the sleep room? Where’s my family and friends? I must have some back home, wherever that is. They have to be looking for me.

If people sang about this in the future, would they remember you, or just the act? You had a life, and people had to know about it.

And soon, your desperation and heartache morphed into something of determination, stubbornness.

It wouldn’t end here, not even with a police officer assaulting you the way he was, fucking you like a disgruntled lover initially, rough, slow enough to scrape the desk along the floor. Not even when he picked up the pace, adding the wincing burn in your ass, cursing and chuckling at how beautiful you were.

How pathetically beautiful you were.

It was positively the kindest thing he’d ever said to you, ghosted behind a spit of pity and self indulgence. He enjoyed you because you were helpless.

Disgusting.

But who was the real enemy here? The man hurting you, or the man stepping aside to let it happen?

Both respectively. Though without Dr. Easterman’s efforts to gain your trust in a man hidden behind a screen, he was entirely responsible.

“You still livin’? I ain’t fucked you to death, have I?”

You remained silent, even after he slapped your ass cheek so aggressively it stung like it could bleed.

He slapped the same cheek, hips flush with your ass, eyes watering and mixing with the dried up tears. You refused to give him any purchase.

“Just like the others then.”

The singed mannequin. You eyed it closely, the back end eroded with a hatred Coyle so clearly displayed. The others. How many more were there dotted around the place to display his affections?

Coyle continued to fuck you, balls painfully  deep in your ass without mercy. “Now hold still, I’ve been holdin’ this for a long time, just for you, honey.”

He spoke through gritted teeth, gripping your ass like an eternal lifeline. It stung and caught the skin under his nails along with a confession how he would finish. No doubt inside you.

But he didn’t, he pulled out of you with urgency, standing over you and keeping you pinned whilst he came all over our ass and back. It stung, hot splats you wanted to react to, to have an allergic reaction of some kind.

You didn’t. You laid there burning, just like you told your body to and did not give him the satisfaction of your tears. The stubbornness you collected had festered into something real, physically there in front of you. No chance you would let it go now.

“That was worth the damn wait.” Coyle cleared his throat and slapped your ass cheek again, though this time not as rough.

You waited to move before he would inevitably force you down on the desk again. However, he didn’t. The sound of his boots walking away after he’d adjusted himself gave you hope, even his baton crackled away like it was bidding you farewell.

“Watch yourself, lil bird.” Stopping beside the desk, lighting the end of his fresh cigarette on the electric arcs of the baton. “Don’t forget about me, ‘cus I definitely won’t forget about you.”

Then he left, trudging away with a pride of taking you over the desk, leaving you in mostly one piece until the room was silent.

You were silent.

Used.

Taken advantage of.

Getting off the desk in eerie quiet, you collected your things and dressed yourself, the ashtray crashed to the floor and listened out for anything to amount to Coyle’s return. You knew if he did come back, you wouldn’t leave so physically unscathed of what could have been.

And in leaving that room quickly back to the shuttle you were acutely aware of one thing that came from this experience. No matter how long it took, or how much you’d lose, you were adamant that no one would ever touch you like that again.

Chapter Text

Whirring wheels.

Screeching.

Pressurised brakes and metallic limbs.

Mocking you.

Baiting you.

What did they have in common? They all played no part in your assault.

Coyle was a bastard, a sadist, a con. Because he wasn’t the only bad guy, was he?

Dr. Easterman. He let it happen. He allowed your degradation, your abuse, he was watching all of it. You couldn’t prove it, but all the psychological evidence was there.

It was how doctors studied rats in a maze, never meeting them, stroking them with kindness and comfort before dropping them into an electrocution pen. They were sterile environments, calculating for an outcome and nothing else.

You were still to meet Easterman, to even have him acknowledge you. You were that rat in the twisted maze with nothing to win at the end of it but a mouldy piece of pungent cheese. 

No one would touch you like that again, it ingrained in your mind like the squeal of the brakes did. You’d be forced to defend yourself and in honesty you weren’t sure what you were capable of. If you had the chance, thinking on it after the fact as people did, you would have loved to have pushed one of those glass bottles into Coyle’s jugular. Would his cigarette smoke still come out of his nostrils, or the giant gash you could make in his neck?

These were important questions, murder wasn’t an everyday thought yet you still suddenly obsessed over it as though the ideas had always been there. It was true you were broken. Broken could still be fixed, just not all the same after the glue had run out. But fixed all the same.

You refused to be broken, to allow Easterman his calculations and studies.

There were still so many memory blocks, strips of time disappeared and as you went over things over and over, parts started to fall into place. The fingerprint bruises, cuts and grazes, the unexplained muscle ache when you had been claimed to be sleeping most of your time here.

That you did this to yourself.

It was total bullshit, wasn’t it?

You wanted to speak out on it, talk to someone on your way back to the sleep room, but the shock in your chest, how could you get that to stop?

Studying the rig, you noticed something you hadn’t before. A miniature square, no bigger than a five cent stamp. Without a second thought, you hastily yanked it off, it singed at the edges and forced a metallic taste in the air.

MURKOFF CORP

A stamp sized piece of equipment from the company in the sleep room, they made this. You wondered how many other people had endured this, the electric surge right into their bones.

Though cautious, you hummed, then coughed to see if you would have any effect now that it had gone. You know, incase you’d just damaged your rig for no reason and the culprit was buried somewhere deeper.

Nothing.

“Thank fuck…” 

You slumped in the chair with relief, keeping your arms out of the restraints this time for your own piece of mind. Your clothes were ruined, so you left them at the station and braved the body you were born with. Despite the sticky mess of semen over the chair and dried blood flaking over your feet, wearing the marks this place gave you had symbolism. A suit or armour to tell anyone who came near you to get lost, or this pen was going through their body.

That’s right, you noticed a fountain pen at the police station when you left and tucked it behind your rig.

They could exactly strip search a naked person if they came looking.

Rubbing your fingertip along its sharp edge, you wondered what that would look like deep inside Coyle’s neck. Though, utterly undecided if seeing spewing blood or spraying full force out of his neck as he gurgled was more satisfying than the other. It had to take a lot of force to do it, but if he could penetrate you, surely you could too.

Though you didn’t have a cock to swing about the place, a sharp pen in his throat would have to do.

It actually made you smile a little, halfheartedly, but still a smile.

When the shuttle stopped, you pulled yourself away from the leather chair with a wince and cringed against the tugging and sticking under your exposed skin. The metal strips dug into the soles of your feet as though stood on a giant grater, sharp and misfortunate right out of the pod and by nurse Barlow’s desk.

“You’re- oh dear.”

She clocked on to your nakedness, waving over a guard who was preemptively loitering around a corner. The guard seemed familiar though unbothered to see you, his approach shot your heart rate up, baton in his hand just like Coyle’s, though un-electrified and less intimidating.

“Don’t you touch me.”

“You should get cleaned up, brush your teeth and rest. You’re indecent.”

Nurse Barlow set down her book and stood up to lean over the counter. “He’s just trying to help, Lamb-”

“Shut the fuck up.” You even pointed at her with a shaky finger until she sat down.

The guard continued edging over, if looks could kill, he would have been strung up in the rafters like the bodies in that gymnasium. It was the only end you could think of. But he still kept coming.

Adrenaline was overflowing, pushing you to grip the pen and warn him one last time. “I said don’t fucking come near me, or these footsteps will be your last.”

You were ready to kill him. He was going to touch you like Coyle did. He was going to hurt you and you were about to kill him. There was something overwriting your brain and critical thinking.

He was going to touch you.

He was going to assault you.

He was going to die for it.

And the worst part, he laughed at you, poorly tried to stifle it and failed.

“Let’s go-” He made the mistake of grabbing your arm, just like he did.

“I said don’t fucking touch me!” 

You swung the pen and landed it into his shoulder with a sickening non-human screech, pushing him over with what strength you had left fuelled purely by adrenaline you now relied on by instinct. He yelled out in agony, after you drew the fountain pen from his body, it pushed back into his flesh, this time right into his neck.

It was Coyle you were seeing, not some guard that probably had orders from above to deal with you, yet it flew out your ear never to be heard again. Blood gushed everywhere yet never sprayed like you envisions, a gurgle and dark crimson pooling between his fingers grasping his neck with immense surprise.

“You fucker! You’ll never touch me again!”

“Get her off him- Get a fucking medic!” 

You ignored the scuffled footsteps and managed to get one more ruthless stab into his jugular before you were ripped off of him. Two, maybe three people emerged through the red mist fog, rage induced self-autonomy and curse words as they yanked at your arms trying to get you to stop struggling.

But you kept struggling, with one name in mind. "EASTERMAN!"

It became feral, guttural, distinctive that he'd know how much shit he was in if you ever got your hands on him. Easterman was watching this, he had to have been. The other's might not have realised they were being watched but you did.

“Where’s Perry- get Perry!”

“Easterman- Don’t touch me you bastards!” You didn’t stop, in fact, the restriction forced you to move and over exert yourself to the point that even those who tried to restrict you couldn’t keep you in one place. “I know what you want from me and you won’t get it!”

“She’s so fucking strong- someone sedate her!”

“Let go of me- they want to use me! They’re going to touch me inappropriately- they’ll hurt me! Somebody fucking help!”

Anyone who wasn’t a guard looked away, interested in whatever mundane activity they had their mind on. Some grasped their ears to block out the sound and just kept their distance because they knew there wasn’t anything they could realistically do about it.

Cowards.

The passiveness pushed you further into a pit of pure rage.

Three fully grown men, touching you. They couldn’t hold you. 

“Where the fuck is Perry?!”

“She’s fucking crazy!”

You ignored the comments, the observations. Simply put, you couldn’t hear it any longer. Pure red survival. Self preservation didn’t trump defence this time. The other guards hovered around the man on the floor who was no longer moving or kicking his legs. Blood pooled at their knees from what you could see, but it could have been your unwavering fury.

“Quick, stab her with the needle and get her down on the floor!”

Nurse Barlow came out of nowhere, injecting the needle in your tensed arm while you’d been distracted by the guard on the floor for only a second. You eased off as the chilly, numbing crawled up your arm, gave her a look of incomprehensible betrayal of someone who was supposedly there to help you.

Suddenly, your body felt heavy and your legs were giving out from underneath you. “You…bitch.”

“It’s for your own good, dear. We’ll get you fixed up.”

It all happened so quickly, the darkness, the heaviness despite many hands hesitantly lowering your naked body down onto the sterile and rubbing alcohol covered linoleum floor. Perhaps it was the sedative in your veins that chilled your whole body through and made it shiver as you woke up, maybe the cool taste of spearmint on your breath did it.

The room spun once you opened your eyes a little, it presented as a hangover. A pretty bad hangover for something unexplained, was it another bad dream?

“My head…” You didn’t dare move, not for anything.

“You’re awake.” You recognised that voice.

“Clyde? What happened- why do I feel like this? Am I unwell again?” The scraping of the desk chair set your brain on fire.

“You don’t remember?”

Nothing came to mind, only that your head had been filled with razorblades and shaking within an inch of its like. Your body throbbed as though you’d climbed The Nose on El Capitan and fell from its height, left at the bottom for the animals. There was a desert in your mouth, totally sticky and cracked around the lips.

“No… I can’t- I’m not sure, I just don’t feel well.”

Finally, you managed to see Clyde clearly beside you after the blur went away. His bruises were healing over nicely, contrasting with his one blue eye you were always fond of, fixated on.  His hat sat on the desk behind him, hair all fluffy in a mess that suited him. 

Handsome.

“There was an incident, some guy went nuts and attacked a guard. You were stuck in the middle of it and ended up with a head injury.”

Well, you didn’t expect that, but what begged the question was how you ended up near anything so violent. You remembered none of it.

“How did it happen? Is the guard okay?”

Clyde held out his hands to stop you from getting up. “Woah there, you hit your head pretty hard, I wouldn’t move for a while. The guard is fine… and Nurse Barlow gave me some things to watch out for should you get worse. But it’ll be alright.”

“Right.” You relaxed a little, then the guilt hit you. “I’m sorry for being... I don’t really know why I keep doing this to myself. God, I’m such a mess.”

“You aren’t a mess, you’re-”

“A work in progress, I know.” Just the saying made you chuckle, but it was probably because the saying came from someone who gave you butterflies just by sitting there.

I'm being so goofy.

His smile too, so subtle yet undeniably irresistible. Even right now, Clyde sat next to you, watching and waiting instead of doing his own thing. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up, it showed off the accentuation of his slender arms that were more burly than you realised now they were uncovered from his jacket. Clyde was even wearing braces this time, deep burgundy from what you could make out, just like your flushed cheeks.

So handsome.

That smile.

“Exactly, a work in progress. It'll all work out.” He said, leaning into his chair with folded arms. “Now try and get some sleep, it’s been a long day.”

It had been, despite not remembering, your body did keep notes. You nodded and closed your eyes, lulling yourself off into deeper rest to attempt to ease the pain. It was quick and easy, soft.

And Clyde stayed by you the entire time.

Chapter Text

STAY OF LEAVE

Easterman Letters 

1960.04.10 

MURKOFF CORP 

INTER-ORGANIZATIONAL LETTERS ONLY 

COPY  

INTER-OFFICE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN DR H.J. EASTERMAN AND THE BOARD 

Date April 10, 1960

[heading removed]

I am writing to the board to request a forty-eight hour extension on Project Swallow. Due to the postponement of Coyle’s trial, [REAGENT REDACTED] underwent R&R to recoup from wound infection. While she is still not fully recovered, she exhibited behaviour ready to undergo the trial and succeeded.

That being said, the incident with a Murkoff staff member required intervention. The next forty-eight hours are crucial to fulfill my pledge to follow Project Swallow through. If the board permits it, I’ll have the last trial scheduled for tomorrow.

I await the board’s decision.

[handwritten signature]

Dr. H.J. Easterman 

—---------------------------------------------------

Murkoff Accounts

1960.04.10

MURKOFF CORP INTER-ORGANIZATIONAL LETTERS ONLY

COPY

Date: April 10, 1960

[heading removed]

The board has declined this request and still requires the presentation concerning Project Swallow. TODAY. Extensions can be appealed and discussed in person. C. Perry will be required to attend. Any further use of the Thalidomide compound substance must be written off by Dr. R. Wernicke.

The presentation is confirmed at the scheduled time of 1600hrs.

—---------------------------------------------------

Hendrick’s hands shook while his eyes scanned the letter. Avellanos was behind this, she had to be. It wouldn't surprise him if Scarfiotti had a hand in delaying this too. The two Italians, at it again.

Convincing the whole board was difficult at the best of times, a pit full of snakes at the worst. It wasn’t just the few board members who kept their noses out of Hendrick’s business that he’d have to convince, it was those who liked to play him around.

Avellanos, Scarfiotti and Wernicke.

Maybe I can use Lawler’s existence as leverage against Alice?

Wernicke was easier to get on side, especially as his Thalidomide was under scrutiny if this didn’t work.

Scarfiotti though, god knows why he really needed to be present for this specific presentation. He was the dark horse that could fuck things up. And if one of them turned the tables, then they all would.

The other two board members, higher than all of them combined, were easily swayed by Avellanos’ tactics. In honesty, Alice ran the majority of the board single handedly, it’s what made her dangerous, one to watch out for because she had her own agenda. Just like Hendrick did.

But what angered Hendrick so much, was having to explain your little hiccup and minimalise it. It wasn’t inherently a bad thing, but it proved that one wrong move in your delicate mindset would spell disaster, even for him.

Hendrick looked at the clock on the wall and ground his teeth, twenty minutes before the presentation was due. He’d finished up his notes up to date, and shuffled them into a manilla envelope, absentmindedly flickering his attention to the open packet of cigarettes. He could smoke them all out of necessity, barely tolerating the board with his own Project, his perfect Swallow under scrutiny from those who didn’t know you.

And then there was Clyde Perry.

Why the board insisted on having him attend was beyond Hendrick's comprehension. Of course he was supporting the project, but it wasn’t nearly as necessary as the letter implied. That, and Perry could sway the way of the room based on his overly pointed opinions. He didn’t know science, he just knew how to do as he was told, despite his… rendezvous with Avellanos behind Hendrick’s back.

What did Perry know about you that could either add or take from the discussion? 

Nothing, that’s what.

Just thinking about it brought on an anger that temporarily consumed him, and as soon as he heard Perry’s knock at the door, his fists shook along with his lysergic induced tremor.

“You wanted to see me before the presentation.”

Hendrick would usually have corrected him for waking in without waiting, but his response altogether tipped the scales.

“Is that a question, or a statement?”

Perry didn’t signify him with an answer.

Bastard.

“I have a question for you. Where the fuck were you? You should have been there when she completed that trial and you were nowhere to be seen.”

Perry leant against the closed door, arms folded. “I was there at the time you specified, to the letter. If she arrived early, it’s not my doing. I did what you asked.”

Hendricks slammed his fist on his desk, though more of a warning shot, Perry didn’t flinch. “She killed someone, it is your doing! What were you off doing exactly? I have to explain this incident to the board. You are her caretaker. If they shut this down, I will hold you personally responsible-“

“Watch it.” His voice lowered, that was a warning that Hendrick did not pay attention to. “I have done everything you asked, if not more.”

“Like showering with this woman, or maybe sharing her bed. Looks like more to me. You had simple instructions, and Avellanos doesn’t factor into this.”

“Avellanos has nothin’ to do with this incident. I have other projects, Mr. Easterman. I am still expected to deliver reports on their passive progress.” He was suddenly informal, pulling out his cigarette case to smoke, and by mirror image, Hendrick did too.

Perry flicked his lighter and continued in a puff of smoke. “Anything that happened today, happened because of that drug you’re givin’ her. If I’d been there, she probably would have tried to kick my ass too- maybe Coyle was too much for her- who knows? But I don’t ask questions because it’s nothing to do with me. I cradle the balls while Murkoff shakes.”

Bullshit- utter bullshit. The Thalidomide had nothing to do with this. You needed careful timing and an incident like this could hinder your progress.

“You do more than cradle Murkoffs balls, Mr. Perry. You fetch when told, you come back when recalled and secure one girl getting physical…” Hendrick sat in thought for a moment. “I thought you were ex-forces, you can’t take one girl having an episode?”

Now that’ll put him on the back burner.

“You want to know where I was? Takin’ a shit.”

Hendrick pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking it instinctively to hone his disappointment. “Don’t mess up again, or it could be you on that floor bleeding out. She’s delicate, and needs careful prescribing of her therapy or the whole thing could go straight down to the sewers.”

“I get it.”

“Do you?” Hendrick stood at his desk in some sort of power move. “Because when we enter that board room, you need to know exactly what your role in this is.”

“I sleep with her, prove your theory and then turn on her. That specific enough?”

It ran so much deeper than that, but Hendrick couldn't bring himself to correct him any further.

“Heel when I tell you, let me do the talking. If we have any hope of letting this carry on, that’s the way to do it.” He gathered his things, the papers, folders, envelopes and stubbed out his cigarette. “It’s obvious that I am the only one with the drive to see this through anyway.”

He didn’t bother to wait around for a response and left the dim confines of his office. Hendrick rarely came out of it unless it was time to leave for the Murkoff accommodation he hardly slept in, and of late, he hadn’t visited since you entered the sleep room.

His back hadn’t thanked him in almost three months. Even the seats in the boardroom were just as uncomfy as his office chair was growing to be and in setting up his station at the end of the table, cursing to himself, Hendrick felt it better standing up to put across his authority.

“You’re here early.” Avellanos traipsed in with Scarfiotti in tow.

He trudged behind her, unbothered at the collection of papers strewn along the desk in a strategic pattern. Scarfiotti sat himself down at the nearest chair and pulled out his cigarettes, handing Avellanos one in the process.

“I had to prepare my space, It’s important I get the extension.”

Scarfiotti blew smoke from his nostrils, scratching his eye to add emphasis. “She attacked someone, I’d say she was a bust right out the door.”

Hendrick wanted to punch the table until it broke, but he smoked instead. “It’s showing the therapy is working, Moses. Did someone tip the first ever lemonade down the drain after tasting it and thinking ‘oh, this is bitter, better not drink it’ - no, they added sugar until it was sweet enough. Just give her a moment, her last trial was testing, painful. But it was necessary. It's pushed her in the right direction as I anticipated.”

He had watched the entire thing, taking note of Coyle’s predisposition towards the fairer sex. It hurt you, just as it should. Hendrick was certain now that it had broken you the way a horse gave up and accepted the saddle, you only needed a person to ride it.

Clyde Perry.

Speaking of, Perry hobbled into the boardroom with his cane alongside his leg and eyeing Avellanos first before anyone else. Hendrick gave him no second look and continued sorting his papers.

“Well, lemonade or none, you'll have the entire floor.” Avellanos picked up the Ericovox from the table and pressed the dial key.

“How so?”

“Wernicke is calling in from Mount massive. He's extending his stay there last minute. It’ll actually give us an excuse to use the speaker phone Murkoff paid for, hm?”

While Wernicke wasn’t a primary worry of Hendrick’s, an extra ear was an extra vote for the continuation of Project Swallow.

“As he wishes, I imagine this will be a fairly short presentation.” His ego got the better of him.

“I don’t know about that.” 

Scarfiotti slouched, narrowly missing Hendrick’s scowl as the other board members traipsed in with a whiskey in hand.

Brothers, not by blood. Money was acceptable currency in forming tight bonds through greed.

“Hendrick.” One said, going just by his first name, Donald. He squeezed himself into his chair, wheezing on his cigar awaiting the end of a lit match. “I hope this will be quick?”

Yes, no doubt they were shooting off to an expensive dinner after this, or maybe a reinforced seat at the gentleman’s club.

“Come now, brother. This is innovative stuff, let the man speak.” The smaller of the two always seemed more open to Hendrick’s ideas. His first name was Richard.

But in the end, they always bent to Avellanos’ smooth and carefully chosen words.

Perry looked so out of place on the board, like he was too small or wore a suit hand-me-down that was far too big for him. He sat in silence, looking down at his lap, probably swinging his legs underneath the table.

“Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

Avellanos pressed a button on the loudspeaker and sat back in her chair, patiently lacing her fingers together. “Yes, Dr. Wernicke, we can all hear you.”

“Ah, good…” Rustling came over the speaker. “Now, where were we?”

Hendrick gripped the edge of the barely used, walnut desk, and handed out pictures of you in and out of the trials for the entire table to witness your drastic change from Murkoff staff, to right now in the sleep room sedated.

“Project Swallow's progress has not been hindered despite the little incident this morning-“

“I’d hardly call it little, Hendrick. She killed a man with a pen she smuggled back from her trial. To which I'm investigating right now now she managed it, it shouldn't have been possible.”

Scarfiotti knew when to wade in when his opinion wasn’t asked for. Hendrick saw this coming, it was a mere indiscretion on your behalf and he’d rectify it as best he could.

“How she brought it in can be discussed in the next meeting pending your investigation. This incident was merely a positive reaction to her therapy, she’s already displaying what she can do when she’s faced with a situation out in the world.” Hendrick held up a sheet of paper with hand written scribblings. “Every trial she’s been faced with, she has handled exactly as I predicted. Because she is exactly that, predictable. Malleable.”

“Did you predict that she’d kill another man before she even got out into the real world?”

Hendrick eyed the first brother closely. Donald wasn’t interested in Hendrick in the slightest, only the pictures of you sliding around the table. Scarfiotti shrugged at your head shot, staring at the camera for a ‘routine test'.

Avellanos shrugged halfheartedly and passed them all along to Perry. Perry on the other hand, he studied them closely, taking a moment for each photograph before passing more along the table to the two brothers. 

Hendrick shuffled through his organised chaos and pulled up a sheet from your file. A projection of money saved and political monopolies Murkoff stood to gain.

“Allowing her to continue the path she’s going down, Murkoff can gain access to more political positions than ever before… Sex sells, men in high places acquire… unorthodox tastes to which she will garner a visceral reaction from.” He handed the sheet to Scarfiotti and like before, he handed it to Avellanos where she was more inclined to read at the mention of the expense report scribbled on the bottom. She even reached across the table to get a look at the full breakdown, potentially needing no further encouragement.

Who was Hendrick kidding? This was Avellanos he was talking about, of course she’d need more convincing. 

More convincing to the entire room. Hendrick continued. “What politician- what man remains entirely conventional when in a place of power? None. Some go to whore houses while their political wives care for the children at home, some take… younger tastes when their life partner hits her late thirties, and some men use that power to force a sexual narrative. All are unconventional and all can be used to trigger our weapon.”

Richard cleared his throat, Hendrick didn’t bother to take notice, he kept his head down and rummaged through from something else concrete he’d come up with.

“That’s all very good, but what’s to stop her going all psycho on a nice guy? Not all men are like that- we’re certainly not like that. How do you stop her hurting a man who just wants his fill and to leave in peace? I mean… boys will be boys, am I right?” He laughed, cackled even when Donald joined in and started hacking up the sticky tar from his cigar.

“Yes, Dick is right! Some men just want to have a good time and leave- most women are such simple creatures, how will she know the difference?”

He was careful to use the word ‘some’ while Avellanos was in the room, yet it wasn’t enough to keep her silence.

“Well, some women know their role is silently putting men in their place and making them think it was their idea. Believe me, she’ll know the difference.”

Scarfiotti tried to hide his amusement, Perry leant back in his chair out of boredom. Hendrick was almost stunned by the self indulgent support Avellanos gave him to plead his case. The two brothers sat silently at her scolding, forcing their heads high though their shoulders slumped.

"Murkoff is emotionally conditioning her. This is why the last trial is so important, she'll learn to differentiate between conventional and unconventional sex, behaviours. And when she's triggered, I anticipate it'll quell itself shortly after."

Donald arrogantly sipped his whiskey with the loudest slurp Hendrick had ever endured listening. "But if she turns on someone she shouldn't, if it all blows up. Murkoff will be the ones picking up the pieces. That's if it actually works."

Did these fools have no ambition?

Hendrick had a simple explanation of that amidst the heavy atmosphere. “A man rushes into his house, engulfed in flames and faced with a choice of morals. He must choose between the property he built up with his bare hands, without it he is worthless, penniless and without means. Or he must choose the very life he created to carry on his legacy. The father must decide what will carry on his truth.” He held up the report of the incident. “This is the burning fire. She’ll either go for her belongings and try to claim her mind back, or follow the legacy Murkoff has built for her… I’m betting on that legacy. Sex will work.”

Until now, Wernicke had been silent on the phone line. “To add… The Thalidomide has been tested long term here at Mount Massive. Going on six months without incident. There is still some experimentation with it being early days, but things are looking promising. Once the mind is broken enough, no amount of memory triggers are enough to get the mind back, studies have found.”

Avellanos nodded along with Wernicke’s words, simply gratifying. The man was exceptional.

“We are experimenting how to reduce the dosage after long term exposure to reduce cost of production. It’s working.”

“So uh, if the drug can be used longer term, and if we were to give you the extension…”  Richard rustled his papers like he knew anything about this besides signing off the board correspondence. Thorough his expression had changed somewhat on side after Wernicke’s tangent. “How do you plan to get her ready for field work? Your outlined plan was entirely too vague, can you explain? ”

Hendrick introduced his exact plan to test this theory, filling the empty silence with science, “The way to test whether her mindset is capable of receiving the right information is to go into human testing.”

“Human testing?”

He nodded, more enthusiastically than he should have. “Yes. Clyde Perry has agreed to step in and test her out, to prove my theory before letting her out of the facility.”

Donald scratched his head. “So…”

Avellanos wore her smugness on her sleeve when the man stuttered. “Finally, a reward for our loyal rat catcher.”

Perry murmured something under his breath. “It’s just a job, not a vacation.”

Scarfiotti turned his nose away and studied your picture from the pile again. “She’s pretty, why not let one of the board do it? She’s not exactly strong, the only reason she managed that attack was because of a weapon. Give any weak willed person a gun and they’ll have the same opportunity to kill. Surely it would be better to keep it within the board and not have others help.”

Well, he’d changed his tune. 

Perry sat up and looked across the table over Avellanos who’d essentially swapped places with him, leaving back in her chair with a flash of pleasure at the corner of her lips.

“The hell does that mean?” He said, staring daggers at the man who ridiculed him.

“What I’m saying,” Scarfiotti turned arrogantly, “is that I’ve watched every trial she’s been in and made notes to the report, I’ve filled Avellanos in on my findings. I’ve done the footwork. If it were anyone who knows her better, it should be me.”

The only reason for Hendrick was that Perry was replaceable. Moses Scarfiotti created beautiful trial environments to the standard Hendrick mused with. He was not replaceable.

“You want in? Be my guest, brick layer.”

“What did you say, dog?”

Avellanos put her hands up between them. “Now, boys. This is a discussion for outside the boardroom. Scarfiotti, you should be more worried about how she smuggled a pen into the sleep room.”

Donald grunted and displayed what Hendrick would describe as contempt at Scarfiotti. "Don't think we've forgotten about your misdeed, Moses. We'll discuss that after."

Hendrick neatened his tie and lit up a smoke. “It’ll be Perry, Moses. I’m giving you a specific punch card to redirect one of the shuttles near biohazard if things go awry. You have a specific task.”

Scarfiotti’s mouth dropped, already in the firing squad under Donald's glare. “Avellanos can redirect that shuttle, why me?”

“You built the place, didn’t you? I want guards set up in the maintenance tunnels ready to break anything up before there’s real damage. Avellanos will be spectating with me.”

Only as an alibi of some kind.

Hendrick saw the way Scarfiotti slumped and tossed aside your picture like a child. “If you’re that intent on helping with the last phase, when Project Swallow goes under way, you can help with the next one.”

Avellanos picked up the expense report and scanned over it again. “So, though the Projects expenses have no extra cost here at Sinyala, what about when she’s out? After she removes a head of power, what of her exit strategy, and then there’s training expenses. Moses is right, she’s not exactly strong.”

“Well, there’s a few solutions to that.” Hendrick huffed on his cigarette. He really could have done with a gin. “Firstly, I meed to see what the extent of her memory is after an episode. If she forgets everything, she'll easily pass a polygraph if questioned and should regain enough drive to get herself out of the situation before she reverts. If this occurs, we can use her multiple times before we have no further use. Then we'll put her in more trials, that’ll minimise any training costs and carry on with Lathe two’s therapy. Or, give her something that doesn’t require fitness, just seduction and a well placed bit of powder.”

Scarfiotti’s face screwed up in confusion. “Really? Another woman’s weapon, it can be traced back to us.”

“Not necessarily. The USA has cyanide stock piles, it can be manufactured quite easily. Should there be any investigation, there will always be a scapegoat we can use that is unlinked to Murkoff.” Wernicke coughed and uttered some few words to someone else off the phone line. “That way, as Dr. Easterman just clarified, the reagent can be used multiple times before she’ll need to be reused for other purposes.”

Hendrick ignored what other projects you could have been used for after this. You weren’t getting out of here without him and it would stay that way. Things were starting to settle into place, Hendrick just had to count his malnourished chicks and wait for them to roost after having regained their strength.

You were getting out of this and right into Hendrick’s bed. The only result worth noting down.

“Okay then…” Donald grew bored again, Richard too. “Let’s have a show of hands in favour of allowing Project Swallow a forty-eight hour extension to complete the initial phase.”

Unusually, Avellanos put up her hand straight away. “It’ll make Murkoff more money, it’s promising. I think it’s a good way to branch out.”

Something is up. She doesn’t just agree this easily.

In turn, Scarfiotti begrudgingly put up his hand. Perry remained silent, the smallest in the room with his hands nestled in his lap. Donald and Richard followed too, giving knowing eyes to each other after they watched Avellanos agree.

“Alright then,” they both put up their hands, “the board has authorized a continuation extension for Project Swallow. Forty-eight hours. But when it ends, we expect solid results, Hendrick, or it all ends.”

The board members climbed out of their chairs and eagerly scuffled about the room, Perry sat still in his seat and fiddled about with his cane. Hendrick stood triumphantly at the end of the table amongst the collected papers and rushed, scribbled handwriting.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Project Swallow will be the future of Murkoff.”

Or just Hendrick’s future. 

Lathe Two was enough to keep his reputation going.

Now he could have you all to himself.

Chapter Text

As Clyde waited in the boardroom, counting each person to leave, ensuring Dr. Wernicke had put down the phone, it hovered a sense of foreshadowing of what was to come.

Easterman didn’t know this, but Clyde managed to sneak one of your pictures from the commotion of passing them about between reluctant hands. Just a small one, one of many Easterman had managed to take without your knowledge, he doubted that fool would even notice.

Tomorrow was the eve of hell. Clyde Perry was good at finding people because he was persistent, yet this assignment left a bitter taste in his mouth. He wasn’t entirely sure whether it was due to boredom or his conscience tricking him into second guessing. But what he did know was that this experiment would not end well.

Clyde would need to seduce you and the only problem was that he seemed to have already done that without much issue. He saw the way you made doe eyes at him when you thought he wasn’t watching, when he was ‘occupied’ in a chess match or eating the shitty sleep room meals.

It was clear he didn’t need much to pull you onto that side of the scales, and the odd thing that lingered in the bottom of Clyde’s belly was that it was chemically controlled.

The entire thing wasn’t real.

That was good though, it meant he could leave feeling no guilt- not that he would, because it was just a job- yet walking out of it knowing he served Murkoff seemed different. He’d never been asked to become essentially a Murkoff honey pot. Considering his appearance, he didn’t really see how using his looks instead of his brain would win you over.

But it was working. You saw Clyde as someone who was good. Clyde was not good. He was a very bad person with not much going for him besides his drive to work and follow through on orders. Yes, his pay had gotten much better over the years and he was certain he’d make any girl happy with his financial responsibility.

Yet, you knew nothing about the real him, and still wanted to get close.

It was… unusual.

You were unusual.

The picture he managed to nab was before you were Murkoff’s tool to exploit men in the bedroom. You were suited up in your little white coat and goggles sitting perfectly on your head, no hair out of place. How the fuck did you end up on the receiving end of the corporations phallus?

From what he read in the reports Easterman had given him in the past were a sort of interesting read the more he thought on it. You were intelligent, a lower observation roll wasted on you, yet you stayed and ignored any prospects of a promotion. Maybe that’s why Clyde thought you were ordinary, not driven by positions and consumed yourself in the drive to do what you enjoyed.

Though who could enjoy anything down here unless there were a sadist? Clyde was. He enjoyed getting the adrenaline between his teeth and tugging that rabbit's petrified head off whenever he got the chance. To Clyde, he was beyond help and would serve Murkoff for the rest of his life with utmost loyalty. But you, from the accounts of your journal entries, the ones Easterman permitted he read before they mysteriously vanished, painted a different picture.

Clyde saw some entries he shouldn't have.

Despite your… inclination to shy away from Easterman, you were enthralled with his work, knowing in your soul that you were helping people.

Murkoff always had a way getting under people’s skin. 

Easterman really thought people couldn’t see. By now, as the days went on and his desperation grew, Avellanos was entirely aware of his intentions, though he tried his hardest to leave nothing behind worth noting, there was always a trail.

Clyde was persistent.

Clyde was good at finding information.

Clyde only had to observe.

He took the picture, shoved into his breast pocket- no wait, the back lining of his pants in case anyone asked about it.

There was only a set amount of time he could look at your face when you were definitely unaware. He thought of it as a keep sake for when Easterman inevitably stuck his hooks into you.

What kind of person would you turn about to be? From the reports, the thick, gungy pool of blood on the floor, covered in that crimson fluid he knew so well. You were crazed enough that given the chance, you would have turned on someone else.

Had Clyde been there, that pen would have gone straight through his neck. He didn’t need to surmise on the balance of probability, it was cold hard facts that Easterman was minimising.

You murdered someone and didn’t even remember.

Clyde knew the type of person you were beginning to emerge from, finding this out, he wasn’t sure how you’d cope. Killing someone changed the person, made them icy, emotionless, impassive to the blood on the ground. Clyde didn’t take much notice at all that blood, only writing down statements and getting others to clean your mess up.

By now, Clyde was desensitised. He was past a point when the return was non-existent.

Shame you were going down the same path.

And I’m getting the brunt of this while I’m still recovering. Talk about beating a dead horse.

Oh well, nothing could be helped. Clyde shrugged to no one and leant on his cane for support towards the boardroom doors.

“Jesus Christ…” 

“Where is it?” Easterman came toe to toe with Clyde in a hush, the desperation oozed out of his pores in the goop of wallpaper paste.

“Where’s what?” 

The photograph, he must have noticed.

“You know very well what. The photograph, there were seventeen photos here, one is missing.”

God, he was really losing it. “I dunno, I passed them all along to the big guy, maybe he lost it, or took it with him.”

“Why would he-“ Easterman paused, running his hand through what little hair he had left. “Where is it, Mr. Perry?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Easterman.” Clyde chose his words carefully, just waiting to see whether he’d snap.

“A photograph doesn't just sprout legs and walk away into the sunset. It has to-“ He caught himself. "It has to be somewhere."

Easterman paced and eyed the boardroom doors, then back to Clyde. "It has to be somewhere."

Clyde just shrugged.

"It has to... it has-"

Clyde watched Easterman weave on the spot, muttering to himself and fiddling with a corner of the manilla folder. He yanked out his battered box of cigarettes and trembled as he lit the end with one exasperated breath, spewing about something Clyde couldn't quite hear. Not that he cared very much at this point.

“Fine…" Was he shaking? His defeated gaze resembled that of a child sent to bed without supper. "I have everything I need then... I’ll ask the others as it’s necessary for the report.”

Bullshit.

Clyde watched Easterman squirrel back off to his office, noting his haggard appearance and desperation under his breath. The man was slowly losing it but in the same breath, it wasn’t a subtle change. It all came too soon and inevitably would come to end when Avellanos got her hands on it.

One hand in the cookie jar while the other was over the stove flame.

“So, did he figure out you took one of the photographs?”

Alice Avellanos perched herself on her desk when Clyde arrived, not her chair, high heel stiletto hanging off her toe as the whiskey slipped down her throat with ease. hShe asked Clyde to take something during the presentation just to fuck with Easterman.

“Turns out I didn’t have to.” He said, taking up a place against the wall to rest his leg. “Someone else took a photograph, Easterman’s getting jittery about it.”

“It’s probably Donald, he likes to watch.” 

Should she be telling me this? Probably not. It rolled off her tongue like an innocent question, most probably due to the whiskey. Just how much had she drank in the short space of time from the boardroom?

She scoffed at the silence, taking the last of her whiskey before getting up for another. “And it’s probably the amount of lysergic acid Hendrick takes, he really thinks I don’t know just how much he actually consumes. Look at what happened the other day, screaming in his office for hours. The junkie probably doesn’t recognise the boardroom sober.”

Clyde nodded along in favourable silence. Though he knew Easterman’s downfall would be his own doing, there was still a role to play in what came next. Clyde wasn’t entirely sure what side of the fence he was sitting on. Naturally, he’d go with Avellanos for doing what she did getting him out of dodge. But it was more of a positional sense.

Lure you entirely professionally as he would always do, but either do it with, or without conscience. The more time he spent with you took a slither of his own impassiveness away to expose the core. He was sadistic, sure. Though Clyde also did have a functional heart that pumped blood around his body just like everyone else.

He’d never really thought about whether what the reagents went through was moral, his pay check didn’t tell him to think, just do. Clyde was helping America flourish by helping Murkoff do their bidding for the future. But with you, you weren’t being used to aid the country, just a man’s sick desires pointed to his own ego and twisted sense of self-leadership.

It would be odd if he didn’t think about it, that’s what he told himself anyway.

“So what happens now?” He asked, fiddling with the handle of his cane to hear the inevitable.

“I’ll figure Easterman out and see how this will pan out. I admit, even I was sort of taken by those financial figures, he talked the board over pretty well. I’m intrigued as to why he’s asked me to watch her last trial in his company, there’s a lot to be desired in that dingy little office.”

She was going to watch Clyde fuck you and get his ass beat. It didn’t sound better if said out loud, either.

“And then?”

She smirked, the air changed with her deciduous nature. “If she passes, then she’ll be out of his sight and there’s nothing to worry about going forward.”

“And if she fails?”

“If she fails, I want you to personally see her dead body to bio hazard.”

So Avellanos didn’t want you going to the experimental population anymore, an odd change of pace.

“Is that your only order, or did you want me to kill her too?”

“Well, seeing as you’re starved for dark things to do… did you want to kill her?”

For the first time, Clyde didn’t know how to respond to that. Hearing it against you sounded so out of place. You had no leaked information, you barely knew what hobbies you enjoyed. It was sort of kicking a man while he was down, sort of pathetic. 

Clyde didn’t want to kill you. Study you maybe, but not kill you.

It would all change if you had information to give, but you didn’t.

Still, he played to Avellanos’ tune for now until he put his head on straight for tomorrow. “Sure. It’ll prove I’m not rusty.”

Though better him do it then one of Murkoff’s drones do it poorly. Painfully, unprofessionally.

“Good, I’m intrigued to see you perform tomorrow. Don’t forget to smile for the camera.”

Clyde was not amused.

It’s only because I’ve shown her care.

Clyde was beginning to use that as his mantra, over and over again. When he collected his fresh set of clothes and stepped into the communal showers after leaving Avellanos’ office, Clyde dwelled on his predicament.

His face, why did you like his face? Clyde was often met with caution over something he’d been 'blessed' with at birth, accusatory remarks of his lineage, and glares at how his eye sagged.

You didn’t do that.

Besides the first time, you had never even brought it up.

Scarfiotti brought it up several times, little sly digs met with sarcasm to make himself the big man of his fuck ugly kingdom. The man couldn’t sleep his way out of a paper bag, and there he was making remarks about Clyde’s job, his appearance.

It was never enough to kick his ass, but at some point, Clyde wished he’d ginen him the ammunition so he could kick his ass.

Who cares if he engineered in the navy, give me a toothbrush in a dark room and I’d make him cry.

Regardless of Scarfiotti’s tendencies, you never did that.

It’s what made this difficult, complicated.

The steam danced around the sting of the water spray, Clyde stood there under it hoping it would answer all of his questions. It did not. How could It? The water was louder yet so empty, it didn’t even clean him, just reminded him of what he was doing tomorrow at the benefit of Easterman.

Tomorrow was the moment. Tonight was the eve of everything changing. Clyde could never prepare himself for the beating he was about to receive.

It fucking sucked.

Part of him hoped that you wouldn’t, not by how you looked at him. Though then he’d have to get rid of you.

He wasn’t quite sure which was worse.

Chapter Text

“You seriously let Coyle do that to her?”

Hendrick rolled his eyes out of Avellanos’ sight while he adjusted the screen and connected the speaker cable into the base. He studied you intensely, noticing the weird, stinging bluntness across the entirety of his body seeing Perry so close to you.

You were only talking, legs aimlessly swinging off of your bed while Perry conversed from the desk chair. Only talking. Hendrick wanted it to stop.

“Anal sex has nothing to do with conventionality. It was a last ditch effort to get him to stop pulling apart the trial environment."

Coyle-the little shit- had really been giving Hendrick a hard time. So much so that desperate times called for extremely desperate measures.

“You gifted him a thunderstorm too, do you know how much electricity we used to make that happen?”

“We?” Hendrick faced her casual lounge in the arm chair, watching each individual television respectively. “You did none of it, Alice. It was all me. You have to negotiate a few things in order to gain something huge. It will all make sense as she develops. It’s almost time. This will work, I know it will.”

Hendrick kept things civil for now, understanding that there was something under Avellanos’ gaze that met with caution.

“You’ve been denying Coyle access to her, why?” She asked, shooting him a brief glance before studying one television in particular like a shark circling clotted blood. “Why wait until her last trial involving him entirely when he was there right at the start?”

“Because Coyle likes to think he truly doesn’t take orders from anybody, but still will like a dog- can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but he learns them perfectly. Gooseberry and Franco were too volatile, too unstable to keep her physical damage to a minimum.”

In other words, Hendrick wanted Coyle desperate, eager to get stuck in. If he had let him loose in the beginning, he would not have reached the potential to become your breaking point. Franco and Gooseberry would have pushed you too far beyond any recognition had the cards been rearranged. In most cases, Coyle was the only prime asset this far who could be reasoned with entirely. He barely compromised, but there was still a compromise, only when he majorly benefitted from it.

Gooseberry focused on her ‘children’.

Franco had something to prove.

Coyle thought about his power of authority. The perfect candidate to push you far enough over the edge that you didn’t scramble to take a hold of it in a last ditch effort to keep your mind whole. And close enough that you weren’t ejected off of it immediately.

A happy medium.

Avellanos rested on the arm of the chair out of what looked like flatlined boredom. “Franco was pretty tame. I heard from Scarfiotti.” 

Of course she did. They always talk amongst themselves.

The little baby followed instructions and let you be, the perverseness actually curbed by his rare self control and social awareness. “That may be, but his temperament allows for variables I wasn’t going to risk.”

Yes, Franco Barbi’s involvement ran the risk of putting you in the firing line of spare teeth, an inconsistent pushing towards Hendrick’s goals. He had watched the trial too, seeing your quick thinking after achieving orgasm and quelling Franco’s tantrums was truly impressive. But if Scarfiotti described Franco Barbi as tame, he needed an up to date thesaurus. You were still at risk of a homemade bullet.

Hendrick took a risk which worked out perfectly, but it could have gone either way, especially with Coyle impeding on Franco’s personal space in that trial. A risk of placing both of their prominent personalities, knowing full well they’d clash. Put two dogs in the ring with one bone and watch them maul each other. Yet take the ring out of the equation and place them both in one’s home, the other dog will get overwhelmed with new smells that it removes the need for the bone entirely when other smells become so much more interesting. 

“Do you honestly believe he would have shot her?”

“If she hadn’t thought on her feet, yes.” Hendrick did believe it. “It exhibits her evolution in real time. In order to attract our political enemies, she must show a chameleonic attitude.”

“And you think she is?”

It was a simple question from Avellanos’ lips, but one Hendrick could not answer simply. It was not straightforward or easily explained to suit his own narrative disguised as Murkoff’s wellbeing. The question was conspicuously loaded and apparent.

Alice Bradley Avellanos was fishing.

Unfortunately, Hendrick wasn’t about to give himself away or you as the prized hog for the spit.“She’s the first of her kind… if we slip up, it not only means a loss to Murkoff, but a loss to me. She has to go through the natural courses her brain is taking her. But yes, she is.”

“To you?” It was all Avellanos took from that?

While Hendrick admitted it was a Freudian slip, it wasn’t entirely wrong. “My reputation… If she dies here, it goes up in ruin. I’d rather her fail than die to someone she’s being programmed to fight against.”

“That’s unlike you. Why see her fail instead of out in a blaze of glory?”

Fucking shit. Avellanos was fishing deep.

“She’s, uh… a start up, nothing more. Others will come and go, wasting their potential. Yet she hasn’t given up. But if she dies to a prime asset, the board won’t give me an appeal to try again. Project Swallow will go up in flames before it even starts.”

“Right…” Avellanos’ lingering silence caught Henrick by the balls. “What if she wants to take it slow and not sleep with Clyde Perry right away? You have less than twenty four hours left.”

Wrong. So wrong. You would prove Hendrick right. Why? Because he’d programmed you perfectly, you were succumbing and welcoming pain willingly. You returned trial after trial though in the recess of your memories, you knew what was in store for you yet your body allowed you to step foot back inside again.

“No, she won’t. Her trauma, it’s lingering in the back of her mind, hidden until the trigger. Her mind will constantly want to keep it that way, protecting her emotional state. It’ll be yearning for that conventionality.”

Yearning for safe sex, you’d be drawn to it. All for a fraction hoping you’d be treated better. It was Hendrick’s plan since the beginning. If this worked, you’d surrender to Hendrick in a heartbeat.

No more refusing me, writing in your little book and avoiding my gaze. The inevitability was never lost on Hendrick by how perfect this was all playing out.

“Will you have dinner with me?” Perry asked, standing up as you did.

“Dinner? He’s asking her to dinner now?”

It was supposed to be simple, now he’d have to sit through dinner with a man who was tasked to spend adequate amount of time to seduce you who was treating it as courtship.

But what was Hendrick to do when Avellanos was eyeing him like a hawk? “The man has manners, more than I can say for some people.”

“What do you mean by that, Alice?” Hendrick turned his head but his body faced the screen, he barely saw her while his eyes strained and stretched to find her behind him.

Another sly dig. 

She’s just here for an alibi.

“Oh, nothing.”

“We all have dinner together every day…” You said, catching Hendrick’s attention back.

You’d placed your arms behind your back, fiddling with your fingers. Perry did not need to play a game of chivalry to win your affection. It seemed he already had it.

That rat bastard.

“Oh… oh!” You stepped closer to Perry, brushing your hair out of the way like some loose woman. “You mean just the two of us…Y-Yeah, of course, I’d love to.”

Though the quality of the video was poorer than Hendrick would have liked, he saw Perry’s smile. “I saw that red dress you have, you should wear it.”

He gifted you that dress- that scarf. Your books, notes, radio messages were all from Hendrick. What could Perry possibly offer that he hadn’t already given you?

Avellanos edged closer, the chair scraping along the floor. “Isn’t that dress the one you were insistent on-”

“Yes. It’s symbolic.” It was boiling him from the inside.

It continued being symbolic the entire way through dinner, holding hands and linking arms. Perry was rubbing it in his face and Hendrick just knew he was the one who stole your photo.

Hendrick accounted for each photo he took of you, counted them religiously and memorised them by heart. The picture of your first day, dressed in Murkoff issued uniform for the research team. And it was gone, missing from his manilla envelope.

If Perry had taken it, Avellanos was surely close behind pulling his strings.

It was as though Hendrick’s eyes never closed, drying and stinging like road rash on his face. He watched Perry shmooze you in a way a boy from the church might try to impress your parents. Though you had no parents; no family to miss you or approve of a man with just as many hidden agendas as Hendrick.

They wouldn’t approve of Perry just as much as they wouldn’t Hendrick either. Yes, he was the director, project lead and prominent scientist, but what parent would approve of a divorced man with Lysergic acid balled up in his fist? Hendrick didn’t deny the fact that he wasn’t a man of honourable motives, but he was a man of importance. That made up for something.

What did Perry have?

Nothing.

After an agonising dinner of light conversation, Hendrick sat through it all in silence making bogus notes and barely responsive words to Avellanos. He noted down anything out of the ordinary. Dorris Ritter for example, you asked of her on three separate occasions and each time Perry changed the subject.

Then, you allowed Perry to hold your hand over the table. Hendrick was ready to shut the whole thing down. He was scratching at the door waiting to relieve himself before he shit all over the kitchen floor.

“I really enjoyed tonight. Thank you, Clyde.”

Fucking first name basis, what a farce.

Hendrick looked away for a fucking second when Avellanos made a noise, that stupid noise she did when something actually took her by surprise. It was rare, he could have counted it all on one hand throughout the time that he’d known her and each time it was just as irritating.

Perry was kissing you once Hendrick’s attention focused back onto the screen, more than just a light peck. Incredibly passionate. Still, it was within the boundaries of conventionality, Hendrick recalled the times he’d go through the motions with Irene in his youth. Yet it never stopped Hendrick’s fists balling up and praying to his brain to have Murkoff staff storm right down there and whisk Perry away to the abandoned depths of the Arizona desert.

A barrel of slurry.

You were Hendrick’s possession. His darling of sorts that he was training to domesticate, not to be swayed by other influences. Yet here you were, caving to a man who held no candle to Hendrick’s job, his profession that began its journey to change the world.

All because this man treated you well. Hendrick would treat you well enough.

Then, it wasn’t just kissing in the middle of the room that he had to stifle himself from protesting against. It was sitting on the bed, heavy petting and tongue. His fists clenched so that his nails pinched, now visibly shaking yet masked from Avellanos’ view, like two dowsing rods for bullshit. Perry laid you down on the bed, hands roaming and closely pressed together on one single bed.

“They seem comfortable. How will he get her to the shuttle bus now?” Avellanos stood up, folded arms like a school teacher anticipating the right answer.

Again, Hendrck looked away for one second, not even that. And he missed something crucial.

Perry had slipped his hand between your legs, you welcomed it. “She’s accepting physical touch more openly than I thought she would…”

A betrayal.

In a breath, this was fantastic news. It meant that as soon as Hedrick showed you any affection, you’d bend to his will immediately. In that same held breath, you were letting Perry touch you in a way only a husband should.

Avellanos’ amusement put Hendrick into a state to which he might not ever recover from. “He’s really enjoying himself-“

“Shut up, Alice.” Hendrick scrambled for the microphone and shoved it in her face. “Tell them. Tell them that there’s no sexual intercourse in the sleep room.”

“Why can’t you do it?” She pushed it away.

“Because it’s your voice they hear every day, every morning before they consume their shitty food while they contemplate their shitty existence. It has to be you.”

She reluctantly took it, scowling in protest. “So this is why you needed me here…”

With a clear throat like she was about to serenade them, Avellanos spoke through her trials voice she did so hauntingly well. “Those in the sleep room, please refrain from intimacy and sinful practice. Only you can truly pleasure yourself through the therapy of the trial. I repeat, those in the sleep room, please refrain from intimacy and sinful practice.”

When you and Perry stopped and regained some decency, Perry did as he was instructed and guided you out of your room towards the shuttle pods. 

“Is that good enough for you, Hendrick?”

"Sinful practice?"

"What did you want me to say? Don't fuck each other like rabbits because Murkoff won't payout to dry clean the carpets?"

The first step had commenced and you were being molded into Hendrick’s ideal shape. He just had to get over the other numerous hurdles before he could truly rest with you safely nestled in his bed.

“It’s to the point, at least. She’ll impress the world, Alice.”

Gathering himself, he picked up a file he’d kept exceptionally quiet until today. He picked up his cigarette and huffed on it, letting the embers glow as they touched the corner of the paper and ate away at the information.

MURKOFF CONFIDENTIAL DOCUMENT

FULL NAME - [DATA EXPUNGED]

D.O.B - [CARELESSLY CROSSED OUT]

BORN IN [REDACTED] LEFT AT AGE 12 AND MOVED TO ARIZONA, NO FAMILY, NO LIVING RELATIVES. 

NO POSSESSIONS LEFT AT PREVIOUS ADDRESS, All moved to Murkoff approved facility until 1980 per the Murkoff security measures 1958. Considered Murkoff staff for permanent residency. 

FULL HEALTH MEDICAL RECORD - Please refer to section b.2.01

PREVIOUS OCCUPATIONS

• SCHOOL TEACHER. Elementary.
• PREVIOUS MURKOFF EMPLOYEE. Observational science.

STATUS - TERMINATED

For now until forever, the world would forget you ever existed.

Everyone besides Hendrick.

Chapter Text

HER TOUCH - Part 1 of 2

Murkoff Minutes 

1960.04.22

MURKOFF CORP 

COPY 

TRANSCRIPTION FROM MURKOFF PERSONNEL INTERVIEW OF CLYDE PERRY

EDITED FOR CLARITY 

[Minutes 7-9]

MURKOFF PERSONNEL- So, can you tell me a little more about the incident?

PERRY- What sort of specifics?

MURKOFF PERSONNEL- Your injuries.

PERRY- Busted eye socket, bruised trachea. Y’know, the usual after a run in with one of Murkoff’s pets.

[papers shuffle]

MURKOFF PERSONNEL- One of the injuries you outlined was an, ehem… abrasion to the-

PERRY- A graze on my cock, yes.

[uncomfortable silence for twelve seconds]

PERRY- I was lucky she didn’t bite it off, I guess that can account for something.

MURKOFF PERSONNEL- Uh… yes. On that subject, you were rather vague on the sexual details surrounding the incident. Can you elaborate?

PERRY- It wasn’t appropriate to put that in the report. I didn’t see the relevance.

MURKOFF PERSONNEL- Not appropriate? It’s crucial information.

PERRY- You don’t ask what questions someone got during a job interview, you only care if they were successful or not. And we were. The sex was what I’d been tasked to do. Nothing else.

—---------------------------------------------------

HER TOUCH - Part 1 of 2

Murkoff Minutes 

1960.04.22

MURKOFF CORP 

COPY 

TRANSCRIPTION FROM MURKOFF PERSONNEL INTERVIEW OF CLYDE PERRY

EDITED FOR CLARITY 

[Minutes 10-12]

PERRY- The sex was what I’d been tasked to do. Nothing else.

MURKOFF PERSONNEL- While that may be true, it’s still your duty to report everything.

PERRY- And it’s Murkoff’s duty to follow through when they say they’d step in, yet here we are.

MURKOFF PERSONNEL- She’s still missing, and you’re sure don’t know where she is?

PERRY- I couldn’t see past the crack on my good eye. I catch the rats, I don’t release them.

MURKOFF PERSONNEL- I understand you have some… strong feelings towards Mr. Scarfiotti, but-

PERRY- None whatsoever. I keep to my job as does he. Is there anything else you wanted? I’m due my meds. I have other projects that require my attention.

MURKOFF PERSONNEL- Well… I’ll need you to take me through the events as they happened. Start right at the beginning.

PERRY- I already put it in the report.

MURKOFF PERSONNEL- Dr. Easterman was very insistent for a first person account in light of...

PERRY- In high tof other recent events. Yes. That's why I don't see the relevance when there are other important matters to see to.

MURKOFF PERSONNEL- Miss Avellanos, she enquired too.

PERRY- Fine.

—---------------------------------------------------

“We’ll go through here.”

Clyde kept your hand in his, he tapped on the terminal screen using his specific code Easterman had temporarily gifted him.

You hesitated, pulling back just enough to get his attention. “Through there?”

“It’s safe, don’t worry.”

Despite the task Clyde was adhered to, he couldn’t deny that he was already riled up sexually, rushing you and himself towards the shuttle to continue. Though Easterman decided to be the petty man he always was and stopped everything.

It would have been a more clean cut in your room, more contained and easier to gain access should you lose control. In the shuttle bus there were restraints, but the little room prepared in the access tunnels Easterman was so set on, made no sense. Far too isolated, it would take an extraordinary amount of time to clamber in with an armed guard to pull you off of Clyde that it seemed almost purposeful.

The restraints in the shuttle might spook you way before you were required to act against it. ‘Put on your best acting skills and woo her.’ Easterman’s word rattled around in Clyde’s testosterone fuelled brain, eking out from the surface.

Clyde was unsure how much was acting any more, and what was his actual need for stimulation.

Still, there wasn’t anything he could do now as the shuttle came, it whirred with notice of the end of the road. After this, he’d hardly ever see you, if not at all. Well, if Easterman had anything to do with it which he would, Clyde would never see you again.

He planned on making the moment count.

“Are you sure it’s safe in there?”

“It is.” He nodded, edging you closer to the pod doors. “They’re redecorating, so ignore the paint on the floor, but I know the best place where we’ll get some privacy.”

He’d use the restraints.

The restraints were good, actually.

Maybe the restraints were best.

Clyde managed to squeeze you in with him by some effort into the one-man pod right up against each other, bodies pressed to one another and lips locked with temporary satisfaction.

“Paint, what paint?” You stepped through first, hands on Clyde like he’d disappear, lips pursed on his skin to taste though he was made of anything else beside human flesh.

The red blood crusting over on the grates on the floor caught your attention. You’d been in here many times and forgotten each interaction. Clyde had never stepped foot inside before, only seeing pictures of a place he had no need to be involved with.

What idiots.

They never bothered to clean the shuttle properly.

“I overheard the staff talking about redecorating.”

Clyde spoke quickly, walking you back towards one of the chairs while he nipped at your neck sweetly and ran his tongue over, reminding himself that he had to treat you as though you were his childhood sweetheart.

Someone made of glass.

No rough energy, no last minute decisions to bend you over and fuck you within an inch of all that was holy.

Gentle. Caressing. Conventional.

Who knew the Murkoff proclaimed 'rat catcher' had an abandoned libido?

“Oh, are we allowed in here? I-I don’t think-“

“It’s fine. Sit down. Will you let me try something?”

You almost did as he asked of you, hesitating hands on either shoulder. Your lips were swollen in that red dress that did things to his mind.

“What?”

“Do you trust me?” 

It was a cheap move, he knew that. But the hard, erect cock in his pants begged him to taste you. He had to taste you seeing as he never would again. Suddenly his logic fuelled and rational mind sat behind and let loose his male gaze. He had to touch you, smell you, savour you.

“Yeah… I-I do.”

Clyde pressed his lips to yours and admired the innocent glossiness over your eyes. “Then please sit.”

As you sat, the restraints clicked into place. Naturally, you panicked, tugging at them with a look of pure fear. Only your wrists, though your ankles remained free and scuffled about on the metal foot plate.

“My wrists-””

“It’s alright- it’s okay. They won’t bite.”

“I can’t move. Clyde, I can’t move-“

He took a hold of your hand and offered you a lifeline you immediately eased into. “They won’t hurt you… I think it’s a safety thing. I heard they use them but they let go as soon as the shuttle stops. It’s alright.”

And they’d stop you punching him in the face or ripping his hair out from the roots if you gained any purchase. Maybe you’d even try crushing his head between your thighs.

Wouldn’t be the worst thing.

“Do you trust me?” He asked again, kneeling down, trying to ignore the ache in his pants and refraining from palming himself.

Seeing you restrained like that… it set an example his brain nor his body could ever put into practice. Trembling, entirely reliant on Clyde's ability to move around the shuttle without restriction, you looked to him for answers.

And what he thought about was truly inappropriate.

If Easterman could read my mind right now. Oh boy.

With huffed breaths, you nodded slowly, knees and hands shaking as the shuttle started to lurch forward. It was then that Clyde felt it safe enough to continue. First, to eagerly experiment what area of your body he could tread on, he started simple.

He ran his hand down one of your legs, fingertips delicately brushing their way up and down your calf to stop your knees shaking. It did, it stopped them, yet your breathing hitched over the sound of the screeching wheels on the rails.

Playing the part meant acting out of his own tempered blandness that was his life. Work. Murkoff. Work. Home, barely. Repeat.

What would I say to her if she was my wife?

“You’re beautiful.”

It slipped out, it fucking slipped past his lips like drool if he settled himself into a deep sleep. The words fell out like the a box of cereal balancing on the edge of the cupboard, falling on his face like an idiot.

A fool.

“What?” You breathlessly huffed, looking down at him with those glassy eyes and rosy, flushed cheeks. “I’m…”

“Beautiful.” He fucking said it again.

He was a clown chasing a capuchin around while the crowd roared. A clown. Someone who may have dipped his toe into the scalding hot water before he gave it time to cool.

Scalding burns came with their issues.

But scalding burns were not incentive enough to make it more personal. After all, it was conventional sex you were after, nothing rough or vigorous enough to make you snap. Clyde didn’t want a fountain pen stuck in his neck.

Still, he was an idiot.

Clyde kissed your leg, peppering slow and purposeful wet marks up and over your knee in a cautionary rhythm. You could still kick him, push him away, yet you didn’t.

He badly wanted to taste you.

“Shift forward for me.”

You did as you were told, though still reluctant. “Clyde, I-“

“Do you trust me?” He asked again, hoping you’d say yes, hoping you would eagerly nod to match his excitable arousal.

“Yes.”

Clyde moved with the affirmation that he’d push the silky material up your thighs and slip off your underwear to land somewhere across the shuttle. It chugged along the service tunnels with a controlled audience, knowing where he was going with this and watching all the same behind the camera in the corner. You hadn’t noticed it just yet.

Easterman was watching.

He had some other purpose behind all this.

And he must have been losing his shit.

It was Clyde who had his head between your legs, pressing his lips to your thigh and ignoring the pain in his leg without his cane. It was he who had the permission to give you the best pleasure he could give you, and ignore his own. Not Easterman.

How on earth would Clyde have the strength to hold himself back knowing this sudden imbalance of power? To touch himself later to the thought that he almost came, he almost finished, that he almost had the opportunity to ejaculate somewhere on you. And Easterman didn't.

Clyde Perry needed relief too.

“I trust you… Just, be gentle with me.” You scooted closer, legs wider and dress pushed back.

Be gentle.

Clyde then wondered just how much damage Easterman had actually done to you. It made the primary objective sour on his tongue, bittersweet enough to make him wince.

Just how soft had he gotten to be thinking like that?

Well, Clyde showed you just how gentle he could be when he lifted your leg to rest on his shoulder, effectively blocking his face from the camera and drew one long, delicate lap of his tongue against you.

You gasped, thighs jolting by his face, fingers resting on the plush skin that shivered under the cool draft from the shuttle bus. Clyde could barely contain himself, palming himself through the material of his slacks. The taste on his tongue, so sweet and unexpectedly delicious.

He’d devour you if he could. Though he could not fuck you like he knew he was capable of, the mere thought was enough to warm his own little bed at night when the darkness crept in. And the sound of your enjoyable moans experiencing cunnilingus would be forever ingrained in his mind.

Maybe he should have spent more time around women on the rare days he had off away from murkoff’s apron strings. Perhaps then he'd be less coiled up than he was right now. But hell, living on off of your body was entirely criminal and knowing you were to be served up like a hunk of meat to pawing lions should have been illegal.

“C-Clyde…” Your fingers twitched from the odd times he noticed, like you were reaching out to grab his hair. “Oh my god.”

The sensation he could have gotten from a quick hair grip would have made him soft, like how a cat takes to a ball of yarn. Might have even made him purr too. Like putty and formable dough.

He lapped you up, touching his cock and trying to convince himself not to slip a finger inside you. He got so close to it in your room and he couldn’t come up with any reasons not to. He almost fingered you in bed and Easterman ruined it. Clyde was comfortable in Avellanos' presence presence, but he didn't take her for a cock block.

Clyde cast the thought aside and kept quiet, silent as he could be when he wasn’t moaning against you himself at the tightness in his other hand. What would you feel like around him? Stupidly raw and bareback, grinding on his cock. He wanted to see how pretty you looked on your back with nothing on but the goosebumps ladening your body like a blanket.

One finger edged itself inside you, slowly appreciating the lack of violence towards the intrusion. One in, slowly pumping away in the warmth of your body all the while Clyde almost gave in to temptation to pull his cock out and fuck you right there in the chair.

Why didn’t the adequate doctor give me condoms to use again? Perhaps it was an oversight.

Maybe. Maybe Easterman didn’t think it necessary when he’d forbidden him to ejaculate near you at all. No need for a rubber if there was no semen to catch.

The short end of the incredibly long stick again.

“Clyde- wait, wait- wait. Oh, shit.” 

Your knees started shaking again, though not with fear. And as your hands were out of the equation for gratifying hair pulls and sensational scratches along the base of his skull, your thighs clamped against his head.

Were you really close already?

Now, Clyde Perry liked to think he was decent enough to pleasure a woman, but this was just ridiculous. Just when was the last time you were sexually taken care of that wasn’t forced on you? By Clyde’s guess, at least a year. It became increasingly clear that you hadn’t been ‘taking care’ of yourself either.

Poor thing.

“I’m close. Oh, god, I’m close.”

His tongue moved in circles, carefully multitasking though cautious not to prematurely ejaculate. He could apply the logic of multiple orgasms with you, but he could not however do it himself.

Unfortunately, he was mostly one and done.

Some called it embarrassing.

Clyde called it being a man with ambitions in other areas of his life.

And when you did finish on his mouth, Clyde licked and sucked you like his last meal while your moans came over the shuttles chugging. He took in the juices and slick wetness until you weren’t dripping so much anymore, still jerking from his tongues pressure.

Then, just as the shuttle slowed to a halt the restraints pulled away. You flew to him, almost topping him over. Again, the shooting pain through his leg was ignored for the woman on top of him.

“Oh god... wow. I-I’ve never done anything like that before. I’m glad it was with someone I trust.”

Clyde couldn’t help but notice the flush across your cheeks while you avoided eye contact. You trusted him, it wasn’t something you said because you weren’t sure whether to just let it happen without the confidence in your choices.

You actually trusted him.

This is more odd than a dog permanently walking on its hind legs. More fucked up that eating breakfast at night. You didn't know the real Clyde yet you still gave that trust out like the morning newspaper.

Still, despite Clyde’s unfortunate train of thought in the moment, he soldiered on as what was expected of him. With a quick kiss, he helped you up with all the sudden awkwardness he could forget about and walked you towards the shuttle doors.

“Me too." He said. "I hope you can trust me to carry this on?”

“Of course.”

Boy, this is gonna get messy.

Chapter Text

Easterman Journals 

1960.04.12 

MURKOFF CORP 

PERSONNEL SURVEILLANCE 

COPY 

PRIVATE JOURNAL ENTRY OF DR HNEDRICK JOLIET EASTERMAN

Karma is the insurmountable force that divides us from the unintelligible and the informed. And I saw Karma delivered in its purest form.

I watched her, my darling reagent in full force. Her strength-though limited-acted beautifully just like I trained her.

Mr. Perry’s visit to the infirmary was far less intense than I had imagined, even though I had purposefully held off on aid for him. The man is made of more nails than I had originally anticipated. I had hoped the run-ins he had previously with Coyle and Franco might have made him soft. It appears that I… misread the situation.

[poorly scribbled name of Reagent REDACTED across the page in various places near the spine of the journal as well as between paragraphs]

She handled herself beautifully. She was almost perfect in her response. A hairline fracture to the skull that must heal on its own, bruised throat with no support besides a brace Perry refuses to wear. He’s even stopped leaning on his cane so much.

He’s more rattled than anything. And I would have thoroughly enjoyed it had a reagent not just disappeared out of thin air from one of the trials.

Karma is perfect. It caught up to Perry. Yet it appears that karma-the cruel mistress-has caught up to me too.

[an unknown, illegible bible verse written under Dr. Easterman’s signature]

—---------------------------------------------------

“What is this place?” You asked, following Clyde along a service tunnel, footsteps echoing in the darkness.

“It's part of the abandoned sleeping quarters I happened to pass once. Murkoff staff don’t use them anymore. No one will bother us and there’s no voices over the speaker that will tell us to stop.”

The room was tiny, there had been more like this lined up, you knew. Just a bed, desk, similar to your own area in the sleep room. Plain to the beholder, but free.

You melted into Clyde’s grasp as he closed the door with a soft click. He was a talented man with skillful hands, they slid over your body like they were meant for it. The way his hot breath sent enough tingles to make the pit of your stomach flutter and wet between your legs.

“Are we really going to do this?”

You didn’t trust your sudden uncomfortable laugh. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to, but you couldn't quite believe that you’d find yourself in a situation such as this. In the arms of a man you saw so beautiful, kind, not meant for a place as dusty and depressive as it was.

So beautiful.

His lips were warm, so inviting as his hands slid over the smooth silk on the curvature of your hips like butter. Even his smell was overwhelming, a cologne you’d grown to recognise. Deep, oaky, full of a musk that sent your olfactory senses haywire in heat of the room.

“If you’re comfortable.”

“I am.”

You really needed relief.

Perhaps you were craving it and Clyde fit the mold to eek the arousal out of you when it had been buried deep within your body. Though maybe you were just drunk on the high of an exceptionally fast orgasm you didn’t know that weighed in the balance of premature embarrassment.

Yet Clyde never made you feel like it was some to be embarrassed about. He was just incredibly adept with his tongue and fingers.

You wanted more. Something warm, so inviting it would wrap you up in that blanket you were waiting to lay on with someone who just got you. Clyde seemed to understand you better than anybody.

Better than the staff.

Better than the other members of the sleep room who’s names you weren’t sure about.

Better than Dorris, the only one you remember seeing in the corner of the mess hall from time to time.

Where was she again?

Who knew.

Clyde’s grip was firm, reassuring and it soothed your entire body. It soothed your mind. And as you lent into his arms, kissing him as though he were your husband, your body did not scream at you to leave or run away. 

It encouraged you to carry on. To enjoy it. Slow lips, slower tongues, quiet breaths between each others like an embrace you never wanted to shy away from, never wanted to turn you back on.

As Clyde laid you down on the bed, springs squeaking like you owed them something in return, you looked at him properly as though it was truly the first time. It was the way each eye was a different colour. That blue, like oceanic depths you’d never seen until now, his handsome stature he carried everywhere he went when you dared to look when he didn’t notice. You studied the curvature of his cupid’s bow and how full his swollen lips were which the taste of your body clung to.

He was someone you never wanted to stop knowing.

He was… “Beautiful.”

“Hm?” Clyde suspended himself over you between clothes and restrained passion. “What did you say?”

“You’re beautiful, Clyde.”

“I am?”

You nodded to solidify the affirmation. “You are.”

The pause that followed was pregnant, loaded, anticipating the other to say something first. It wasn’t uncomfortable, nor was it undeserving of the moment. It just was.

Clyde’s response was to take your lips, kissing you with firmer care than before. He pushed the silk past your thighs and you let him, opening your legs so he could get between them. Now he was really touching you like a weathered lover, knowing what parts of your body were open to him. Raw, uncovered body parts that invited himself inside and waited before unilaterally quivering at the sound of his pant zipper pulling open.

Your breathing stuttered, unsure whether to ask him to take off his clothes in the unlocked room, or just pleasure you as you were to save time.

“Clyde.” You gripped his arms.

“Yes?”

His muscles tensed under his shirt sleeves, holding himself over you to give space you didn’t need. So you pulled him closer, let his elbows press against the bed until your chests touched.

“Don’t make me wait. Please.”

Brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, Clyde studied your face too. His eyes darted about your features as though it was the last time, a quick peck, a gentle push of his knees to let you know he was right there. You felt it, the way he moved himself against you and pushed his hardened cock to your wet, uncovered pussy. Clyde fumbled a little, taking his eyes off of you for just a moment.

Was he nervous too?

Even though your heart beat in your mouth, hands trembled over the fabric of his shirt, the warmth of his exposed skin by his hips grounded you enough that when the tip of his cock pushed against you, you did not shy from indecency.

Clyde encased you with his lips, using them to distract from the tightness of penetration. He was so gentle, your body welcomed the new sensation by bringing your legs up further. And when he was in right up to the hilt, you and Clyde both let out a sigh of sweet relief in unison.

Relief was good. Relief made life that much smoother from darkness and troubles. Relief temporarily suckled away bad times to their bare bones before they were stuffed into something new to gnaw at.

And Clyde was beautiful, that was relief enough.

You fought every cell in your body to moan out as he pulled his upper half away, slowly fucking you-actually as though making love- into the bed with such deep wound up tension.

Beautiful.

So beautiful.

Far too sensitive. On top of that and kissing you like he was tied to you by the legalities of marriage, Clyde cursed under his breath in almost-silent concentration. An echo of ‘fucks’ and ‘shits’ mingled with delicate touches and a pace that would make a the most adoring spouse jealous. You could have mistaken him for someone who you had known for years. Someone who knew you inside and out, taking such care with you. Even as he brought you back with him until he was up on his knees, your legs wrapped around him in something so maritally passionate.

It was as though the magnetism pulled you closer together and allowed your body to take over from your mind lulling about in a dream you never thought you’d never be privileged to sleep peacefully with. You woke up and the dream continued. It continued with your grip on his shoulders, slowly bringing yourself up and down on his cock like a dutiful wife.

Every second, Clyde’s hands were somewhere else, feeling every inch of skin and silk like he’d disappear eventually. You were sensitive enough to feel a second pull to come again, but his needs came with that duty of fulfilling them.

Clyde was going to finish first, and you had to be the reason why.

“Hang on-” He said breathlessly, pulling your hair back and sucking at a spot on your neck that rendered you like jell-o.

“C-Clyde… Take me. Take all of me- use it.”

The words fumbled out of you like scattered marbles, clamping around him just like your thighs and holding on for dear life in hopes he accepted them. In return for your selflessness, he cupped your left breast and shoved it into his mouth over the red silk, grazing your nipple to spur you on.

And it did.

Your hips moved, jerking almost on his cock as though it was the last time you’d ever be intimate. His breathing changed, more sloppy, louder than before and his cursing became more audible.

“Oh shit… Hang on, we can’t- fuck… keep going.”

You did. Holding on to him for support, hips gyrating on top of him to gain the rhythm of what deepness you submerged yourself with into his aura. An aura you wanted to settle down with, to go steady and marry this man, have his babies and grow old together.

Sudden, yet necessary.

“Wait-”

Men like Clyde did not appear like common trading cards, they were rare and formidable when they appeared in a pack just by chance. How could you let him go after this? Having the same goal triggered something inside you that you had never been certain of.

Settling down didn’t seem so daunting any more.

“Fuck, hang on a minute-”

After the therapy, after figuring out who Dr. Easterman really was and getting out of here, you could ask him. Ask Clyde what his surname was, where he came from and what he really enjoyed doing on the weekends.

I can actually settle down if I want to. I could be a good wife in a small little corner of the world with him, for something better than this place.

Clyde said your name loud enough to rip you out of the euphoric little bubble you had lost yourself in. His cheeks were flushed, breathing heavier than normal until he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

“I’m gonna-” Clyde tensed, his cock suddenly twitching inside you and jutting like a man who’d given everything.

He came inside you, and you were far too out of it to fully realise.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Don't apologise.” He said gritting teeth, freezing suddenly. He looked off into the corner of the room by the door.

A little red light appeared over the lintel

“It’s me who should be sorry.”

“What do you mean-”

It all happened so quickly. His hands around your neck, hardened cock still inside you and his full strength pushing you back onto the bed. He fucked you like a cheap whore, rough, like someone who meant nothing to him.

You saw red. Everything immediately blacked out and replaced itself with one word.

Betrayal.

He wanted to hurt you, to abuse you and you were letting him do so. Then, everything came flooding back.

Coyle.

The drill.

Lightning.

Noxious gas.

Sickening buck shot and dry nipples.

Easterman had done this. It was his doing. You prayed that Murkoff staff member died from the fountain pen you drove through his neck. Everyone who touched you in ways they weren’t meant to were due for death, pain and total obliteration.

You didn’t know who the man over you was, not truly. Not when the policeman’s heavy breathing heated and dampened your skin with all his effort and humiliation. It was the woman you let touch you with the talking bird who whipped your ass like a child. The man over you was that awful thing with glowing eyes and pins in his face, or the man-child with muddled teeth who suckled for nothing in return besides gratification and gentle words of useless affirmation. 

This was no man in front of you, and he deserved to lose his life.

Scrambling for anything, you found something heavy on the desk by the bed on the edge. It was heavy and made a sickening thump across his face  when it came into contact.

“Fuck you!” You hit him again, coughing through each gasp of air. It hit just as hard and enough to get him off of you.

You scrambled off of the bed and looked for something else to use against him. It was a heavy book you clobbered him with and saw a brick in the corner. Once he clambered off of the bed, you hit him with it and fell to the ground with a sharp gasp and pathetically pained groan on the scratchy concrete. His pants were around his thighs like the pervert he was getting everything he deserved.

After managing to kick him while he was down, you got on top of him and gave him a taste of his own sickly medicine. Your hands at his throat with everything you had.

“You think you can all just use me?!” You hit him again when he tried to topple you. “To throw me about like garbage and think I’ll be okay with it?! I know men like you and what you do-Easterman is behind this, I just know it- You hear me, Easterman?! I fucking know who you are-”

Before you could get any further damage in, the door flew open, two guards with batons. They snatched you off of the man so quickly, the whiplash knocked you for six, stunned you temporarily right back into the corner of the room.

“Get the fuck off of me! You sons of bitches, I’ll fucking kill you!”

That familiar sting of the needle in your neck, it slowed your heart rate down instantly. Then you could see a little clearer. Calmer perhaps, seeing the room for what it was. Slowly, the blurred lines became bolder and easier to follow.

“It’s a sedative, she won’t pass out, it’ll just calm her system down briefly. But it should speed the process up exponentially. Dr. Easterman was insistent- can we get a medic in here?!”

A medic. It all made sense.

“Clyde?” You said, blinking rapidly at the mess in the room.

The last thing you remembered was sitting entwined in his arms, tasting his lips and lulling yourself into a euphoric state. Not… whatever this was. He was dishevelled, bloodied up and battered, holding his face away from the room.

“Clyde, what happened- who did that?” You took one look at the batons on the belt clips and put two together. “You… you two did that to him- you monsters. What did he do to you to deserve this?!”

You shook them off and rushed to his side, rubbing his shoulder and trying to get a good look at him. The two staff members labelled with Murkoff’s name just stood there as though they were waiting for good news.

“I can’t believe it. You two should be ashamed of yourselves.” Tuning back to Clyde, you lowered your voice so only he could hear it. “We’ll find out how to get them fired, no way someone who could do something like this should be allowed to keep their job; they should be arrested.”

“I’m sorry.” Clyde said your name as softly as he could over the ruckus.

Then, he turned away and limped out of the room just like that, leaving you alone. You should have called out to him, should have done something to stop him from running away, but you didn’t.

“Come on, Dr. Easterman wants to see you.” One of the men took your arm.

At first, you almost let him take you. But once you stepped over the threshold, you tugged at him. “Wait, what about Clyde? I need to stay with him, he did the same when I was unwell. You can’t hurt people like this, it’s inhumane!”

“Keep talking, pretty girl, you’re gonna need it.”

The other guy chuckled. “Yeah, she’s in for it now. The future ain't lookin’ so bright.”

“Shh! Don’t tell her that, asshole.”

“Easterman?” You couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t comprehend Clyde’s sudden departure. “Why does he want to see me right now, can’t it wait?”

The staff ignored you and walked you through the tunnels to a service elevator in your silk dress and no underwear. Hardly dressed to see the man you’d been waiting for all this time.

“But… what about Clyde?”

Where did he go? Why did he just leave me?

Entering the elevator seemed more like a bad thing than anything good, and the disorientation of a section of events missing from your brain removed something you could never get back.

Time.

Hopefully, Easterman had the answers to what the therapy was really about.

And possibly answers of when you could get out of here

The dreams of settling down were entirely scattered.

Chapter Text

Why would Easterman want to see me now of all times when I’ve been asking to see him throughout my entire stay here?

It could have been the result of Clyde’s attack, possibly interviewing you from an eye witness account. Though by how you were dragged along the hallways to an office that seemed vaguely familiar, it told you to be wary.

To be cautious.

“Please. I really don’t think this is necessary-“

The room was darker than an office should be when you were thrusted over the threshold, the door shutting behind you harder than it should have. Then there was silence, a soul splitting pressure that made you wait for someone for speak and break it, anxiously tapping your foot until Easterman entered the room. Surely no one had their office this dingy on purpose.

What you could make out from the room-again, vaguely familiar-was a lack of personal touch, a cigarette and musk laden office hiding over missed opportunities to see the man behind the radio and television screens. It lacked anything that could determine who he really was past the thicker smog of poor lighting besides one solitary light source on the desk.

“It’s so good to finally see you after all this time, that red dress truly suits you.”

You jumped, back flat against the wall, hand clutched to your chest. That voice, you recognised yet couldn’t see anyone.

Still hiding himself from view, wherever he was.

“It’s… it’s you. Dr. Easterman.”

Right there. His hands came into view, cigarette drooling smoke and ash from its end. But nothing of his face.

“I’d prefer it if you call me Hendrick.”

Did he have any authority over you to request that?

“Why?”

He had not earned a first name, yet he spoke yours with such warmth as though he longed for it.

“Why not?”

You stood there, your back still seeking the support of the office wall against the agonising reveal that Easterman had not given you. You were yet to see his face and not knowing churned the lining of your stomach with an intrusive thought that maybe he had no face.

“I thought a doctor and a patient shouldn’t be on a first name basis.”

“Yet here we are.” He said, pulling on his cigarette in the darkness obscuring his face. 

The embers lit up a portion, but he could have looked like anyone without adequate lighting. Upon exhaling, he stubbed it out into the ceramic ashtray and left into the darkness. The office chair squeaked away from you, muffled by the anticipation.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time, sir.” 

“I know.” Your name sat on his lips like butter the second it melted on warm pancakes, something your body seemed to remember having a visceral reaction to. Not a softness, but a need to get distance.  “I’ve kept a close eye on you, and now your therapy is completed.”

“I thought therapy was talking it out, not leaving me in a room to rot in until you found it convenient… There’s a man, his name is Clyde. He was attacked, he needs medical help.”

You tried ignoring the subtle hint of frustration in his sigh, yet it was plain as day. “Mr. Perry will be just fine, I assure you.”

Perry. That’s his surname?

“He will?”

It came out as forbidden, something the doctor should not have been disclosing. Clyde should have been there to explain where he came from, not a man you were yet to see the colour of his eyes.

They were grey, dark grey like charcoal. Dust. Eyes sunken into the sockets as though he was yet to experience real sunlight for the first time. You had heard him over and over on the radio, the glass screens yet knew nothing about him. And now, he looked damaged, weathered, exhausted from a lack of nutrition.

“For now.”

“Wait, what do you-”

“We were lucky to get you away from him when we did.” He said, edging closer to reveal more of his face in the slither of light across the the top of the transom dove the door.

It didn’t quite equate to your understanding. “Excuse me?”

Easterman took a step closer as you did backwards against the door. “Clyde Perry is an incredibly dangerous man. He’s… killed people.”

No, that wasn’t right. Clyde may have been things you hadn’t seen just yet, but a murderer wasn’t one of them. A murderer wouldn’t just nurse people to health from an infection and do everything he did with you. It just didn’t happen that way. Ot side of this place, he was respectable, his job successful. He wasn’t someone notable like Gein or Glatman, just a human being. Clyde was gentle, caring, not a killer.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Of course you don’t. He played you, just like the… unfortunate others. Murkoff’s sources told me that he planned you as his next victim to consume with his... urges. That’s why he’s here, for therapy. The authorities handed him over to me to try it in hopes it would cure him, but unfortunately, he still has far to go.”

Was this the same man you were thinking of? “No… He helped me, he-”

“Seduced you.” Easterman stepped closer and this time you had nowhere further to go. “He seduced you and took advantage of your kind nature. I know how kind you are, how you see the good in everybody and it was thrown back in your face.”

When you had no words, he stole another step closer. “I see you for who you are. You’re perfect, elegantly poised and took to your therapy beautifully.”

You hadn’t realised you were crying until you were able to speak. “But… I-I don’t remember my therapy. We’ve never met in person until now. How could I possibly have completed anything?”

It could have been the mire of it all, maybe the sudden abrasive thoughts of Clyde and what motives he might have had though you were struggling to comprehend it. Proof was the logical next step, but as Easterman wiped away a tear from your cheek, your body eased into a daze.

“Dr. Easterman-”

“Hendrick, please…”

“Hendrick, I-I don’t know what to think.”

He was so close now, more than you realised. His head leant in, finger hooked under your chin to connect something bittersweet. “Let me show you.”

“My head hurts so much. I just want to go home, I can stand to be in this place a minute longer.”

Home, where was that? You hadn’t known home in a long while, and what hurt most was it being closest in Clyde’s arms.

A murderer, it couldn’t be.

“You’re home is right here, with me.”

That wasn’t right either. Anywhere here or the monotonous echoes of the sleep room, this wasn’t your home.

“No, I don't think-”

“It is, that's why you’re here in the first place. I was hoping you’d remember, but it still may take time to regain your memories.” The scent of cigarettes lingered on his lips with each syllable. “You’re my wife.”

You found yourself disagreeing before you could say it. “I was never- I think I’d remember.”

Dr. Easterman disagreed, running his hand over your arm to which you did not react to. “Your mental health degraded from the loss of your family. I thought it best you stay here until you recovered, which you have, but memories are delicate things. They can be altered by major life events and curry favour with the brain to destroy stressful points in our lives. Sometimes they never come back, but I assure you, you are my wife.”

“I’m…” You had no recollection of it.

How could you have no recollection of it?

Too busy chasing after a man who may or may not have been a murderer.

But if Dr. Easterman was who he said he was, who were you to disbelieve him? The entire dilemma had no room to take up the capacity of your brain, pulsing and pushing at the edges with all the information you wanted to ignore.

“I’m married?”

“Yes. I acted with love, my darling. I couldn’t forgive myself if Mr. Perry hurt you. So I pulled the plug a little early, but just in time for your therapy to conclude.” He paused, still touching you in dainty strokes of his fingertips. “I know a doctor shouldn’t love his patient the way I do with you, but I simply can’t control my unprofessionalism. I had to be the one to watch over you, my wife. I didn’t trust anyone else. It seems I was just in time.”

“You’ve been watching me this entire time?”

A sudden thrash of panic hit you, the entire time, he must have seen your intimacy with Clyde. If he did he wasn’t letting on.

“I love you. I always have. Let me take care of you.”

“You saw…”

He ignored it, maybe for the best yet his proximity spelled the opposite. You noticed how his fist clenched seemingly out of sigh at his side. “Only I love you the way you need to be loved. A firm hand, gentle gaze, swollen heart to pour my love inside of you. You’re so special. My special wife who withstood against the odds and came out stronger.”

“We’re married. Honestly?”

“Indubitably.”

The sensations across your body didn’t know how to react to his lips, they were hollow and so unlike Clyde. But perhaps it was because his actions were merely an act, right? His next victim. And Dr. Easterman… Hendrick, he was your proclaimed husband without any recollection, maybe this was just how marriage was.

Is this real life, or am I going slowly insane?

You didn’t push him away, unsure whether he’d send you back to the sleep room if you did. He never said it outright, nor did he indicate at all that might have been something he considered, however you couldn’t help but take note of it.

I don’t want to go back. I need to get out of here.

“Hendrick.” You said between a delicate peck from his cigarette swelled lips. “Take me away from here. Please get me out of here.”

Though you had pretty much believed him, your gut had reason to suspect him. If things went south, you could always run. It all depended on his answer.

“Of course.” His tone switched to a more cheery note. “I don’t want you staying here another second longer than you have to, but there’s something we must consider now.”

“What’s that?”

“This therapy is experimental, the government hasn't exactly allowed it to be utilised by the general population yet. So any mention of it could land you in federal prison. You’ll be placed into witness protection until they announce it, which could be a while. Anyone you knew, you can no longer have contact with. The Russians, they're always listening and letting them get their hands on this could be disastrous to the country. Do you understand? It was a risk I had to take to get you better.”

You couldn’t even remember if you had friends and family outside of this.

“More isolation?”

“Just for a little while.” Hendrick pulled you into his chest where the smell of alcohol lingered. “Only a little while. There’s on site accommodation where you’ll stay. I’m never there anymore since you were transferred here, but we can be a family again. We can return there together.”

A family, what did that mean to you?

“What did our family look like before?”

Oh shit, did you have children you forgot existed too?

He rocked you, stroking your hair as a comfort. “Just the two of us. But we were discussing children.”

To settle down. You wanted to settle down in some capacity. Having children with a perceived stranger did not exactly fit your vision. It made sense though, naturally after marriage, couples went on to have children.

“Children… So that means we really love each other, right?”

“Yes, you do. You love me.”

“I- and you love me.”

Clyde had never said that despite his suspected efforts to charm you and reel you in.

“Let me show you, darling.” 

Without question, Dr. Easterman-Hendrick-led you over to a small sofa against the adjacent wall in the dingiest corner of the office. You noticed the way his hand shook now and then. Was he nervous too? The inevitable was about to happen, yet sexual intercourse wasn’t taboo between a married couple though you had no ring on your finger like he did. Yet as Hendrick at down, you could not make eye contact despite his fingers tugging your own.

“Come sit on daddy’s lap.”

“Uh… daddy?”

He chuckled in the darkness, almost as hollow as his apparent affection thus far. “I’m sorry, that pet name came from you. Old habits die hard. I apologise.”

It’ll take time to get used to this. But if it’s true, then I must be dutiful. I must be willing to try. 

It’s what you told yourself, climbing on top of him, thighs either side of him as that silky dress rode up, touched by another man. In spite of the lack of light, you sensed the warmth riding up your cheeks though thankful he could not see it.

“It’s fine.”

And even with low light behind you from the perverted lamp that watched, you let Hendrick fiddle with his slacks, adjusting himself and noting his excitable breaths. His longing noises for no one else but you.

It should have been romantic.

You couldn’t quite place it.

“Come here.” 

Hendrick guided you up, lips on yours like a slow and passionate lover. Nowhere near as robotic as before. The position brought your thoughts one last time to Clyde, surmising where he had gone to and what reasoning he had behind everything. You guessed you would never find out, not by leaving the sleep room forever into the arms of someone calling himself your husband.

"You're wet already." He said, his fingers rubbing their way against you, coating them in your own slick wet and Clyde's... unfortunate timing.

Your husband was eager to consummate the immediate break in your isolation. As he guided you down, he pushed his cock inside you slowly with a pathetic whimper you never recognised. “My sublime wife. You performed your therapy beautifully. And like I hoped-” He jerked a little once you’d sat down silently. “Like I hoped, you came back to me, exactly as planned.”

“Hendrick, why didn’t you see me when I asked?” It was intrusive, yet it didn’t stop him moving you up and down on his lap.

It worked for a little bit, ignoring the wet between your legs and slow lurches inside you to please himself. The movements, the entirety of the act had a completely different meaning this time around. A husband and wife.

Hollow was the right word.

“You had to complete this on your own. Though, you were never truly on your own. I was always there. Oh god… Your body, it feels- I love you… I love you- I love you. I know you love me.”

“But I needed you, Hendrick.”

He ignored you, his words shivering to an invisible draft. “Say it. Say it- tell me you love me. Tell me you’ll never leave me. I love you too much to be away from you again.”

“Hendrick-”

“Say it. Please, dearest. Tell me.”

You weren’t sure of it. You couldn’t say those three words to someone you couldn’t remember. 

Though maybe you did and didn’t realise it.

So you spoke it just as hollow as he'd made you. “I love you, Hendrick-”

“Oh, fuck.” He gasped, jutting into you like his life had depended on it.

Hendrick held on to you with a firm grip, both arms wrapped around your waist in that red dress. His head rested on your breasts like luxury pillows in some hotel you would never afford to reside in, snuggling close and spewing muffled obscenities into the material.

And once the euphoric smoke cleared, incredibly fast, Hendrick almost choked. “I… I apologise for the eagerness of my body. It’s uh, it’s been months since we have shared an experience like this.”

So he had just finished inside you.

“It’s… It’s alright. It happens.”

Hendrick pulled you closer for one last kiss which was soaked in slow burned love. So absent.

Nonetheless, he was your husband.

He was your husband.

Your husband.

“We’ll have more time together, darling. Though there’s some things we must do before that happens. Can you promise me that you will do as I ask?”

What other choice did you have?

“Okay... I will.”

There was always the option of running if things didn’t work out.

You reserved that option as a last resort.

Chapter Text

He’d done it.

Hendrick had done the thing the others did not think was worth Murkoff’s time. And here you were, asleep on his sofa ready for the next step.

And what was Hendrick’s plan? To make you disappear. To vanish without a trace like smoke in a gambling den along with bad choices.

Though in order to make you vanish, drastic measures had to be taken.

In the palm of his hand, Hendrick took a dose of Lysergic acid, ignoring the tremor and chased it with the last remnants in his gin glass. Drastic measures called for questionable actions, ones only the hard headed could attempt.

Pain.

Oh boy, the overwhelmingly sensual pain.

Now, despite the pair of Murkoff staff posted outside his office, there was a particular point in time where they’d leave for the staff turnover. They were responsible for bringing you to your new quarters while you awaited sorting for transportation. However, you’d never make it there. Hendrick had the care package ready, stuffed into a little bag along with socks and shoes… And, fucking underwear. Yes, spare underwear because of Perry’s blunder.

Though that was a story for later.

For now, he’d prepared everything you needed to remain in the maintenance tunnels until he could safely transport you to his on site accommodation. You’d be safe there. Hendrick controlled the shuttle punch cards and could divert away any intrusive questions of his involvement. Because they’d never find you. No one kept the shuttle cards besides him. If either Avellanos or Scarfiotti wanted the cards now, Hendrick would barricade himself in this very office and live off of a liquid diet of his hidden stash of alcohol before handing them over.

With love came with great sacrifices.

My face… It’s worth it.

Pain.

Once he’d allowed the acid to bring him the guaranteed numbness across his cheeks and top lip, Hendrick pressed his hands flat against the wall to brace for impact. One thick whack against the wall, another, and another until his nose cracked and he spat blood from his lips.

The bodily reaction told him to stop, yet the Lysergic acid's chemical imbalance made him laugh. He wasn’t the type to respond to a light hearted joke, but something really tummy churning eked a chuckle out of him so abruptly he could have soiled himself.

Hendrick wiped the sting away from his eyes at the blood on the wall, the pareidolia morphing to look like Jesus himself. A sign that his ideals called to a higher purpose. Hendrick understood just how insightful all of his hard work had paid off.

He had you.

He had you.

After all this time, you were right over there on the sofa which could have been his bed had he put you there. You were full of him, he saw it dripping out of you each time you moved when he watched you closely.

What he mulled over in the dark whilst he prepped himself was how he was certain he wasn't the only one whose fluids were inside you. Though Avellanos outwardly denied it when Hendrick made an accusatory comment towards Perry over the television, he knew otherwise.

It called a lot into question, including Hendrick’s reaction.

Though the time to dwell on it would come later.

“Hendrick?” Your sleepy voice came from across the room.

As Hendrick let the pain sink in, he kept in the dark to hide his afflictions. “Yes, my darling?”

“I heard knocking.”

“Oh, yes. Uh, you’ll be moving somewhere else for the time being. There’s some people who have infiltrated the facility who want to take you away. I have to hide you.” 

The darkness kept him safe, comfy.

“Can’t I stay in here?”

He wanted you to join him in the darkness.

“No, I’m afraid you must use the secret tunnel behind my desk. It’ll take you to the maintenance tunnels where they won’t see you on the cameras.” He coaxed you over without revealing his battered face. “Come here, it’s time to go.”

“I don’t want to go back down there.”

"I know, it won't be for long."

Checking his watch, there were maybe ten minutes before the guards swapped. You blindly took his hand though hesitantly stood at his side, your sluggish breaths still pulling you from that sleepy haze, padding towards the back wall.

How anyone managed to miss this passage was infantile and braindead. Scarfiotti included. Hendrick didn’t use it often, hardly at all to be concise, but it had its merits for a quick exit or brief walk for space to think. Hendrick took solace in solitary confinement to improve his own critical thinking.

And he believed you would too.

Just a day of two. That’s all.

“I’ll find you when it's safe. Find somewhere and stay there, here’s everything you’ll need.” Hendrick handed the bag over from the desk while staying in the dark. The next few days were crucial. “Stay in one place and be quiet. Consider everyone out to get you, but you can trust me. You love me.”

“Hendrick-”

“I’ll find you.” 

Against his better judgement he kissed you, possibly smearing blood over your face. In his mind, he had marked you, not only sexually, but physically to anyone who might assume they could find you. You were his now.

His own property to keep and love forever. No one else would dare to have you.

Hendrick practically pushed you through the little passage hidden behind the stereotypically suspect portrait of a landscape he didn’t care for. The facility was partially built from the war. Full of surprises and built to last millennia. Once he’d closed the passageway, Hendrick chuckled to himself. It was possibly the acid, but most definitely the rush of pulling off the unthinkable. He had you down in a passageway, his own little captive of your mind and now your body.

It made his cock hard through all of the pain in his face. But that wasn’t the end of it. More proof, it had to be believable that you had attacked him and escaped his office during the change over.

More evidence. That being the way Hendrick slammed his two fingers-not his smoking hand-right into his desk drawer, snapping them at the knuckle. He expected himself to yelp or scream out in pain, but it only made him more erect and excited.

“Yes… Yes. She’s so perfect.” More laughing. “She’s perfect! She’s mine.” One more slam for good measure until the room started to spin.

Drastic measures.

He palmed his erection, rubbing with vigour as he watched the office door in wait. Counting down did not aid the pain, but gave him a time limit to touch himself and utter strings of pointless words.

Two minutes.

Swapping hands, Hendrick trained his eyes on that one spot and embraced the shooting pain from his fingers and nose, pulling his cock out for the entire room to witness.

Two minutes, then he was done.

His fingers trembled, bones rubbing together against the cartilage and wrapped firmly around himself. A deserving reward came from sacrifice. It came from the very blood, sweat and tears that Hendrick had given this facility and he took back what he was owed.

You.

No one could have you now, no one else would want you now that you were his. That you were taken by your husband. The ring to it was what got Hendrick off and the way you believed his word as gospel, absolutely diabolical.

No more journals. No more pulling away from him as though he were infected with polio. No distance between you that could be misconstrued as disgust, only acceptance.

In the agonising heat of his passion, Hendrick scattered his work papers from the desk into a flurry over the floor, smashing his gin glass against the wall and sniffed the dripping blood through his nose. The iron tanged his tastebuds and he moaned under his breath as he grew more impatient, somewhat ignoring the pain in his hand.

“She’s mine…” He said, grunting against the desk with tightened thighs.

One minute left.

“She’s mine… not his.” 

You belonged to Hendrick now and he’d endure his whole life taking on that commitment. Taking on you like a man would a pet to care for. He’d give you his children, his energy, his life to keep you.

His blood.

Hendrick spat in his hand, blood spaying across the table like an abstract Pollock over varnished wood and backbreaking research. 

“Yes… come on, I will show her just how much I’ll do to keep her.” He jerked faster, his whole hand one throbbing mess around another throbbing mess.

Closer.

So close.

Not long now until the show really began.

Hendrick practically fucked his hand against the table, gripping his wrist tightly and imagined you coated in the sprays of his blood and desperation to love you.

Fuck. He’d done it.

It came out in thick ropes as quickly as he had hoped even though he came inside you not long before. It spewed across the desk and its blotter, mixing with the red and heated breaths squeezing out of his chest. Hendrick had fucking done it.

You were right where he wanted. The facility- no, Murkoff was right where he wanted.

He didn’t even bother cleaning himself up, just struggled to adjust and make himself look somewhat decent for the outside world. The changeover was happening according to his watch and he only had to wait until the new staff knocked on his door.

Should I drape myself over the sofa? No, far too dramatic. I'll choose the floor.

It might have been due to his lightheadedness, but when Hendrick stood face against the wall where the blood was, he stumbled back onto the floor and waited with a massive thud to be noticed.

Which wasn’t long. “Dr. Easterman, we’ve been knocking it’s time to- jesus fucking christ! Get in here!” The man tugged at Hendrick’s suit and tapped his face to wake him.

“Oh…” He feigned disorientation. “She’s… she’s gone.”

“Dr. Easterman, what happened?!”

Being immobile caused the pain to intensify, he struggled sitting up and coughed the blood away. “She attacked me out of nowhere. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

He’d do anything to prove himself right and keep it the way he wanted.

“Shit- lock the place down.” One of them said, helping Hendrick stand with a wobble in his pace to the door.

It all was working perfectly.

“Can we do that?” The other hesitated, keeping the door open and pathetically fiddling with his radio.

“Look at him! Lock the place down and we can deal with it later. We need to get Dr. Easterman to the infirmary. I’ll take him, start searching this floor and I’ll come back to help.”

Yes. Perfectly. Hendrick just couldn't allow the board to know just yet.

"No... keep things quiet. If she hears the alarms, who knows what damage she'll do. Keep it between us."

"Sir?"

"Do what I've asked." Hendrick allowed the staff to walk him towards the infirmary with each weary step closer.

What was been better, was Avellanos in the infirmary with Clyde being seen to on the medial table next to a set of x-rays. She turned to the over the top display from the Murkoff staff and for once, her eyes widened in some sort of portrayed worry.

“What happened to you?”

Hendrick sniffled the blood from his nose and waited until the staff were gone. “An oversight. It appears that sedative may have sped up her cooling down period a little too quickly.”

“So, she attacked you?”

“She was spooked…” He sat down and leant onto his self-inflicted throbbing in his face. “A chemical reaction perhaps. Maybe she didn’t have enough time to factory reset.”

“Well, like Wernicke said, the memories can’t be altered after exposure to the Thalidomide. Why did you rush things?”

Avellanos took iodine from the table and slapdashingly applied it to a cotton ball to dab his nose with. She didn’t get it. She never would. The entire point was to allow you to reset after an outburst, Hendrick just sped up the process. But Avellanos was a perfect alibi.

Hendrick winced. “Like I said, it was an oversight. It’s all part of the trial phase and it avoids future problems ending this way. The issue now is that she’s gone. She’s somewhere in the facility and we need to find her before she gets any ideas that she can leave.”

“You were in the office the entire time?” Perry wheezed, clearing his throat behind the ice pack on his face.

"Yes." Avellanos said. "He never left his office. I was there the entire time until the guards stood by the door. That much I can say." Alice Avellanos was a fantastic alibi.

Hendrick had ignored the bloodhound bastard until now, but questioning him like that? Unforgivable. He turned, ignoring Avellanos’ barely passable first aid impersonation to cut eyes at the man looking worse for wear.

“You did what I expressly asked you not to do, and you dare to question me?”

“Wait, what did he do?” Avellanos got in between them, almost knocking the iodine over. Not defensively, just to separate them, but Hendrick was in no mood to be civil.

“Would you care to tell her how you ejaculated inside our Murkoff Swallow that was supposed to change this country’s future? Or should I?”

Perry’s mouth opened, then closed. That proved it.

“Did you actually do that?”

He rolled his neck from side to side and coughed, rubbing his throat to avoid Hendrick’s eye contact. “Like he said, an oversight.”

“Jesus, Perry. And this had to happen at a time like this- we’ll deal with it.” She pinched the bridge of her nose in the most animated way Hendrick had ever seen. “If one missing wasn’t bad enough, now your little project goes off the rails? The board won’t like this, Hendrick.”

“The board doesn't need to know. What’s one more? We’re still in the same boat here-what do you mean one missing wasn’t bad enough?”

“Clyde Perry’s report. The investigation concluded an hour ago. Someone’s definitely escaped the trial environment from the docks.”

Two missing people. Two missing people on Hendrick’s fucking watch. Was it because he was so infatuated with you?

No… he didn’t create the trial environments.

“It’s a boat that’s sinking.” She said, the unimpressed look boring into Hendrick’s battered face.

“One we need to repair before we take on too much water.”

Someone’s missing already... Fucking-fuck!

“And how do you propose that?”

Hendrick glared at Perry through the dissatisfactory, wet sting by his eyes. “Give the bloodhound two scents to sniff out. I’m sure he’ll take to it like a duck to water.”

Chapter Text

Someone else had possibly escaped.

What poetry.

What a fucking farce. Hendrick could not believe it.

“You want me to find her.” Perry tried clearing the resentment from his throat.

Someone had potentially escaped the trial.

No… no fucking way.

“And question her, do whatever it is that you want. Look at what she did to you- to Dr. Easterman.” Avellanos pointed at Hendrick as some sort of presentation. “Surely you want someone to take it out on. Have at it. She’s no use to us now.”

It appeared that Avellanos was on the same page as Hendrick. He watched her work that magic she dealt out as easy as breathing, as simple as the alphabet. And men always bent to it. The magnetic aura only Hendrick was immune to. In spite of his injuries, Perry watched her every movent, his blind eye more attentive than his good one.

That was damaged too.

A pretty good shot. It’s exactly what he deserves for defiling her.

“She won’t get far, not with her anger the way it was.” Hendrick pulled away from Avellanos’ hard touch with the cotton ball. 

Who knew she could be so attentive?

It reeked of ulterior motives.

And someone had potentially escaped.

“She’s displayed where her priorities are. She’s scared, desperate. Who knows who she might kill to get out.”

And if someone had actually escaped? Would they meet?

Fuck. Fuck-fuck, shit- fucking shit.

“Her anger is stemming towards you, isn’t it?” Perry knew better than to say it. “That’s why she called out your name. That’s why she attacked you.”

He knew fucking better than to question him.

But before Hendrick could utter a syllable, Avellanos spoke in her corporate voice. “All research is research. Whether it explains the actions or not, all we want is results. She failed. That’s all there is to it. She's no better than livestock right now.”

She glared over at Perry in a way Hendrick couldn’t see and Perry nodded to the best of his ability and continued pressing the ice pack to his eye socket you had smashed.

That’s not all there was to it.

“Yes, that’s all there is to it…” Hendrick eyed Perry closely too.

Too much to discuss.

“So until we know more, this stays between us. And only us.” The silence said everything. “Not the board, not Moses Scarfiotti. No one. No one needs to know about this until we have solid facts first.”

To secrecy.

The room's quiet pin drop affirmed it. To secrecy until you and the missing reagent were found. But you were never going to be found, and Perry would fail.

Hendrick knew there was something bubbling under the surface between himself and Perry, almost a triangle of stirred emotions and general arousal. Perry was planning something. Hendrick had already seen that the two of them-as well as Scarfiotti-were going to try and pin all of this on him.

And now a second reagent managing to get away from Scarfiotti’s rat trap… No way. Impossible.

Hendrick processed one thing at a time, controlling his breaths deep enough not to make himself light headed. “She won’t get far, let her find her way back to me. And she will. Just be there to catch her when she does.”

“It’s settled then. The injuries don’t look so bad- what happened to your fingers?” Avellanos finally noticed.

“These?” He lifted them up to study. “A parting gift after she smashed my face into the wall.”

Hendrick wondered what the scenario would have looked like. Where you may have lacked in untrained physical strength, you sure made up for it with desperation. 

God… the desperation.

She cringed at the way his middle finger had veered off to the right in need of splinting. “Yeah, that I won’t fix.”

“I can fix them myself.” 

“Leave it to the med staff.”

Hendrick could do it. He remembered how Irene set his finger after he’d dislocated it from trapping it in the front door of the old house. Unfortunately, he was never much of a locksmith. 

“This second reagent… is it really true? There’s two people missing?”

Hendrick couldn’t fully comprehend it. Perhaps it was the shock of his injuries, that it would sink in tomorrow and he’d end up losing it. Yeah, shock.

Avellanos sighed, practically ready to leave the room dramatically. “Pusher… they’ve been interrogating him today. Whoever it was, managed to remove his mask. But, he’s a dead end.”

“Mr. Perry, you have been a busy man the last few days.”

However did he manage all that work while remaining in the sleep room with you? Hendrick wanted to stay furious yet his ability to be in two places at once was fascinating behaviour.

“I’m efficient.” Then his response reminded Hendrick why he was entirely the way he was in the first place.

Hendrick sucked the air in from the room to emulate his cigarette he did not have on his person. Someone missing, and you, left to your own devices on one huge risk.

What a shit storm.

Though on secondary objectives, if Clyde Perry managed to find this reagent, then he’d naturally make an example of them.

The Jaeger.

An idea he’d been toying with. Hendrick saw it in his hallucination of you, that grotesque beauty entirely enraptured in one person. A possible candidate for the future, the Murkoff presence representing within the trials.

The Jaeger had been a dream of Hendrick’s for quite some time though he had kept it to himself.

If someone was intelligent enough to escape the trial environment, then perhaps they were strong enough to withstand the process as well.

But escaping the trials was fucking impossible. Scarfiotti promised. The paperwork… the test runs, the science.

Trust in someone else's science and it’ll bite its maker in the ass.

But this was on Scarfiotti, not Hendrick.

“Then it’s incredibly important to leave it between us. And find them before things go awry. What an immaculate time for errors…” Hendrick pulled at his finger, wincing at the bones grinding. “As for the girl, find her quickly. I still need to write my report on Project Swallow to the board of its failure. I’ll be informing them of her trip to biohazard. She’ll already dead on paper, that will end the issue there, then dispose of her when you do find her.”

It was a cheap ploy to keep natural suspicion at bay, if he showed no inclination towards you, then Avellanos might keep her nose out of it. Clyde Perry would have other tasks to keep him occupied.

“We can have a body processed in the meantime for the paper work.” Avellanos was way onboard, Hendrick had never seen her so compliant when her ass was on the line. “Then we can focus on the issue with the trial environment.”

“This is impossible.” Hendrick said, shaking his head and resting it into his hands.

God, he needed sleep. Real deep, in a bed, not his chair.

“A cover up.” Perry said, sliding off of the table and leant on his cane as though he was someone of importance. 

“Something to keep the board at bay until we can sort this out.”

Perry nodded as a bloodhound always did, the resident rat catcher just waiting for the scent to start the chase. Blood between his teeth until they touched. All battered up by the rat he was chasing, though a ghost in his eyes.

He’d never find you.

It was the other reagent Hendrick had to worry about.

“Good. Then I’ll leave you two to get whatever drugs you need to fight the pain and get back to work.” Avellanos left with the wind in her sails, strutting out of the infirmary as though she had the entire conversation under control.

“This entire week. My worst fucking nightmare.”

Perry huffed with what sounded like amusement. “When you play the games-“

“Games?” Hendrick physically reacted to him. “Games, after what you did to her? If she conceives-“

“What will happen? You want her dead anyway, right?”

“It's more complicated than that.”

“It was an accident. Though you know the reagents want to go at it like rabbits in the sleep room, why didn’t you provide her with protection?”

The other reagents were not the issue here.

“You defiled her.”

“I was doing the job you asked of me. Y’think I wanted this gig? I have plenty to do in my line of work besides playin’ babysitter. You were hell bent on using me because you don’t trust anyone else- you barely trust me as it is-“ 

Perry coughed, gasping on gravel over the table. He dropped the ice pack on the floor and Hendrick could have sworn he saw his eye throb around the swelling.

He wasn’t wrong. Hendrick couldn’t trust a soul in this place to understand his vision or his relationship to his reagents; his children. He never expected them to either.

They’d never get it. The pathological idiots only care about results, not the trust, not the love I have inside them. My children. My family. My loves.

“She called out your name. She knows you’re behind all of it.”

Again, Perry wasn’t wrong. Likely, during an aggressive episode, you had figured it all out. The thalidomide side effects permanently suppressing your memories when you stumbled into your fugue state, only bringing out the truth during peak times of sexual violence.

A monster. A caged monster for the key Hendrick possessed, that he controlled.

“She’s confused.” Hendrick said, pulling gauze off of the side table and biting it to set his finger straight with a crack and no pain relief. It shouldn’t have excited him, yet it did.

A splint against the swollen joints and gauze pressure stole a breath or two in order to suppress it from Perry.

“When she’s aggressive, she’s figuring out where she is in the pecking order, like animals do. She’s relatively low down, but if she figures out what she actually is, then we have an issue.”

Clyde adjusted his suit between them to muffle whatever it was that made him uncomfortable. “Figures out she’s been made into a sleeper, or that she was previously a Murkoff drone?”

Either would be catastrophic for Hendrick. There was only so much Thalidomide he could use up in the stores once you were effectively ‘dead’ before someone would notice the discrepancies.

“That is irrelevant. She’s failed, therefore she has to go. We can start again- the board, I’ll talk them round. The idea is too fruitful for them to ignore. Sampson kept fighting until he defeated the Goliath. We are Murkoff. We don’t give up after one short fall, we make it better.”

Anyone could have sliced the pressured atmosphere with a butter knife, thick enough to spread on toast. Clyde Perry watched Hendrick directly, obvious in his periphery and said nothing to him.

Dead quiet.

Stolen opportunities.

“When I find her.” Clyde limped away from the medical table. “They want her in for Ex-pop if she failed her trials. I guess that’s about to happen.”

He couldn’t react to it. If he dared, Perry’s indirect accusations could come to fruition. He bet this was Avellanos’ doing. Trust the fucking Italian. Of course Perry listened to her. Ever since she’d given him that easy ride away from the collections department, he was so far up her ass that Hendrick couldn’t quite pinpoint where he finished and she began.

The woman would sell him out in a heartbeat for a brand new rosewood bar for her office. The poor man actually assumed she’d have his back.

Not a chance.

Alice Avellanos would sell her own mother for a bottle of Macallan if the situation called for it.

Tight bitch.

To keep face, Hendrick said, “maybe we’ll discover a new specialist. If not, I’m sure she’d make a good grunt. She can still be a part of our family.”

Perry seemed to buy it, he said nothing else on the matter and hobbled towards the door.

“Put ice on your hand, or you won’t have a hog's chance in hell to fill out all the administrative paperwork you’re about to get.”

Hendrick stared at him, mouth open and lingering as he disappeared out of the room. He would have extra paperwork? He would suffer consequences? He would be held responsible?

“That bastard… bastard!” He swiped away the rest of the medical equipment with a clatter over the linoleum. “He thinks he can trap me into admitting fault?!”

The table screeched against the floor, echoing the room that did not argue back.

“I will never admit fault for giving my children the best!” It didn’t matter that his face was on fire, or that his hand stung in an ice bucket. That white hot ache was the only thing grounding him.

For a moment, and then it failed miserably.

“I will never surrender to these blithering fools that my children are worthless and deserve less than what I give them-they will never distrust me and will not turn against me!”

Hendrick simply refused to believe that someone had managed to escape the trial environment, it had to have been an error from the investigation. 

It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t have come at a worst time.

How could Hendrick keep this quiet whilst also having you missing behind closed doors?

His patience had rested paper thin on the pressure amounting on his shoulders. You may have completed your therapy, but the long game was far from over.