Experiment 5475

"PLEASE LET ME GO!" the young boy shrieked, his voice raw and desperate, as the doctors began strapping his arms and legs down to the cold, unforgiving operating table. He looked about thirteen, thin and pale, like so many others they'd brought in. He'd been here for a month, discovered living on the fringes of town—apparently homeless. No one would miss him, a lonely shadow in a quiet community, which was precisely why they'd chosen him.

Ms. Fisher watched from a few feet away, her arms crossed, a detached clinical assessment in her gaze. She had to give him credit; he was definitely putting up a fight, as always. But it was all pointless. He was just wasting his meager energy. The doctors, burly men in sterile green scrubs, were bigger and stronger. This would happen whether he wanted it or not. "I don't want to die!" he wailed, his voice cracking. Ms. Fisher began to walk closer, her heels clicking precisely on the tiled floor, a sound that seemed to echo menacingly in the boy's frantic ears.

One of the doctors forced his head down, securing it into place with a wide leather strap. "Death is a part of life, boy," she whispered, her voice surprisingly soft, as she reached out and idly toyed with a lock of his dark hair. His breath came out in heavy, ragged pants, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drum against the sterile silence. From his peripheral vision, he saw another doctor pick up a syringe from a small, metal table beside him. The needle, long and glinting, shone ominously under the overhead lights.

The doctor filled the syringe with a bright blue, viscous liquid from a vial, then handed it to Ms. Fisher. She took it, her fingers closing around the cold glass. "But don't worry," she continued, her smile thin and humorless, "I make all the serums we use here. If you die, your death will be for the greater good." She looked down at him, her expression unchanging even as his eyes widened, shaking, and tears streamed down his temples. She pressed the needle into his neck, a sharp sting making him wince in pain. The doctors picked up their clipboards, their eyes fixed on the boy, ready to meticulously record every reaction.

Ms. Fisher took a step back, picking up her own pad and pen. This was the serum she had been refining since early morning, a concoction derived from the blood of the experiment that had escaped, the girl they now called Trixe. There hadn't been much blood left from the bullet they'd recovered, and every experiment since had been a dismal failure. But maybe today would be different. She powered forward, relentless despite the setbacks.

Suddenly, the boy's body went completely slack on the table, his limbs falling flat, inert. The doctors scribbled down notes, one of them checking his heart monitor. "No visible heart rate," one murmured. This was normal, according to the results of the previous tests. Then, the heart rate monitor began to beep, loudly, frantically. The boy’s body suddenly thrashed violently, limbs flailing against the leather restraints, guttural screams tearing from his throat. Ms. Fisher stood, utterly unfazed, her pen poised above her notebook. A horrific, smoking hole began to burn through the front of the boy's chest, searing through his white jumpsuit and leaving a gruesome, bloody mess on the sterile table. The sickening smell of burning flesh filled the room.

Her pen clenched in her hand as the boy finally stopped screaming, falling flat back against the table, eyes wide open, staring unseeing at the ceiling. "Time of death: 4:32 PM," one of the doctors stated, his voice flat, before covering the small, still form with a stark white sheet.
Ms. Fisher turned, her heels stomping out of the operating room towards her office. Once inside, she slammed the door shut, locking it with a savage click. She punched the hard metal of a filing cabinet, a muffled thud echoing in the small space. She threw her head back, yelling a wordless roar of frustration before hurling her pen and notepad against a nearby wall.

"Aren't you a little too old to throw a tantrum?" Don's voice was a low drawl. Ms. Fisher turned quickly, seeing him lounging back on the leather couch in the corner of her office, watching her with a raised brow.

She ignored his comment, smoothing her blonde hair back into its neat bun before walking over to her desk and sliding into her chair. "What are you doing here? Did you come to give good news?" She rubbed her temples; honestly, she wasn't in the mood for any more bad news.
He stood up, walking to stand in front of her desk, a slow smile spreading on his lips. "They are finally going to begin working on our finances. Can you guess who our accountant is? It's a very familiar face." He pulled a crisp employee card from his pocket, sliding it across the table toward her.

She picked it up, her gaze narrowing. "Isn't this...?" Don nodded, taking the employee card back from her, sliding it into his own pocket. "Nathan Thompson. The guy we've been looking for is our accountant for BMD Labs."
Realization slowly dawned on Ms. Fisher's face, transforming it. A small, disbelieving laugh slipped past her lips, growing in volume until she threw her head back, roaring with hard, unbridled laughter. This was so ironic to her: the experiment had run away right into the arms of someone who now worked for them.

She finally stopped laughing, wiping a single tear away from the corner of her eye. "Follow him. See if she's still with him. Report back to me when you have more information. And don't get seen."
Don nodded, a cocky grin on his face as he turned and walked towards the door. "You don't have to worry about that."
She smiled, waving him off as he left the room. Her mood had suddenly, dramatically lifted. The experiment would be back where she belonged very soon.