Inspector Lunge was already awake and sitting on his bed when the soldier walked in. So that was General Aguilar: no pomp, no show, cut straight to the point as if with a scalpel. Yes, that was about right, clinical and dry and with a real sense of purpose, of an end, yet there was an edge of emotion to it, though one quite unlike any that Landel had chosen to display. Disappointment, faint disgust. Not quite so clinical after all, but hardly the emotional, scripted act he was used to hearing. And the feeling that had come with it, of the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, as though suddenly his every move was being monitored. You’re sharp, aren’t you, Aguilar? You want all of this under complete control- not necessarily for the thrill of it, but for the sheer damn efficiency.
Fascinating. Such change. Such focus.
Lunge would have just loved to meet him personally.
Rats trapped in a maze. He’d used that expression himself countless times before, but it was a surprise to hear it from the speakers. So they weren’t simply lab-rats. They had a far more specific purpose.
The order in the message was further reflected in the order of his new clothing, the uniform he’d woken up in. Clearly military, with the dog tags and new serial number (#14593677, no relation to the number he was given in his therapy session, he’d been through every possibility), far neater and more regimented than it had been before. There was even a beret and armband, the latter bearing the customary yellow smiling face. How’s that, Martin Landel? The beret, meanwhile, bore a single gold pin with the word ‘M-U’ written on it. ‘M-U’? What did that stand fo-
A brief search of his memory revealed the answer, and with it a dull thud in the pit of his stomach. CM-US. Used in reference to the nightshift experimental therapy. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, anyone for whom it wasn’t entirely necessary, but now…
That had been irrelevant, and he moved on from the thought swiftly and without (!) hesitation.
To complete the illusion, his inventory had also completely vanished. Confiscated? Possibly, but that didn’t mesh with the idea that the General wanted progress at night, unless this was a fresh start or progress had an entirely different meaning to the man. Neither could be dismissed. Either way, his suit, jacket, weapons and shield from the basement were all gone for the foreseeable future, and there was no point to mourning them.
He was impressed; the change was thorough, and without compromise. There was no illusion to the set-up now, no pretense whatsoever. One had to wonder how far that extended. Had the people of Doyleton known about this ‘purpose’ all along, or was this a secret shared only with the Institute’s primary movers? Perhaps not Marc, but Jill?
No matter. All that considered, it hadn’t come as much of a shock to see his new escort, and he came without complaint. There hadn’t been a morning announcement, but even so Lunge couldn’t be surprised by what they were to be spending their breakfast period doing: this was, after all, the new, efficient, hard-line Institute. No more toying with sedatives and threats. They’d even thrown in a little psychological warfare, separating out the troublemakers from the rest of the patients and lining them up like men facing the hangman’s noose. See? Look at them! They aren’t one of you- they did this to you! Crude tactics indeed.
Taking a scrubbing brush, Lunge knelt down by a bucket of water and began to scrub. Where was the point in arguing, after all? Battles had to be chosen here.
no subject
Fascinating. Such change. Such focus.
Lunge would have just loved to meet him personally.
Rats trapped in a maze. He’d used that expression himself countless times before, but it was a surprise to hear it from the speakers. So they weren’t simply lab-rats. They had a far more specific purpose.
The order in the message was further reflected in the order of his new clothing, the uniform he’d woken up in. Clearly military, with the dog tags and new serial number (#14593677, no relation to the number he was given in his therapy session, he’d been through every possibility), far neater and more regimented than it had been before. There was even a beret and armband, the latter bearing the customary yellow smiling face. How’s that, Martin Landel? The beret, meanwhile, bore a single gold pin with the word ‘M-U’ written on it. ‘M-U’? What did that stand fo-
A brief search of his memory revealed the answer, and with it a dull thud in the pit of his stomach. CM-US. Used in reference to the nightshift experimental therapy. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, anyone for whom it wasn’t entirely necessary, but now…
That had been irrelevant, and he moved on from the thought swiftly and without (!) hesitation.
To complete the illusion, his inventory had also completely vanished. Confiscated? Possibly, but that didn’t mesh with the idea that the General wanted progress at night, unless this was a fresh start or progress had an entirely different meaning to the man. Neither could be dismissed. Either way, his suit, jacket, weapons and shield from the basement were all gone for the foreseeable future, and there was no point to mourning them.
He was impressed; the change was thorough, and without compromise. There was no illusion to the set-up now, no pretense whatsoever. One had to wonder how far that extended. Had the people of Doyleton known about this ‘purpose’ all along, or was this a secret shared only with the Institute’s primary movers? Perhaps not Marc, but Jill?
No matter. All that considered, it hadn’t come as much of a shock to see his new escort, and he came without complaint. There hadn’t been a morning announcement, but even so Lunge couldn’t be surprised by what they were to be spending their breakfast period doing: this was, after all, the new, efficient, hard-line Institute. No more toying with sedatives and threats. They’d even thrown in a little psychological warfare, separating out the troublemakers from the rest of the patients and lining them up like men facing the hangman’s noose. See? Look at them! They aren’t one of you- they did this to you! Crude tactics indeed.
Taking a scrubbing brush, Lunge knelt down by a bucket of water and began to scrub. Where was the point in arguing, after all? Battles had to be chosen here.