NREM

Observation 1/

No smoking was permitted in the observation chamber, but no one paid the sign outside the door any mind. Smoke lingered in the air, and the scent of tobacco permeated every object like some misguided air freshener.

Ruth was used to it. She herself didn't smoke, but she found the smell comforting, though it also made her feel slightly sick.

Three other people were in the chamber with her. The plump, greying man beside her was Site 7 Director Norfolk, and the other two were security guards—for all intents and purposes, decoration.

Separated from them by a control panel and pane of thick glass was Subject 411. A 19-year-old Asian female, her file at the London Hospital, backed up by the University of Westminster, stated her name was Tingting Wen. She was a Chinese exchange student, with no family in the UK.

In other words, a cover story would be simple. Some thankless civil servant in the Public Relations office was probably taking care of that already.

She was conscious but restrained by her wrists and ankles in a dentist chair-like contraption, blindfolded. A single white light shone down on her. Ruth had expected the subject to be struggling by now, but she remained still and silent, like a cornered animal.

Primal fear, or strategy? Just what are we dealing with, here?

"Rather upsetting, isn't it?"

Ruth looked over to Norfolk. He was staring ahead at Subject 411, nibbling the eraser of a pencil, shaking his head in disapproval.

"How do you mean?" she asked. "You and the board insisted she was responsible for the massacre. This is the maximum comfort the subject should be allowed."

He stopped chewing the eraser. "That's what's upsetting, though. Someone like her... It almost seems like a mistake."

"Shouldn't you be more assertive, Director? Now really isn't the time to be second-guessing."

Norfolk sighed. "Of course, you're completely right. Well, shall we begin the interview?"

Ruth answered with action, first flicking a switch on the control panel labeled RECORD, then pressing the red button labeled TALK.

"Subject 411, are you conscious?" A rhetorical question, but a good starter. Through the glass, she heard her own voice buzz over the speakers. It was altered to a pitch lower than her natural range—a technique to unnerve potentially dangerous subjects.

The subject raised her head. Her movement was slow and unsteady, owing to the tranquilizers still in her system. All was going according to plan, at least for the moment.

"W–where am I...?" she asked, voice slurring over the booth's speaker. "Why did you call me that...?"

"You are in custody. You have been linked to the Berwick Street Massacre on January 16th of this year. We are going ask you a series of questions. Please answer them as truthfully and accurately as you can."

"P–please...please take this blindfold off! I swear, I didn't kill anyone!"

"Subject 411, if you do not cooperate we will be forced to put you in isolation. Answer our questions and you may be allowed to go free. It's your choice."

Silence. A moment of indecision. Then...

"I...I'll do what you want."

Most satisfactory. Subjects weren't often this cooperative so early. "You can begin by telling us what you were doing on the morning of the 16th."