Project X

Regrets (Or Lack Thereof)

Hannity sat across from me, hands folded loosely across his stomach and his elbows balanced on the armrest. The desk that separated us bore only the single folder I'd brought in with me, containing typewritten documentation of what had gone on during this first week. Isbell had waited until I was pinning everything together with a paper-clip before curtly informing me that Hannity expected all reports to be presented orally.

It had taken me all night to write and edit this report, eight hours of typing and shifting papers until my vision started to blur and my fingers spasmed and my neck creaked and ached with the effort of holding my head up. Still, I was glad to do something besides toss and turn for hours on end, desperate to fall asleep but also dreading the moment I slipped into that terrible, loathsome world my imagination had conjured. I didn't spend much time in front of mirrors as a general rule, but when I'd gone to wash my face that morning, the hollow-looking creation with saggy skin and thick black stubble in the mirror forced me to pause for thought. I resembled a world-weary variation of Droopy the dog, if he'd had facial hair instead of jowls.

I'd brought the documents along with me anyway, thinking that at worst, it would paint me as a thorough and hardworking scientist to Hannity, which could only work in my favour. Then I wondered why the hell I gave a tinker's damn about what Hannity thought of me at all. I suppose the need to impress authority figures was ingrained beyond excavation into my psyche, even if the authority figure in question appeared about as trustworthy as a snake with shingles.

"So, to sum up," he said now, picking invisible lint from his shirt. "It's been six days since you started this experiment. Adler is now minus an eyeball and showing no signs of psychiatric improvement, and McKagan appears to have broken you, rather than the other way round."

I adjusted my position on the chair. "That's a hell of a bleak way to look at it."

He didn't blink. "I think it's the only way to look at it."

"Well, I disagree." I took a breath, and added, "Respectfully."

Hannity leaned forward and placed his palms on the desk. I took that as a sign to continue.

"You're right, factually, that Adler's shown no explicit signs of improvement. And any future improvement he might make will probably have been slowed down by the, you know..." I waved my hand towards my eye. "But you can't realistically expect someone who's experienced what he has to just - you know, just heal in five days. That's unrealistic. We haven't started the psychic driving phase at all, yet, and - "

"What about McKagan, then? Do you think trauma-based mind control could plausibly work on him?"

I pictured him crushing my throat, spitting blood, smiling at me with that pit-viper look in his eyes. "Stranger things have happened."

"You don't seem very convinced."

Clearing my throat, I sat up slightly. "I meant, I don't see why not. If we use the right stimuli."

Sighing, using his nose to draw the air in and then expel it slowly after a short pause, Hannity appraised me in silence.

"The picana," he said at last.

"Yes."

"And the sensory over and under-stimulation."

"Yeah."

"Have you considered waterboarding?"

It took me a moment to reply. When I did, my voice sounded slightly hoarse. "I - I have not."

Hannity frowned. "Because...?"

My jaw worked. "Because....because..."

Yeah, why not, Saul?