Sympathy for the Devil -manxman-mature-oneshot

A/N: I wrote this short oneshot for a Halloween anthology. There's dubcon.

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Tap tap tap on the sterile linoleum floor. Down the hallway, white and bleak and purely government issue. There are no windows. The lab is underground.

Milton has to drive for an hour to get there. He has to go through three security clearances, and then he has to drop down in a creaky elevator. Checking the last time the elevator was inspected (he checks every day), he sees... five years ago.

He leaves a note with his supervisor every time he clocks out, elevator has not been inspected. His notes go ignored.

"Hey, Milt." A coworker nods at him in the hallway. Milton nods back.

Reaching the locker room, Milton glances around. There's no one. He's the night shift boy, the one who's too low-clearance to do anything but observe. He shivers and pulls on his lab coat. Maybe one day, he will be promoted to day shift.

His eyes fall on the Board of Paranoia—rather, the mocking ode to all the citizens out there who were told they were crazy when they weren't. Demon from the Depths reads one torn out cover of a tabloid; The Devil is Among Us? asks another. The Board is covered with these, articles, and testimonials about the red thing that appeared five years ago and vanished just as quickly.  

Milton checks his watch, a worn leather piece wrapped around his pale wrist. His skin is almost translucent at this point... not surprising. The night shift, underground. Sleeping behind thick curtains during the day. The sun is a myth at this point. Not that Milton cares; it isn't like he didn't spend his whole childhood in front of the pale glow of the computer, ignoring the world outside.

Stepping back out into the hallway, he nods at several more scientists, all of whom are wrapping up for the day. He barely knows them. Older men, thinning hair, beady eyes. Probably Milton's future. Not that he cares.

The hallway is long, but it only leads to one place: The Room. His government's secret. The place where Milton has spent hours upon hours of his life just sitting and staring at vital signs.

Not that he cares.

He pushes the door open, and there's a whoosh of cold air. Stepping inside, his eyes are instinctively drawn to the middle of the vast room, because that is where the light is, and that is where the subject is, encased in glass and lying on a machine that carefully monitors his every breath.

Milton has never seen the case open. Someone else inserted the needles into the subject's veins, while Milton's only responsibility is to press the button at the right time.

"There he is," John says. John is there for the tail end of the day shift—he has higher clearance than Milton, although they're both the same age at twenty-seven. Milton knows this because John told him, unprompted.

Milton tenses when John reaches out and snaps Milton's clearance card off his lab coat. "New one, eh? They replaced mine yesterday. So many hoops, right?" He eyes the card. "Milton Davies. Level-C. Black hair. Brown eyes. Glasses." He sniffs and looks up at Milton. "Kinda funny, ain't it? It's not like black hair, brown eyes and glasses are the rarest thing in the world. Any ol' imposter could pull that off."

Not wanting to engage John further, Milton shrugs and sets his backpack down the table next to the machine.

"Eh, well," John says, rubbing his thumb over the ID. "I s'pose that's why they add the picture, yeah? Of course, if I had to describe you, Milty, I'd say you—"