“I find your willingness to remain in the cuffs without complaint admirable, but rather dangerous in this particular set of circumstances.” She looked at him uncomprehendingly as he produced a small object from his never-ending pockets, waving it quickly over her restrains until they fell away.
Only for him to snatch them up and return them to where they had previously hid on his person.
She was still sitting, her legs dangling into the open recesses of the below, but she could not seem to get herself to move. She simply stared at the flesh of her wrists, as if she had never seen it before, ignoring the urge to rub at it, to further upset the already reddened and abraded skin.
“What is your name?” the madman asked. She had not been expecting him to ask her that. Not when he hadn’t done so already and didn’t seem to have any particular interest in who she was as a person. He had his own order to things, and she was an inconsequential addition, one that would likely be disposed of at the slightest inconvenience.
He crouched, something he liked to do when she was seated, and because of her precarious position, there was no moving away from him. He was a little too close, and her breath caught in her lungs, sharp and cold.
He reached out, pulling her hands toward him, and she was certain he was going to replace the cuffs for her slowness to respond. And she hurt, in more ways than she had ever imagined, and she did not want to add to her pains.
“Clairy,” she murmured, giving him what he wanted, just as she had once before. It had not gone well for her in doing so, but she still feared his temper, whenever he lost his careful hold on his control.
“Clairy,” he repeated, as if committing it to memory. A simple name, from simple farmers, though when he said it again, she wondered if he was mocking her for it, and heat infused her cheeks, regret immediately seeping into her.
Why had she not made up a name? He would not have known. Unless he could somehow dredge up the employment records, but he had seen those destroyed along with everything else.
He would not receive her surname, or her planet of origin. On that she was firmly decided. There would be no chance of him hunting down her family as punishment.
“Clairy, climb down so I do not have to do it for you.”
Oh. Had he been gesturing for her to do so already? Her thoughts were growing more consuming, and she was losing her tenuous grasp on reality in the process.
She didn’t like the dark. Never had. Her fancies as her mother called them had always been vivid, terrible things, filling the potential void with all sorts of horrors that were determined to do her harm.
It made the desire to descend even less desirable, but there was already someone who wanted to do her harm in the fully illuminated part of the ship. What more could be hiding in the dark?
It was a question better left unasked, for her mind was quick to supply plenty of answers for her. More like him, waiting with grasping hands at the bottom, ready to show her what she was there for. Creatures he had sprung from the research labs, blobs of tentacled mutations that would clasp around her and take away her ability to breathe.
After she’d taken two rungs downward, the lights hummed gently and turned on dimly, shining more brightly the further down she went.
There were no other people, no nightmare creatures ready to kill. Just a ship, a small galley tucked away on the right, the cupboards set into the bulkhead of the ship, a small replicator the crowning feature of the space.
Her father told her not to trust those devices, never eat something that hadn’t grown out of the ground like a food source should, but she doubted she would be receiving much choice in the matter.
She was nearing the bottom and the madman had yet to follow. For a moment she was certain he was going to close and seal the hatch, leaving her in her new prison, so it was with hesitant hands that she released her hold on the ladder and stepped away.
Only then did he begin his own descent.
He was much quicker at it than she was, taking half of it in a slide downward rather than a careful choosing of foot and handholds. In any other man, she might have thought he was posturing, showing his prowess and attempting to impress her, but not him. He was about efficiency.
She stood, uncertain what to do now that she had the freedom of her hands again. Impulse bade her bring her hands and arms closer, to conserve the heat that was slowly being leeched away from her body.
The further he walked the more lights activated, revealing more doors. The only other open space had a short bench attached to the wall, she supposed for people he meant to transport. Perhaps that would be her space for the time being, while he slept... elsewhere.
She swallowed, not wanting to think about such mundane arrangements, as it made things far too real. But evidently the madman was prepared to confront such basic needs as he moved into the galley.
He made quick work of the keypad, punching in whatever code he favoured, while she stood, awkward and uncertain, her torn skirt growing more irksome as the skin of her thigh prickled against the chilly temperatures.
“Does it have to be so cold in here?” she asked tentatively. He had made fun of her for not requesting the removal of the restraints, but even now it felt so trivial to waste her few appeals on comforts when they should be used for pleas for freedom.
Or for him to refrain from killing anyone else.
But that had been useless before, so maybe she should focus her energies on those smaller petitions after all.
“It does not,” he intoned, watching her from his place in the galley.
The replicator whirred gently behind him, a comforting interruption to the silence that hung between them. She did not know how long it would take, her only experience with them during her stay with the Project that didn’t exist anymore. There had always been fresh options available, and out of respect from her father’s adamant warnings, she had stuck to it, but she’d seen others use the devices, some waiting longer than others before settling into the long tables that served as the eatery.
She supposed there was going to be little choice anymore about what she ate. She doubted he would care to indulge her father as she had.
He was still watching her, and she shifted, her teeth beginning to chatter. Not necessarily from the cold—it had happened to her before when she’d been particularly stressed, her body unused to the strain of perfect behaviour, of constantly being stared at and evaluated.
It had nearly come to that on her first day at the receptionist job, when she had so feared embarrassing everyone, embarrassing herself, of seeing a stupid farm girl that had no business being there.
What was he waiting for?
She peeked at him, considering, and then rephrased her question from before, not knowing what else he could possibly want from her. “Could you please make it warmer in here?” she tried again.
It got him moving, but there was the slightest twinge of reaction in him, as if he was not used to being asked so politely. Or maybe he just hadn’t expected her to have any manners. The thought made her bristle slightly. Her mama had raised her properly, despite what he thought.
And she supposed she could show him that, even if the cost was her pride.
He went to a panel on the wall, and she supposed that was the access point to the ship’s systems. Before she could consider how that might be of use, he spoke, not even bothering to turn. “It responds to my fingerprints,” he informed her, perhaps a warning, perhaps a threat. “Or an admin code, if you would like to be particular. But neither would help you access the system yourself.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” she told him honestly. “I just kind of figured I was stuck here.” With him. In space, where she did not particularly like to be. If he was satisfied with her answer, he gave no indication, though through the vents came deliciously warm air, almost hot in comparison to what was currently surrounding her.
She found herself being drawn to the edges of the room where the air seemed to glide downward,
warming first the cold, metal bulkhead before emanating outward. The replicator gave a low tone, presumably alerting its user that it had finished. Replicators didn’t make poison, did they? Or maybe not an outright poison...
But she suddenly worried that he was going to fiddle around with her head, filling her with pharmaceuticals until she was pliant and mindless, amiable to whatever mad thing he suggested next.
She was vulnerable, here with him, as he had a vast array of weapons hidden away, of that she was certain, regardless of the disparity in their sizes. She didn’t understand what he wanted from her, not really, and her mama had been sure to take her aside before she left and tell her in the strictest terms that there would be men who wanted to take advantage of her solitude.
What was she supposed to do about that now?
He took out a mug of something before he came closer. He did not take a sip, but walked nearer, and instinct had her take another step backward, bumping into the low bench along the wall, and she fell onto it with a gentle thump.
She didn’t like having to crane her neck so far to look up at him, to have to study him so closely to try to make out his thoughts through expression alone. But that was all she had, so she did.
And still he stood, waiting.
She swallowed, feeling lost and all the more panicked. He wasn’t helping with his silences, but he was a madman and she shouldn’t expect him to have the same civility that had been so carefully trained into her when she was young.
“Is that for me?” she asked at last, not knowing what else to do. It felt an incredibly rude thing to ask since he had given no indication that it might be, but there was little else to enquire about.
“Yes,” he answered simply, not extending his hand down so she could receive it.
Clearly he was trying to make some kind of point, and she felt incredibly slow and stupid for not fully grasping what it might be. She wished he would simply tell her, but if he intended to do so, he would have.
He wanted her to figure it out herself, with her thoughts overly full, her emotions muddled down with sorrow. And he wanted her to play this game?
“May I have it then?” she tried again, a bit more curtness seeping into her tone than she should have allowed. His eyebrow tilted a millimetre at her, and she hastened to add a, “Please,” to appease him—as she likely should have said in the first place.
He finally extended his arm and the heat of the mug was almost too much for her once it was placed into such chilled fingers. She peered into the murky depths, trying to discern what it might be. It was... brown, and as she situated the mug so as not to burn herself, the contents jostled in the cup, showing it to be a thin sort of broth. Unless it was a kind of tea...
“It is a nourishing broth,” he informed her, and she vaguely wondered why he hadn’t tried to force another question out of her. Perhaps he was capable of pity after all. “Heated since you are cold. I do not believe the nutrients were excessively damaged in the process.”
She brought it to her lips and took a deep breath first. She could not ascertain its flavour from scent alone, but it did not seem poisonous. It was more akin to what her mother might have brought when she was ill, telling her gently to sip, that the heat would soothe even the sorest of throats.
It didn’t, at least not for long, but it seemed to help all the same simply because it was her mother that brought it for her.
“You are meant to drink it,” he continued, eyeing her as if, yes, she was just that simple.
She frowned into the offering, wondering if she should actually confront him with her suspicions or merely sip obediently, regardless of the outcome. Perhaps hedging would prove a suitable alternative, and hopefully he could answer the unspoken concern. “It’s just broth?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that a complaint as to my selection, or a question regarding the safety of consuming it?” She opened her mouth, ready to appease, though she wasn’t entirely sure how she meant to do that, but he held up a hand and she lowered her eyes to the mug again, not certain she could stand looking at him any longer. “I have drugged many, therefore your suspicions are reasonable. However, in this instance, it is likely that your body would have begun to shut down without outside assistance. It is a reasonable conclusion that by providing you with warmth and nourishment, I am attempting to stave off your unconsciousness.”
Clairy hesitated, but finally took a careful sip, the trembling of her fingers making it much more difficult than it should have been. She should have answered him directly, for surely he was waiting for a verbal response, and she swallowed her small mouthful, allowing herself to savour its warmth, if only for a moment.
It was not very flavourful, but there was nothing overly objectionable either. It reminded her of some of the meals she had experienced on the home-world, when times were especially lean and seasonings too scarce or expensive. If there was something in it that was harmful, it was subtle, and she lacked the palate to discern its presence.
She took another sip, then another, trying to calm herself, trying to conjure the same kind of unflappable stoicism the madman seemed to possess.
And still, the man waited.
Clairy took a deep breath and made herself look at him. “You admit that you have drugged people in the past. Is it so strange that I would be concerned that I would soon be one of them?”
He continued to watch her as she busied herself with the mug of broth, giving no indication if her defence had displeased him or not. She supposed that was preferable to an outright rage, but that did little to settle her unease.
“Would it be beneficial for you if I promised to inform you before causing harm to your person?”
The contents of her mug sloshed as her head jerked up sharply. “Why would that help me?” she asked, more harshly than was wise.
He blinked, a calculated movement that was distinctly unsettling. “How would that not be a comfort? You would be able to eat what I give you without suspicion. You would speak freely without fear of unexpected consequences.”
“No,” she responded dryly, her voice infused with every hint of disdain she felt at his suggestion. “You’ll give me a warning before you decide to hurt me, which is just so...” Clairy cut off her words, realising she had gone much too far before closing her eyes tightly—not exactly expecting that he would hit her for her impertinence, but not dismissing the possibility either.
But no hint of violence came, just the oppressive silence that bloomed so frequently between them.
“I know what it is to live under threat,” he told her quietly, though she did not mistake the lowness of the tone for sympathy. It was more a tightening of his control, a hint that she had dislodged something behind his carefully honed veneer. “So yes, I would see that as a comfort.”
She bit her lip. She didn’t want to settle for such a promise. It felt like too great a concession, a humiliation and a degradation to even suggest it, but the alternative was not desirable either. She did not want to trust him, even with a promise like the one he offered, she didn’t think she was capable of extending that. Not to him. Not after all he’d done.
But she was tired, and the contents in the mug were already making her more so. Vaguely she wondered if that was his doing, or perhaps it was simply the heat in the room mixing with the comfort of something hot in her belly, or maybe it was her body telling her she could take no more of anything else.
She was more inclined to believe the latter.
“I would rather you promise not to harm me at all,” she pleaded, giving him one last chance to amend his offering. Silence was the only answer, so she took a shuddering breath, forcing herself to accept what felt stilted and unnatural. She could work on him, in her way. As best she could.
Since she did not think that she had any other choice.
5
The girl was... uncooperative to say the least.
He had managed to coax her into discourse, but only after long silences and too muc
h discomfort on her part, when he would have been willing to alleviate both.
But only with her cooperation.
The deal he had struck with her was a good one, one that the Project certainly had never offered to him or his kind. Punishments might be for infractions, or they might be for amusement, or simply the outpouring of frustration.
She would not have to fear that. And perhaps that might loosen her tongue.
He could not exactly name why that was of great importance, but it was. He did not like her detachment, her blank stares, the way she huddled into herself, small and quaking with every breath.
He had seen it before, been the cause more often than not, but something in him insisted that she was not acting as she should. Not if she was to be what he’d hoped.
She had asked for an even greater promise, and he did not begrudge her for it. It was impractical, given that he had not yet decided about her, and therefore unreasonable. But perhaps he could be more explicit in his intentions, ease her mind of whatever horrors it was constructing.
If she was going to do so, they should be based on reality. He knew that well for himself.
“I do not intend to punish you. You are not a child and I am not your keeper.” He tried to soften his tone into something coaxing, asking for her to believe him, believe in his purpose.
Not that it had worked before.
“But a vow is an important thing, so I will not be able to give you the one that you want. It is my desire that you remain here, unharmed until the end, but I cannot be certain enough to offer that pledge.” She stared at him, eyes wide and misty, and he wondered how much was truly seeping into her. “But what I will say is that you will be informed of any changes in that regard.”
Her eyes flickered away, and she looked... utterly miserable.
He had seen that before, in his people. Locked away in their cages, as if all life had simply drained out of them. A brief spark of... something flickered through him, but he could not quite give it name. He was only left with a bitterness, as if she should not have a right to look that way, not when she had parents that claimed to care for her, not when he had yet to do anything remotely akin to what the people she mourned had done to him.
Designation 261 (The Wholeness Project) Page 6
