“This is the martian-born?” the muffled voice could be heard faintly through the glass.
“They all are, I thought that was part of the design?” said another.
“Quite a stock…” replied the first.
With a wave of his hand the frosting on the glass focused, allowing them to see through into the pen. Into my pen.
The two men stood staring, as if they were waiting for a trained kubrow to perform a trick for food.
“Why have you done this to me?” I ask, my voice hoarse with the infection.
“You’re feeling something?” the tall one asked, I couldn’t focus on him. The light was too bright an my eyes couldn’t adjust – I was fatigued, despite spending most of my day sleeping.
“Nothing more than a tickle in my throat” I lied, “but I know what you’ve done”.
The short one grimaced, clearly uncomfortable at the zookeeping position he had been given over this particular herd of cattle, and waved the frosting back onto the glass again.
“I can’t do this,” I couldn’t tell which one uttered the words, but my guess is the short, disgusted one.
A bang on the glass preceded the smaller one running away out of my restricted sight. Must have been him. I remained hunched against the wall, motionless as always, willing myself not to clutch my torso and double over into a more comfortable position.
The room was clean, clinical, boring. Brightly lit and built with frosted glass on three of the four walls. Nothing was in my cage, save myself. Nothing to distract my mind. Nothing to busy myself with.
I wanted to fail whatever experiment they were running on me, death would be a release at this point.
I can’t run, I can’t hide. It’s a slow, painful death.