@fhynite said: ' why don't you distract me? '
He’ll never grow used to the lamps down here. In an effort to simulate a diurnal progression of light in these rooms, on account of being so deep underground that the whole tract can be crushed under tons of soil and steel at the push of a button, the engineers have opted for a strange yellow tint to the UV within the cells. That leaves everything else, however, with a sickly, unhealthy sheen. Balthazar resists the temptation of rubbing at his temples, pincered fingers mercifully pushed against his eyeballs until the pressure from without cancels the pressure from within.
There is the usual hum and buzz outside the hydraulic door. Scientists and staff members go about their business, scuttling like so many ants in their sterile mine shafts. It is good to hear them, the many souls and bodies that power the juggernaut of his institute. Sometimes he forgets them. Sometimes he remains in his ivory tower until all brushes with society turn into unnecessary diversions. It is always more comforting that way, to imagine himself the sole arbiter, the sole scapegoat. A misguided benevolent impulse, thinking like that. Nobody is here because he is keeping them hostage. There is always a choice, even if the options aren’t all equally appealing. The nature of humanity’s survival instinct is none of his concern.
As of right now, he is relatively certain that is standing on the correct side of the glass wall. Balthazar glances over the rims of his reading glasses, looks up briefly from the status report in his hands. Subject #68-421FX has been more than unruly of late. Two guards have found their demise in her loving embrace in the last month. But the cynic in him would note that there are worse ends to meet than her.
Pretty thing, fiery and restless, the widow stalks up and down her enclosure, pacing the room like some caged jungle cat. She is well constructed, well designed, with that domineering, demanding air that insecure men crave. Women, too, he corrects after a glance at the chart. She’s been a point of interest for some time now, baffling his researchers. A bonafide succubus, to use a Christian term, is not so easily tracked, let alone captured alive. They tend to gain the upper hand. But here she is, his personal little miracle, eagerly serving every cliche. Balthazar prefers not to reflect on his own fascination with this creature. She is easy to talk to. But he would bet that’s what they’d all say, if they could.
“Is that what you’re lacking, Francisca?” Balthazar slaps the back of his fingers against the notepad in his hand. It’s an accusation he need not define. “Distraction?” His voice is even, rarely given to coloration, but the displeasure rings through. The director steps closer to the glass wall, lets his eyes track her movements, the dance of veils she does for any audience.
“It’s certainly not that you’re starving in our care. Is death row no longer to your taste, do you need to come after my employees now?”
