CW: Dehumanizing language, medical abuse, medical whump, Facility whump, defiant whumpee, sadistic whumper, Some references to noncon
Nova’s pieces can be found in this masterlist
For @amonthofwhump, day 9: Medical abuse
-
"Here we go, little lady, time for round two. Just be a good girl and lay back for me, okay?"
"No! I don't want it, no, you can't make me, not again, not again, no!"
"Hey, now. You're not supposed to know that word-"
"No, no, not the needle, no no no-"
Her voice cut off when the asshole's hand smacked into her forehead, forcing her writhing body back against the padded bench. Some fucking doctor, she thought, kicking out and nearly succeeding before he ducked, the sides of his white coat flapping under the cold florescent lights. She felt her big toe just graze his brown hair and bared her teeth in a snarling hostile grin, her own thick, long black hair hanging in her face like a demon ready to drag him to the depths.
"What the fuck, did she not finish her first round?"
"No," The trainee's handler said, frowning more in confusion than anger. "She did. She was fine, coming along nicely, until she just lost her shit yesterday. She mentioned a cousin."
"They don't have cousins."
"Yeah, hence me signing her up for another round. Come on, Ninety-Seven, you know better than this. You've been my sweet soft girl for two weeks, what happened, huh?"
"Maybe I just got sick of eating you out-"
"Ninety-Seven! I can handle some rebellions, but crude language is subject to severe consequences for you!" Her primary handler grabbed her right wrist with gloved hands. She made quick work of jamming it up above her head and locking it into the restraints, the magnets catching with a strength 445097 couldn't fight, not at this angle.
She yanked at her wrist anyway, just to hear the little chain rattle, and tried to throw a punch. "I'll use whatever fucking crude shitty language I want!"
Handler Abernathy pulled just out of reach, some wispy brown hair escaping her severe bun to frame her face. It made the trainer pause at the unexpected softness it gave to her handler's usual severity.
"I don't want the needle," She said, plaintive now, trying for the soft puppy voice, I'll be good now sound that everyone seemed to like from her. She couldn’t make tears well up, but she could put the tremble of them into words. "Please… please, Handler, no."
Handler Abernathy softened, just a little. “Ninety-Seven-”
"Too bad." The stupid doctor grabbed at her other wrist and this time her heel caught his chin, sending him stumbling backwards, knocking over the tray of syringes and pale, faintly colored liquids lined up there. "Jesus Christ! That bitch-"
"Back off, Bill, let me get her handled," Handler Abernathy said, voice thin with effort as she managed to evade 444097's flailing legs and get her other wrist secured. "She does better for me anyway. Don't you, babygirl?"
"Please, please, not the needle, I can train without it, I can learn-"
"Hey. Hey, sweetie." Abernathy's glove was cool where the leather touched her cheek. The trainee raised her chin and opened her mouth for the kiss, Abernathy's lips picking up the trainee's expertly applied lipstick. She lowered her eyelashes, heavy with mascara. Her breath came in pants that raised her chest up and down, just brushing the front of Abernathy's black WRU handler uniform.
The oversized t-shirt meant she couldn't use it entirely to her advantage, but she tried. Sometimes a show of being overcome would soothe the handlers, calm them, get her what she wanted or just out of trouble.
"There we go." Handler Abernathy dropped to a whisper, lips moving against the trainee's cheek. "You'll be good for Dr. Bill, right? It's just a little prick."
"Not that little," Dr. Bill said, a little affronted.
"I meant the needle, dumbass." Abernathy groaned, closing her eyes in brief annoyance. "Just get it going, yeah?"
"Yeah, yeah. She knocked all of it over, give me a second." Bill rifled through a cabinet in the small exam room while Abernathy turned back to the trainee and smiled.
"Here we go, sweetie. Just give me that pretty little ankle… here we go…" The trainee swallowed, watching as Abernathy moved her foot into the stirrup and buckled her ankle in place, then did the same with her other leg. "There's my good girl. There she is. Much better, right?"
"Handler… I-I don't want the needle, please, I promise I don't remember anything, it was a mistake…" She jerked her left ankle but all it did was rattle in place. She tried to tear up, next, but she couldn't seem to make the tears come, no matter how her voice trembled. "I don't need it, I don't…"
"Ninety-Seven." Abernathy shook her head, tucking those stray little hairs the trainee had thought so pretty back behind one ear. "We all know you're lying right now. It's what your kind does. You start acting up with aberrant memories, we have to wipe them away again."
The trainee's eyebrows furrowed. "Handler." Her voice was a whimper, a whine. "Please, Handler, no…"
"There's that word again." Abernathy sighed, disappointed. "Bill, get her hooked up. Don't worry, babygirl. Just a couple of days should do it. Then… no more cousin, no more bad girl behavior, and no more no, huh?"
"Fuck you." She dropped the sad eyes and spat, watching with a thin thread of satisfaction as Handler Abernathy wiped the saliva from her cheek.
The doctor snorted. "Better for you, huh? Doesn't seem like it."
"Oh, shut up."
There was nothing she could do - the trainee could only shake in the restraints as Bill came over, humming cheerfully with an IV bag on a roller full of a cloudy liquid. The trainee's eyes latched onto the sight of it as her heart started to race.
"No, no please, please please please my name is my number I'm a pet not a person, I know, I know, I signed up for this all pets legally consent to giving up their former failed identities in exchange for a safe secure home and future I know what you want me to think, I know!"
"I know you do, baby, I know." Abernathy smiled, taking her chin in hand and turning her to look into her handler's sparkling eyes, drinking in her fear and helplessness as Bill wiped something cold and tingling along the crook of her elbow. "But, listen to me, honey. Listen. Say 'yes, Miss, I'm listening."
Now, the tears came.
The trainee's lower lip trembled as she swallowed and then said, in a whisper, "I'm l-listening, M-Miss…"
"Good girl. I know you know all the right things to think, to say. But…"
The pinch of the needle made her flinch, and Abernathy leaned forward to kiss her. Her handler's lips were soft but pressed hard, swallowing her whimper as the needle was placed and the first rush of cold fluid raced through her blood toward her pounding heart.
"We need to make sure," Handler Abernathy murmured, pressing one more quick kiss before pulling back, "that you don't remember any of the wrong things to think and say, either."
"Please… p-please, no, please don't make me do this again!"
Handler Abernathy turned and left the exam room, her boots clomping loudly across the floor. The tears came, now, and the trainee could barely see through them and her hair as the doctor grinned at her, staying behind to watch, for just a moment, as the trainee's muscles felt heavier by the second.
Once she slumped backwards, the doctor stepped up close.
"Be a good girl and just chill here for a while, okay?" He patted the side of her face. Each soft touch felt like a blow.
"Don't… don't leave me al, alone, please-"
"I'll come back once that perfect pretty head is so empty you can hear the wind blow right through it." He gave her hip a squeeze, then patted her thigh like the flank of a horse before he turned and walked out, too.
The door buzzed locked behind him.
Her eyes were already drifting closed, the Drip taking its terrible hold. The small sweet face she had been holding in her mind, of a cousin she had known, whoever she had been, was already fading.
Any chance Antoni wants to share how he's doing today?
He sits at the kitchen table, the fingers of one hand loosely curled around the handle of his mug of tea, the other hand supporting his chin. The look in his dark brown eyes is distant, seeing something far beyond the wall he seems to be staring at. His hair is missed and a little overlong, needing a cut but he hasn't had the energy for it.
Not for a while.
He doesn't see her at first, because she stands in the doorway off to one side, perfectly silent. It could be seconds - it could be minutes.
But when he sits back, he catches a flash of bright blue from the corner of his eye and jumps, heart skipping, thinking for just a moment he sees the woman, with her dulled eyes and dark bruises and incongruous luxury, the woman who wore furs and bloodied lower lips with an equal lack of understanding.
Then he realizes, time crashes its layers together, and his heart beats again. "Chort voz'mi!"
Nova stares at him, almost unblinking. She is, as always, impeccably made up, with a carefully casual updo and thrift store clothes that she wears like they cost more than this house. "Are you sad?" Her voice is oddly light for the question, vaguely curious, not concerned.
He swallows, shrugging, looking away from her and back down at his mug. He forgot the tea for too long - when he sips, it's lukewarm and too bitter. "No. Only thinking. Why do you ask?"
"I don't know. Maybe you looked sad." She shrugs. "Is there any breakfast left?"
"Mmmn. Somewhere. Fridge, maybe."
Her eyes narrow, looking him over. Nova looks at everyone like a math problem to be solved, and he wonders what calculations she has made about him. "You always cook breakfast."
"Yes, well. I did not today." He puts the mug down and winces as it cracks too loud against the table, but at least it doesn't break. "There is plenty to eat."
"But-"
"I did not cook today." His voice is chilled, now, each word carefully spoken with perfect articulation. "Please feel free to eat anything you like."
Her eyebrows raise. "Oh, you are sad. What are you sad about?"
"I do not talk about it."
"Why not?" She moves into the room with artificial grace, leaning over with her back straight to look into the fridge. When she turns to look back at him over her shoulder, curling tendrils of hair frame her face, just the way she wants them to. "Dr. Berger says-"
"You are not Dr. Berger. And I do not talk about it."
"Well... Fine." She pours herself some milk after smelling the top to check if it's still good, then turns to look at him as she drinks, eyebrows raising. "I don't actually care, you know."
That manages to pull from him a faint, faded smile. "Yes, you do. Or you would not ask."
"I'm just being polite."
"You do not care about being polite."
"No, I don't." She thinks about it. "But I care about you."
"What? Why?"
Nova doesn't answer. She sets the glass down, emptied and still marked with milk, and then swans out of the room, leaving him staring, baffled, after her.
CW: References to foot whump, blood, brief noncon reference of like three words.
-
Farrah finally can take it no longer.
She collapses to the floor, heaving air into burning lungs, feeling her collar cut tight against the soft skin of her throat.
Knees that had been locked or bent at just the right angle, toes that had held every pound of her weight, the muscles that had quivered and trembled beneath her thighs and in the core of her stomach all felt suddenly, agonizingly liquid. Only her heart still felt strong as it pounded.
The music still played, Swan Lake, but this Odette had no dancing to do.
"My God, Farrah," Her mistress says in disgust. "Just look at what you've done, the mess you've made. Are you asking for even more punishment?"
Farrah's long, thick dark hair has long since come loose from the sleek updo that had only barely held it back. Mascara leaves rivers beneath her eyes and her eyeliner is smeared from her desperate attempts to keep sweat from stinging her blind. Her lipstick is gone, left in kisses to her mistress or worn away by the back of her hand. Her tongue darts out and tastes salt and copper. One of the blows must have broken skin.
She can barely think.
Still, she looks. She has been ordered to look. Farrah notes with some dim sort of surprise, beneath the throb of pain, that her feet must have begun bleeding during the routine.
She had made mistakes in the dance, too many mistakes, and been forced to dance over and over again in punishment until she could no longer stand back up after falling.
There are patches of red littered across the floor. Every time she went on pointe and inched delicately in a line to one side, she had smeared them. They followed her move like a trail, a shadow. A swirling half-circle, stamped little ovals right near each other. Droplets that had been flung in arcs when one leg raised high.
There is a bright red spot on the leg of her mistress's pants.
"Oh, no," She whispers. The perfection of the white dance floor is marred with these stains. The safety of her mistress's home, where she is kept from the dangers that lurk just outside the door, has been broken. Blood is everywhere, and it is all hers.
Her mistress's anger bothers her far less than the promise of more pain that comes with it. She is tired of pain.
Her feet suddenly come to life with a screaming hot wrench and she whimpers, then screams as she flinches and her calves and thighs feel flayed, curling over herself in her leotard and tights.
Now she can feel the damp inside her pointe shoes. Now she can feel the way they squish when her toes reach the edge, like she's been walking in water.
Dancing in blood.
"I... I am so sorry-"
"Are you, Farrah? Truly?" Her mistress snorts. "Does it ever bother you when something hurts me like your mistakes do?"
No, not really.
Not that she'll ever admit it.
Farrah keeps her eyes down, knowing that sometimes her eyes give away that she isn't simpering and weeping at her Mistress's moods like so many others. She even shakes her shoulders a little, as if she were sobbing and hoping to hide it.
Her eyes, beyond the sweat, are dry. She's terrible at crying. She stares down at a stain already going brown. "I'll... I'll clean it-"
"You will." Her mistress snorts. "I'll get you a bucket and brush. You're hopeless, Farrah. But at least you're nice to look at when I'm on you."
She turns away.
"Mistress, w-wait!"
The woman pauses. She seems so, so tall. And Farrah feels terribly small, and it angers her even more. "Yes?"
"I need... I need bandages... please."
"Clean first."
"I'll get blood everywhere as fast as I clean it!"
"Not my problem. Figure it out."
Farrah watches her go - or rather, watches her mistress's legs, shapely in the tight ponte pants she wears.
If she could learn how to cry, her mistress might be kinder.
But she's never quite gotten the hang of it.
Being angry, though... that she can do.
Farrah runs a finger through her own blood, and carefully draws two short lines up and down, a curving one below them, and two sharp angles off the first lines.
imagine: Chris’s survival instincts kick in and he fuckin shoves Nova onto the floor and runs. Nova may or may not get injured from this. Chris then feels guilty about it and doesn’t explain to anyone what really happened because he knows she’ll get in serious trouble for that, possibly removed from the house even
(follows directly on this post)
CW; Noncon touching, noncon kissing, very brief emeto ref, Nova's fucked-up whumper discussed, past noncon reference, conditioned response, trauma response
"It'll help you feel better," She coos against his ear, and Chris's stomach does backflips around inside of him. It feels like his panic knocks against his rib cage like wings beating desperately to escape, but he can't do anything more than pant, mouth open, pulling in air that smells like Nova's shampoo and skin.
"It, it, it d-doesn't-" He can barely force out the words, his tongue nearly as frozen as the tips of his fingers, hands down gripped into his sheets, fabric twisted until the fitted sheet is pulling off one end of the bed. "Please, it's, it's not, please-"
"You don't have to be shy," Nova whispers, kisses his cheek, his jaw, back to his neck. She's already sucked a red mark there, right where a collar used to be, once upon a time.
When Chris swallows, he can feel the leather he hasn't worn in years, tight around his throat. He can very nearly hear the clinking of the metal tag at the front.
Her hand is untucking his compression shirt, baring skin to the air, to the heat of her hand. She's sucking on his neck again, biting down hard with her teeth, a flash of pain and then the heat and wet of her tongue, and he groans, disgusted and shivering.
Her other hand is hard at work, and he hates it, he always hated it, he never wanted hands there. Or anything. His wrists jerk, he wants to push her away or tap or hit or do something, but his body is still, only shifting his hips into the rhythm of her hands on sheer instinct from training that his body hasn't forgotten, no matter how badly he wants to.
"I'll make you feel better," She says. Her voice is so soft and sweet, higher-pitched, entirely unlike Laken's deeper husky almost-growl. There's no maliciousness in her face when she pulls back to meet his eyes, no sparkle of joy at how helpless he is.
There's something else there.
Genuine, open desire.
Is that better? Or worse?
"Nova," He says, voice strangled and barely-there, nearly a whimper, "You h-have to stop to, touch-... stop, stop, touching m-me, I can't, I can't do, I I I I-"
"But you were crying," She replies, rubbing her thumb over him between his legs in a way that makes his legs jerk under her weight, his breath catch in his throat. "Because of your fight. I can fix that. You had a bad day, and I'm here. I'll make it better, Chris."
Something filters into Chris's thoughts, cracks through the ice of his fear.
Don't be shy, sweetheart, I've had a hard day and I want something pretty to fix it.
She tucks her chin just a little, head tilted to the side. Her top teeth press, just a little, into her lower lip.
Tell me how much you want it, darlin'. You know that always cheers me right up.
"I want to do this with you," She whispers.
It breaks the spell.
Chris lets go of the sheets, puts his hands up, and shoves.
Nova falls backwards off of his legs, tries to twist and catch herself, loses her balance and goes off the bed, smacking hard on one side into the rug on the floor. She looks up at him, long hair hanging in her face, nearly covering up one eye.
He stares back at the shock, the lack of comprehension. His heart is pounding in his ears, the unwanted awful warmth in the pit of his stomach is still there demanding attention, release he doesn't want. He looks down at himself, face red with shame, and back up to meet her eyes as they fill with tears.
"I'm trying to help," She says, and he has to force himself not to apologize at how hurt she sounds.
"I-I... I, um, I know you are," He manages, with difficulty. Words are getting harder. There's a noise inside of him, more feeling than sound, buzzing against his fingers and toes, pushing against the inside of his skin. It makes the words he needs to say harder to find. "But, but, but, but this-... this, this doesn't, um, this-... doesn't... it, it, it it it doesn't, doesn't, doesn't... help me."
"Yes, it does." Nova sits slowly up. One of her shoulder straps is falling down her arm. "It's what makes us feel better, because we're-"
"Not," Chris interrupts, putting a hand up to stop her before she can finish. He knows what comes next. He knows.
Don't cry, Handler Petrus whispers in the back of his mind. Not my fault you had second thoughts about this, slut. Should've had them before you signed up to get on your back for me.
"I tried-... I tried to, to say no." He pushes himself further back into the corner where the headboard of his bed meets the wall. Pulls his knees up to his chest, hands up over his face. One thumb rubs over the healing scar on his forehead, the other hand runs back and forth over his hair, feeling the softness of it, soothing himself with the motion.
"That's how you do it," Nova says, sounding puzzled. He doesn't look up at her again. "One person says don't do it, stop, please, and the other person does anyway, and then everything is better after."
"Better for-... who?"
He doesn't really need the answer to the question. He knows.
"You," She says, pulling herself to her feet. He sees her as a blur in the corner of his eyes and he doesn't look. He feels himself rocking, forward and back - tries to still himself - then starts rocking again. "And my Miss. Her friends. Everyone feels better, after."
"Not me. Please, please, please go."
"But-"
"Nova." He looks up at her, tears building, and she looks back, wide-eyed and startled by the expression on his face. "Please. Please."
"You really didn't like it?" She tucks her hair back behind her ear. "But... you didn't?"
He shakes his head, slowly, digs his hands into his own stomach, starts to tap, desperate to soothe the disgust slithering around underneath his skin.
"Was I not doing it right?"
"I don't-... I, I, I don't, um. I don't like... being, being t-touched... there." He can barely force out the words, they're spat out like disgust and not the fear he really feels. "I, I-I don't want y-you to, to, to to to to... touch me. At all."
For a second, he thinks she'll hit him.
Her face goes very pale and then suddenly bright red in the cheeks, and she turns away from him, races from his room, slams the door shut behind herself. He hears the sound of her footsteps down the hall, another door slamming - probably the room she shares with Sarita.
His phone, long-ago forgotten on the bed, vibrates with a text. He looks over, but the words swim and don't come together. He can tell the text is from Laken, but he can't read what it says.
He can't read.
Chris slowly slumps sideways, against the wall, lets his head thump there once.
A rescued romantic attempting to initiate spice with Chris, and not backing down if told no.
CW: Recovering whumpee initiating spice with other person who reacts with panic, trauma response, noncon kissing, brief noncon touching
"Uh, um, I, I need to-... to go-"
She's on the bed before Chris can get up, her knees on either side of his thighs, nearly at his hips. She settles, a warm weight just above his knees, and leans forward, palms flat against his chest.
Chris's heart races, and she scratches her nails just a little over the soft fabric of his t-shirt, the thicker compression shirt beneath.
"No, you don't," Nova says softly, and her dark hair falls with a shimmer, a rush of shampoo scent around him. "I heard you talking to Jake. You had a fight with Laken. You don't have anywhere else to be tonight."
Chris swallows, hard. "You, you were listening to-... to to to me?"
"Did you break up with them?" Nova's eyes are overbright with interest, nearly glittering. Her hands move slowly from chest to stomach, toying up under the hem of his t-shirt.
He shudders, his stomach twisting in disgust, moving to push her away, hands at her shoulders. He can hear his blood rushing in panic in his ears, feel his racing pulse. "No, it, it's just a fight, please, please stop-"
"Sssshhhhh." She kisses him, then, and Chris goes perfectly still. Her mouth feels like fire, like he will burn alive. "Bet you've never been in someone," She continues, her lips grazing his as she speaks. "Bet you haven't. Want to try?"
Chris chokes on his fear, but he manages to shake his head. He can do that much.
She deftly pops the button to his jeans and pulls down the zipper. One hand slips inside, beneath his boxers, while the other moves to cup the back of his neck. He feels tears, and the saltwater trails down his face are the only part of him moving.
"Stop," He whispers. "Please."
Nova nuzzles down into his neck. He feels teeth against skin.
Jake taking the rescues on a day trip to the beach. A person noting Nova and becoming a little too interested, watching until he thinks her friends are occupied before sliding up and trying to - aggressively - flirt with her.
The man's shadow falls over Nova, but he has barely brushed his knuckles against her heated - and yet frozen - skin before a warm brown hand clasps around his sunburned bicep and yanks him backwards hard enough to send him to his ass in the blistering sand.
"What the fuck-"
"That's my girlfriend," Sarita says calmly, and something in the flash of fire in her eyes promises far more than a simple push or shove. "So keep your fucking paws off."
"Shit, why didn't you say you had a girlfriend?" The guy scrambles to his feet, holding his hands up palms-out, don't hurt me.
Nova is still staring, lips slightly parted, her dark eyes moving between them in shock. "I-... I didn't-"
"Why are you still here?" Sarita flicks her fingers at him. "Fuck off."
The guy moves away, muttering insults under his breath he doesn't dare say to her face. She lets him go.
"I'm not your girlfriend," Nova says, as if baffled by that alone.
"You are when assholes get too close," Sarita says calmly.
A seashell catches her eye and she moves away, Nova staring after.
CW: Dehumanization, implied future pet whump, implied future noncon, drugging
DATE OF ACQUISITION: 07.21.20XX
TIME OF ACQUISITION: 6:34 AM
LOCATION ASSIGNED: FACILITY 001, BERRAS, [REDACTED], USA
SUBJECT: 445097
PREVIOUS ALIAS: Nava Elise Kahn
AGE: 21
DATE OF BIRTH: 02.14.19XX
HAIR: Very Dark Brown
EYES: Brown
HEIGHT: 5′5"
WEIGHT: 120 lbs
SEXUALITY: Unknown
DESIGNATION: Romantic
KNOWN SKILLS: Subject plays piano, flute, and clarinet fluently. Subject speaks four languages - English (native speaker), Russian, Polish, and German. Subject has no known sexual history.
HOBBIES: Subject enjoys reading nonfiction and training for marathons.
KNOWN CONCERNS: Subject has already attempted to leave without permission three times. Twice was prevented from escape, once made it to the Accounting department before she was stopped. WRU Employee Carl Mavis received minor injuries.
KNOWN IMMEDIATE FAMILY: Deborah Kahn, mother, and Elias Kahn, father. Subject is biological niece, adopted at age two.
SIBLINGS: Asher Michael Kahn, brother, three years younger, and Leah Marie Kahn, five years younger. Both are Deborah and Elias's biological children.
OTHER KNOWN FAILY: Unknown.
METHOD OF ACQUISITION: Assisted walk-in.
ACQUISITION DETAILS: Subject was located by handlers inebriated outside Trusty Tuna's Taco Bar and Grill in Red Bend, California at 1:45 AM on date of acquisition. Subject was separated from social group and safely secured within vehicle. Subject arrived at Facility 001, Female Division at 6:15 AM and was recognized as new trainee at 6:35 AM.
ASSIGNED HANDLERS:
PRIMARY: Patricia Abernathy, Senior Handler and Processor, Romantic Specialization
SECONDARY: Gregory Lance, Senior Handler and Processor, Specialization Romantic
CONTRACT SIGNED: 7.29..20XX 1:15 PM
SIGNATURE PROVIDED VOLUNTARILY, SUBJECT NOT SEDATED FOR SIGNING. SUBJECT SHOWED MINOR SIGNS OF INJURY AT TIME OF SIGNING. SUBJECT REPORTED FEELINGS OF FATIGUE AND ABDOMINAL PAIN. SUBJECT REPORTED EXTREME FEAR. SUBJECT ALSO REPORTED FEELINGS OF CONFUSION COMMON TO NEW ACQUISITIONS.
CONTRACT SIGNATURE: Nava Kahn, aka 445097
PRESENT AT TIME OF SIGNING: Handler Patricia Abernathy, Badge #2234, WRU Attorney Nathaniel Lewis.
ESTIMATED COST FOR TRAINING: $100,000 USD
COMPENSATION PAID BY PROSPECTIVE: $600,000 USD
ADDED FEES: $25,000 for special requests.
CURRENT LOCATION: Room 019, post-signing contract. Subject to remain sedated until Drip is finalized.
REQUESTED TRAINING: ALL Positions 1-35, Flexibility, Sensitivity, Endurance
SPECIAL REQUEST: Enforced agoraphobia, retain musical skills if possible
COMMENTS:
She's a beauty. I can see why they picked her up. I've already spent some time with her. She allowed me to brush her hair without protest, but she kicked up a fuss when I touched her directly, and I've got a busted lip to prove it. I won that little tiff, but it's an irritation to keep in mind.
We'll want to keep this one nice and drugged up until she's a little further into the process.
I'm looking forward to the agoraphobia challenge. I think I'm up to it! I have a really good feeling about this one, I think she's going to net me that performance bonus at my annual review this year. Once I've got that in the bank, time for house-shopping. - P. Abernathy
