@offdxty \\ plotted
The hallways were cold, in a way that could never be fixed with temperature. It was clinical, infrastructure designed without comfort, perhaps even deliberately stripped of warmth. Arthur was used to the sorts of people who worked here, the ones who suggested that the very notion of softness might compromise the integrity of what was being kept inside - he wasn’t similar to them, not truly, but he was familiar. He had been working in these sorts of facilities since his twenties, giving him more than enough time to observe the workers as much as he observed the subjects.
Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, diffused through frosted panels as if that would hide the fact that they hadn’t been replaced in forty years. It made the world look slightly grey, unreal; paired with the scent of antiseptic and metal in the air, Arthur sometimes wondered if the intention was to make it uncomfortable. Not even the scientists who worked in the facility were allowed to relax, over fears of leaked secrets or improper containment.
Dr. Harrow’s shoes made no sound as he walked. They never did, not in places like this; sound control was one of the many decisions in the building’s construction. The walls curved to disorient, there were no clocks to show passing of time; the door to Observation Suite 3 was marked only with a number. No name, no label, no indication that behind it was a living thing.
Arthur had not entered that room. Few had. It had only been opened for the necessities; food, clothing, water, things of that nature. For the past three days, Arthur had only observed from behind reinforced glass, in a separate viewing bay designed for extended behavioral study. The glass was thick, one-direction; though Arthur couldn’t say with full confidence whether the being knew that anyone had been watching or not. That was the sort of thing that would take more intentional study.
For now, Arthur had only observed. He had watched the man inside - if ‘man’ was even the correct term - and had taken meticulous notes. It was nothing but observations and theories, for now, as there still wasn’t much to go on.
The file had been thin in the first place. Military designation, presumed killed in action. Returned from the dead. Limited memory. A wife who insisted that he was not the same man, a place referred to only as the Shimmer. A wife who was also being held, who Arthur strictly could have no access to - he’d chosen who he’d wanted to work with. With so many variables in the air, the risk of cross-contamination was best avoided. He would be exclusively with this man, studying this being, until a decision was ultimately made.
It wasn’t the first time Harrow had been brought in for a ‘project’ like this. Not exactly this, this was something clearly beyond - but cases that ended in blacked out ink and red stamps, with burned folders and programs that he would deny being part of. He was good at what he did because he didn’t ask the wrong questions. He didn’t look for meaning where there wasn’t - he was the best one available to decide what needed to be done with the creature they had captured.
The days of passive assessment had passed. It was time for active engagement; time to enter the room, to speak to it. To find out whether he was observing a person, or merely the shape of one.
His hand reached for the clearance panel, pressing gently against it. There was nothing dramatic, no theatrical hiss or booming unlock; the single door in the room merely clicked, seal disengaging as he pushed the door open to enter. The door swung open carefully, releasing the odd scent of the cell air; recycled, so that they could fully quarantine the room if they ever needed to.
The room was bare in every sense. Bed, toilet, sink, a dull light; it was obvious that it existed solely for containment. Observation under deprivation, even, with no comforts or attempts at dignity. There was only the shape of a man, with the few things he required to survive.
Arthur stepped inside, letting the door ease shut behind him with another click. He moved slowly, as he always did - without haste, without tension. He was measured and unthreatening, or at least he liked to think he was; every action he did was slow and careful, like he was putting thought into everything he did before he did it.
He had a small notebook in hand, already, though his pen remained capped and in his pocket.
He didn’t sit. There wasn’t much to sit on - but even if there were, he didn’t know if he felt all that comfortable with being close to the other. He stood within a respectful distance, instead, just within range for conversation. His eyes were gentle, never staring - watching, politely, taking in how the man reacted to every little thing.
“Good morning,” he greeted, his voice even and quiet. “I’m Dr. Harrow. I’ll be speaking with you moving forward - there’s no need to stand unless you’d prefer to.” He didn’t ask for a name in return, purposefully. “You may speak freely. I’ll let you know if anything you say will need to be clarified for the record.”
Already, the introduction was a test; not of content, but of response. How the man looked at him, how he moved; if he would understand what was being said to him, if he understood the weight of the situation that he was in. If he was even a ‘he’ at all, or if Arthur was simply talking to a reflection of data; a possibility that fascinated him, although he knew it shouldn't.
