For Science: Ch. 01 - Selection

Chapter 1: The Selection

The corridor stretched before Margot like the throat of some colossal beast, its concrete walls sweating with decades of misery. The fluorescent lights above cast flickering shadows on the row of women. She kept her eyes lowered as instructed, but she could see the woman next to her trembling in her peripheral vision, a barely perceptible vibration passing through the canvas of her matching straitjacket.

The air carried the sharp scent of bleach mixed with sweat and fear. Margot's shoulders ached in the unnatural position enforced by the yellowing straitjacket, arms crossed and pressed tightly against her chest. To keep the panic from rising in her throat, she focused on the sensation: rough fabric chafing against her wrists and elbows, pressure points from the buckles on her back, tingling in her fingers from the restricted circulation.

Seven other women stood in the line, their bodies arranged like strange, broken dolls. To her left was a rail-thin redhead whose collar bones poked out of the top of her hospital gown. To her right was a tall woman who breathed in quick, heavy gasps. Margot couldn't see their faces, but she knew they all shared the same feeling of dread at what would happen next.

Three weeks had passed since Margot was brought here--or was it four? The days blurred together in a haze of windowless rooms and cocktails of sedating medications administered through IVs. The irony wasn't lost on Margot. In her former life as a pharmaceutical sales rep, she'd memorized the side effects of hundreds of medications and sat unsmiling through endless technical presentations about drug interactions. She recognized the effects of certain compounds in her system and could even name the class of drugs that produced the metallic taste at the back of her throat.

The sound of expensive shoes on tile penetrated the heavy silence. Margot's muscles tensed involuntarily, and a strangled sob escaped the woman at the end of the line. Dr. Whitmore entered their line of sight like a ghost materializing from shadow. His tall figure moved with surgical precision, each movement tight and controlled. Margot kept her gaze fixed to the floor, but she could still see the sharp crease in his trousers, the shine of his oxfords, the crisp lines of his white coat.

The inspection began. Dr. Whitmore paused before the first woman. He made a soft humming sound, neither approval nor disapproval. A pen scratched briefly on paper.

"Subject 12," he said, "is showing signs of weight loss despite caloric adjustment. Note for nutritional reassessment."

He moved on to the next woman. Margot's heart accelerated, counting down the moments until his attention would fall on her.

"Subject 17." A pause. The soft rustle of fabric as he leaned forward. "Pupilary response improving. Continue current protocol."

The scratching of his pen felt like nails scraping against Margot's scalp. She clenched her fists and focused on her breathing.

Dr. Whitmore continued his series of examinations, each one delivered in a steady cadence.

Then he stood before her. The air felt colder in his shadow.

"Subject 23."

She remained motionless, eyes lowered. His shoes squeaked slightly as he circled her, a predator assessing prey. Margot's background in pharmaceutical sales had taught her to read people's microexpressions, to gauge interest and resistance in potential clients. Those skills now screamed warnings as Dr. Whitmore's inspection lingered beyond the time he'd spent with the others.

"Interesting," he murmured, the word directed not at her but at himself. "Maintaining physical condition despite stress factors. Minimal weight fluctuation."

A cool finger touched her chin, lifting her face. The contact sent revulsion crawling across her skin like insects. Dr. Whitmore's eyes met hers--arctic blue and utterly without warmth. His face was a study in sharp angles and controlled authority, handsome in the way a scalpel is beautiful--precise, gleaming, and designed to cut.

"Responsive pupils. Clear skin despite the regimen." He tilted her head slightly, examining her as one might appraise a horse.

Margot remained silent.

"Good bone structure," he said to his assistant, who hovered just beyond Rebecca's vision. "Healthy cardiovascular indicators despite stress conditions. No signs of the dissociative response we've seen in subjects 14 through 19."

The canvas across her chest suddenly felt too tight, restricting her breathing more than before. The clinical assessment of her resilience carried an implication that twisted her stomach--she was holding up well under whatever they were doing, which meant they would likely do more.

Dr. Whitmore stepped back, his expression shifting subtly as he made his decision. The change was almost imperceptible--a slight narrowing of his eyes, the faintest adjustment in the set of his mouth--but Margot recognized it instantly.

His gaze flicked toward the orderly standing against the wall. The man had been so still that Margot had almost forgotten his presence--a human fixture blending with the institutional backdrop. Dr. Whitmore's chin lifted almost imperceptibly, a gesture so small it might have been missed by anyone not trained to observe the minutiae of human behavior. But it was enough. The orderly understood, his body already in motion before any verbal command was issued.

"Subject 23 will do nicely," he said, his voice carrying the quiet certainty of a man accustomed to having his judgments validated. "Prepare her for the procedure room."

The orderly's hand was already half-raised, reaching for her arm with the mechanical efficiency of someone who had performed this action countless times. The other women remained motionless, their relief at not being chosen mingling with the silent sympathy of those who knew their reprieve was only temporary.

The orderly's fingers closed around Margot's upper arm like metal clamps, his grip precise in its cruelty. He knew exactly how much pressure to apply--enough to control but not enough to bruise visibly. The sudden contact jolted through her system like an electric current, her body instinctively stiffening before being yanked sideways with practiced efficiency.

The straitjacket restricted her movements to awkward, shuffling steps. Each jerking motion emphasized her powerlessness, turning the simple act of walking into a graceless dance of subjugation.

The corridor's end approached, marked by a subtle shift in the flooring where institutional gray tiles gave way to a more sterile white surface. The new hallway stretched before them, its walls a pristine white that reflected the overhead lighting with painful intensity. Unlike the holding area, this section bore the unmistakable atmosphere of active medical facilities--the sharper scent of antiseptic, the faint hum of equipment behind closed doors, the subtle temperature drop that preserved both equipment and specimens.

Ahead, the corridor terminated at a massive steel door that dominated the space like a monolithic guardian. Unlike the other doors they had passed, this one projected physical authority--reinforced construction, a frame that extended several inches from the wall, hinges capable of supporting extraordinary weight. Its surface bore a single emblem etched directly into the metal: a circular design containing what appeared to be a stylized eye surrounded by geometric patterns.

Margot's steps faltered as they approached. The symbol triggered something in her memory--a logo she had seen in pharmaceutical conference materials, associated with a research division that specialized in experimental neurological compounds. The connection formed and dissolved in her mind, too tenuous to grasp fully, but enough to intensify her growing dread.

"Prepare for transfer," Dr. Whitmore instructed, his voice closer now, almost directly behind her right shoulder. "Subject 23 shows ideal baseline readings. I want to proceed immediately with administering the compound."

The orderly reached for a panel beside the massive door, pressing his palm against its surface. A soft beep acknowledged his identification, followed by the sound of heavy locks disengaging. The door began to swing outward with surprising smoothness, revealing the space beyond in gradual increments.

Margot caught glimpses of the examination room--stark white surfaces, recessed lighting that created no shadows, a central table with restraints positioned for arms, legs, head. Along one wall stood an array of equipment she partially recognized: monitoring devices, IV stands, a machine whose purpose she could only guess at. The clinical arrangement carried an aura of methodical purpose that chilled her more than overt instruments of torture would have.

"Fascinating response pattern," Dr. Whitmore murmured, observing her reaction with the detached interest of a scientist watching cells under a microscope. "Note the pupillary dilation and skin conductance. Classic fear response but without the disorganized cognitive function we typically observe. She's processing everything."

His words penetrated her rising panic, offering a strange anchor. They confirmed what she had suspected since her arrival--whatever they were doing to the women here, her reactions differed from the norm. That difference had caught Dr. Whitmore's attention, marked her for this next phase. The knowledge provided no comfort, but it gave context to her situation, a framework her analytical mind could grasp even as terror threatened to overwhelm her.

The orderly moved her forward with a practiced shove, transferring her from the hallway to the examination room in one fluid motion. The air inside felt different--cooler, more processed, carrying subtle scents of medical-grade disinfectants and something else beneath, something chemical and unfamiliar. Her shoes squeaked against the polished floor as she stumbled forward, temporarily free from the orderly's grip but trapped within the new space.

The final image before the door closed completely was Dr. Whitmore's eyes--cold, blue, and filled with scientific curiosity, the gaze of a man about to conduct an experiment whose parameters were known only to him. Then the barrier sealed, cutting off the view but not the memory of those approaching footsteps, their cadence echoing in her mind like a countdown to whatever came next.