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"Subject 8b has been prepared through a modified conditioning process, which should, if fully successful, result in a forty-four percent accuracy rating when compared to the original, but with some behavioral adjustments."
"Building an accurate Georgia Mason taught them how to make an inaccurate one."
--Blackout (Newsflesh, book 3)
**********
8b
"Georgia."
I was too disoriented to recognize my name at first. The voice was unfamiliar, and the syllables refused to coalesce into something meaningful until I sounded them out in my head. I'd been with Shaun just a minute ago--just the two of us. I couldn't put my finger on where we'd been, but I was sure there hadn't been a stranger in the vicinity who could be saying my name.
The voice was very calm. Shaun had not been calm. I had been--
"Georgia, open your eyes."
This time the delay was physical. Of course I wanted to open my eyes--there was no glare burning through my eyelids, so it was safe--but they felt weighted. I forced them open anyway, trying not to let the effort show.
The voice belonged to a man in a lab coat. He smiled nervously as I focused on him. Maybe he wasn't a specialist used to eyes like mine, although the room was suffused with black light, so someone knew what to do for me. Even with the lighting, my eyes ached horribly.
"Can you tell me your name?" he said.
He'd just said my name. I couldn't quite figure out why he was asking. I had a skull full of wet cement to go with the heavy eyelids. "Where--" If my thoughts were slippery, my voice was the opposite, rasping in my throat. God, whatever I'd come down with was bad. "Where's Shaun?"
The man relaxed. "Not technically the correct answer, but still reassuring. Could you please say your name?"
"Georgia Carolyn Mason." My mouth felt like sand. "Can I have some water?"
"Of course." He gestured to a woman standing behind him, who vanished from my line of sight. When I tried to turn my head to see her, nothing happened. The sound of water splashing into a cup barely penetrated the shock of realization that I couldn't move at all.
My spine-- There'd been something very wrong with my spine. But--no, I could feel my entire body, even if it was hazy. I could also feel restraints. The bed I was lying on moved, raising me to a seated position so the woman could bring the cup to my mouth. I drained it before asking the next question; if they were restraining me, what was to keep them from withholding water? "Why am I tied down?"
"You've been very sick, Georgia," the man--the doctor?--said. "Very feverish. We didn't want you to hurt yourself."
If I'd been that sick, then Shaun was... Shaun would be... "Where's Shaun?" I asked again. Shaun would be right here.
"We'll talk about that later." The man fiddled with the IV hooked into my arm, adjusting whatever was dripping into my veins. "You need more rest."
Wait, I tried to say, but there was no time.
**********
7c
"Georgia."
There was no point pretending I was still asleep. As far as I could tell, the room cameras alerted someone if I so much as scratched my nose, and by now the charming people who had my life in their hands probably knew my sleep patterns inside out. I can fake falling asleep, and I can fake waking up from that fake sleep--Shaun and I memorized each other's tells years ago, and we painstakingly taught each other how to mimic them--but it doesn't mean I can hide it when I genuinely wake up.
I opened my eyes and rolled over to face the door. "Good morning, Dr. Thomas," I said, in what Shaun has always assured me is a profoundly irritating chirpy tone. But then, he always knew how artificial it was. "Come on in. Is it shower time for good clone girls?"
His expression as he walked in made me reevaluate the wisdom of baiting him further. There were days when he was aggravated with me no matter what I did, and today was obviously one of them. If I was too compliant, he'd be suspicious; if I pushed back at all, I'd be lectured and probably given food that was miraculously more boring than I usually got.
I wasn't going to gain any weight back--if I could say "back", which I technically couldn't--at this rate. It was frustrating, although not as frustrating as his refusal to acknowledge that those occasional truly questionable meals were a punishment. The man's pettiness was astounding.
"You aren't as funny as you think you are, Georgia."
I didn't try to make my reply flippant. "My brother would have agreed with you." It didn't matter that he could hear how it hurt me to say that. Shaun was supposed to be dead. I was supposed to be grieving. And Dr. Thomas, predictably, was the sort who'd savor the moment when he thought he'd scored a point, rather than trying to score another one.
I could work with that. I had no choice.
**********
8b
There was no time.
I floated comfortably in the dark, listening to the voices in my ears. I hadn't realized how much I'd forgotten until the voices reminded me, telling me my story, filling in the gaps. Reminding me who I was.
**********
7c
I rarely remember my dreams, but I frequently wake up with my head full of ideas. For most of my life it was almost as if Shaun dreamed for me--just another quirk of our symbiotic existence. I'd wake in the middle of the night and crawl into bed with him, where he'd listen to me, fingering my hair while he struggled to stay awake. Eventually he'd drift off again and I'd keep talking, committing the idea to memory by saying it aloud.
While Shaun slept, the things I whispered to him soaked into his dreams. A day or two later, when he read the blog post I'd written about whatever it was, he’d sometimes forgotten it completely. Other times he remembered just enough that seemed familiar. And sometimes he sat and shook his head at finding echoes of his dreams interpreted for him, laid out on a computer screen.
These days, I woke up and wondered what he was dreaming without me.
**********
8b
The same man was there the next time I woke. Shaun still wasn't. "I'm Dr. Matthew Thomas," the man said, almost as soon as my eyes opened. "I'm sorry there wasn't time for that when we first met." There were too many half-formed questions vying in my head for any of them to come out. He must have realized that, because he continued, "I know you're very confused, Georgia. You've been..." He seemed to be searching for the right word.
"You said I've been sick."
"Yes." Dr. Thomas sighed. "I have to tell you something very difficult now. You're entitled to know." He touched the controls of my IV again, sending something into my system that softened the edges of my vision. "I'm going to be honest with you. You can see that, can't you?"
He paused as if waiting for me to assess him, so I obliged. He looked tired and worried and, yes, honest. My gut was telling me this wasn't the face of a liar, and I wanted to trust him--not because I wanted to be spoon-fed any watered-down half truths, but because...
Because...
Because I felt almost as if I knew him. I was sure we'd never met, but something like a memory stirred at the back of my mind. Dr. Thomas would be honest with me. I knew it.
When I nodded, he went on. "You're in a CDC medical facility. You've been here for quite some time. And I'm afraid your brother...well, he doesn't know you're here."
"He--" Shaun always knew where I was. Always. That was bedrock certainty in my bones. Shaun was always there. "Where..." I choked on the terror that washed over me. Dr. Thomas waited patiently while I swallowed it back. "Where does he think I am?"
His hands were still on the controls. Everything softened a little more. That was all right. He was CDC. The CDC knew what they were doing. "You know the answer to that," he said. "Think a little. What's the last thing you remember?"
"I was with Shaun." Alone with Shaun. I couldn't see him, because all of my attention was on making words take shape on my monitor. He kept talking to me while I worked, his voice shaking the way it only did after a too-close call, trying so hard to stay calm for me until I finished what I had to do, but the words weren't cooperating anymore. Everything was loosening and sliding inside my head--everything but the sound of Shaun's voice telling me over and over how much he loved me.
Only one thing in the world was solid, and I leaned into it, trusting it to hold me up. Shaun put his faith in guns, so I could too, when everything else was crumbling inside me.
I could trust the gun at the base of my skull. Shaun's gun. I love you, he was saying again, as if I could possibly doubt it.
As if--
"He thinks I'm dead."
"That's right," Dr. Thomas said gently. "He thinks you're dead."
"Did I die?" It was hard to worry about that through the fog in my mind. But Shaun thought I was dead, and he always knew where I was. Always. So it must be true.
"Yes, you did." His voice was so kind. "But science works miracles, Georgia, and you two did so much for us--and for the president. We wanted to repay you."
I couldn't find a way for that to make sense, but Dr. Thomas would be honest with me. "I don't understand."
"You will." He patted my hand. "When you're better, you'll understand. For now, we just need to get you stabilized so you can see your brother. Your treatment isn't finished yet. But when you're ready, we'll tell him you're here." He beamed at me. "Think how surprised he'll be. How happy."
I had to smile back. He was right. Shaun would be so happy.
**********
7c
I may not remember my dreams, but I have a vivid imagination. When the "days" got too long, I took to lying on the bed, hiding under the sheet, and pretending to fall asleep. No one seemed to think it was strange that I slept so much--really, what else was I supposed to do? It gave me the space to close my eyes and breathe deeply and sift through my--Georgia's--memories.
I lay still and remembered the hours of talking with Shaun and Buffy, debating who to hire for our new site, each of us full of opinions about the others' choices. I think it was the first time Buffy really processed that Shaun paid attention to her side of things--the writing, not the tech. She'd pretty much been the only person we’d both considered an actual friend, and she was still caught off guard every time he stopped playing the idiot long enough to weigh in as a site co-founder, not as our pet Irwin.
I remembered sitting on the floor in my room, working at the computer on the low table that served as a second desk so that Shaun could lie with his head on my thigh while he disassembled and oiled guns. He'd cultivated the art of touching me unobtrusively back when we were kids. Whenever he needed to go get the next gun, he'd turn over and kiss the side of my knee as he got up, and he'd kiss my shoulder on his way back down, making me smile without interrupting my train of thought.
I remembered him laughing, calling my name to get my attention, performing for me with a sheer delight he never displayed for anyone else. He did his best work when I was in the field with him--much to Mom's chagrin--and I could appreciate it as long as he didn't risk himself too much. He was a joy to watch in action, quick and confident and strong. My brother. The core of my world, just like I was his.
Check this out, George!
And I remembered the flip side, all the times he'd gotten too close or a zombie had gotten lucky. None of those memories flowed in real time. They were all either a blur or in horrific slow motion. I'd saved his life more than once; I honestly couldn't remember how many times, and I didn't think the original Georgia had known either.
Often what saved him was that I wasn't an Irwin. Another Irwin might have waited too long, might have been thinking too much about the camera angles. But I was his sister--the one who'd gotten his blood all over my hands patching him up, the one who'd spent hours in the van with him afterwards, just touching him--and no matter how much he cared about his story, I cared about him more.
Tucked under the bedsheets in the white, white room, I shut my eyes and pressed my fingertips against the lids, remembering Shaun's habit of touching me there. He'd started doing it long before we began sleeping together, in that brief window of early adolescence when I'd been genuinely bothered by how they looked, not just by the inconvenience. As a child I hadn't much cared about my eyes, as long as no one was harassing me about them; by the time we were fifteen or so I was at peace with them, secure in who I was.
But Shaun never stopped giving me those private caresses, soft strokes along my eye sockets that became kisses once we stopped pretending there was any way we didn't belong together, to each other. It was a wordless affirmation that my eyes were just part of me, just like every other part of my body--which made them his, in the same way the callouses on his hands and his growing collection of scars and every other part of him were mine.
**********
8b
The CDC staff unstrapped me after that first real conversation with Dr. Thomas. It hardly mattered; I was still so tired I could barely move. There were no visible mirrors--I could safely assume one wall was a one-way mirror, although it was kept covered--but the bones in my wrists were almost knife-sharp, and I could imagine what the rest of me must look like.
"We built you a new body," Dr. Thomas said one day. I was sitting up, leaning against the wall, stretching my hands carefully. "But you need to be reintroduced to everything slowly. We can't push."
Weak or not, I chafed at the restrictions no matter how much I reminded myself that the doctors were doing their best for me. They gave me books but no internet. There was no one to talk to other than Dr. Thomas and the therapists--they told me not to call them that, but Dr. Thomas admitted that they were. They wanted to know all about my thoughts and feelings, never digging too deep, but always trying to map my edges. "We have to make sure your neural patterns settle correctly," one of them said.
I might have minded less if they'd had a shred of delicacy. The experience reminded me of nothing so much as being grilled by rookie Newsies who couldn't figure out how to ask the questions they really wanted to while making the interview subject think they were asking something else entirely. "Don't worry," they'd say when I hesitated, trying to find the right words. "You can just be honest. We're trying to make sure you're okay. You want to be honest, don't you?"
Of course I did. I tried not to let my exasperation show. If they theoretically knew enough about me to be treating my mental state, they should damn well know that much.
When I told Dr. Thomas how frustrating it was, he said, "We can compensate for any physical weakness, Georgia, if you're still shaky when you're ready to see Shaun. But we need to be sure you're mentally strong first. You're getting there."
His voice was clinical. I was noticing more and more that he never projected the warmth I felt from him. His kindness was subtle, kept close to his chest. But I had no doubt it was real.
**********
7c
Constantly facing the "mirror" that occupied most of a wall should have been low on the list of things I found frustrating, all things considered. I didn't have my brother. I didn't have an internet connection. I was being lied to on a daily, if not hourly, basis. I couldn't go to the washroom without paging someone. I was sick of wearing pajamas and nothing else, and the day I get bored with my wardrobe options, well, you know there's a problem.
I'd never paid much attention to mirrors one way or the other. They were handy for things like making sure I didn't have spinach in my teeth before interviews, and not much else. I'd usually made Shaun help me get my roots when dyeing my hair, and if I tried to leave the house wearing something truly egregious, he'd be the one to tell me, not a mirror.
This one didn't even make things particularly worse by virtue of being a one-way mirror; I sure didn't like the fact that people could see me through it without my knowledge, but it was no worse than the room's cameras, which were always on.
But there was nothing in the room to distract me from my reflection. Sometimes I'd change position and the movement in the mirror would catch my attention, making me look up into my own eyes--the utterly normal, utterly alien brown eyes that made it a fresh shock to realize I was looking at myself. Every. Single. Time.
With no practice at looking away from my own gaze, I'd keep staring until my skin crawled. Dr. Thomas caught me at it once when he simply opened the door and walked in. "I hadn't thought you were so vain, Georgia," he said, in lieu of an actual greeting.
I made a face at my reflection. "What else am I supposed to look at? I'm the only thing in here that hasn't been bleached completely white, and if you people don't let me dye my hair soon, even that won't be true."
I said it lightly; after all, the most human response I'd ever gotten out of him had been a smile in response to a weak joke about bleach and grass-stained socks, and as much as I wanted my hair to be properly brown again, at least it was finally short enough to be out of my damn face.
So to say I was taken aback by the look in his eyes when I turned to him was an understatement. It took all I had to keep my own gaze level and pretend I couldn't see his desire to hurt me. It wasn't quite malicious, which made it even worse. I'm sure that if I'd been able to ask and get an honest answer, he would have explained it as some sort of scientific curiosity--the kind that probably involved dissecting me.
I'd gotten used to the idea that he saw me as a thing to be disposed of. This was the first time I'd really thought he wanted to.
**********
8b
The treatment I liked least was sleeping with a headset on. After a few days of it, I protested. "What's it for? I understand the sensors for my brain waves, but what am I listening to?"
Dr. Thomas sighed. "Have you had any headaches since you've been here?"
"I--" I hadn't. That was unusual, even with the constant black lights. I wouldn't have expected migraines under the circumstances, but some degree of pain was the norm for me.
"We're trying to take them away permanently. It's experimental, but the treatment isn't contraindicated with everything else we're doing."
I frowned. "How experimental are we talking about?"
"Quite," he admitted. "It seems to be having very positive effects, though."
"I'm not so sure about it," I said.
He sat very still, studying me. "Let me get back to you." He stood up and walked out without another word, leaving me to wait. He left behind the hand mirror he'd brought with him. I picked it up and studied my reflection, wincing. I looked truly ill, which made me shudder to think about the shape I'd been in when I first woke up.
I tried to focus on my eyes instead of my cheekbones. They stared back out of the mirror, black and familiar. Trust the CDC to focus so hard on making my new body match my old one that they had my retinal KA built right in. Fucking perfectionists. But they probably knew best. I was no doctor. And my eyes, more than anything else about my face, proved I was me.
When Dr. Thomas came back, his expression was grave. "Discontinuing the treatment doesn't pose any serious risks to you, but there may be some intense discomfort while you adjust. I'm afraid we can't give you many painkillers at this stage, which is one reason we thought the treatment was worth a try." Before I could protest, he said, "However, I know you're frustrated by not being able to make many decisions for yourself yet, and it's your body. The choice is yours."
"Frustrated" didn't begin to cover it. I thought about it for a few minutes. Not having any more headaches was tempting, but being experimented on more than necessary really, really wasn't.
"I'd like to discontinue it," I said.
Dr. Thomas looked disappointed with me, although he politely tried to hide it. "Of course, Georgia."
**********
7c
On the surface, Dr. Thomas' attitude was completely different the next time I saw him. He was self-satisfied to the point of being jovial with me, which was disconcerting. I itched to know what he'd done, or what had happened. Maybe he'd been promoted, or had finally made amends for whatever wrong had gotten him assigned to work closely with me to begin with?
The look in his eyes hadn't changed much, though. He still looked as if he was thinking about hurting me. The only difference was that I couldn't tell anymore if he was looking forward to it or if he somehow thought he already had.
I couldn't ask. I couldn't even stare. I was practicing watching surreptitiously without sunglasses to hide behind, but it was slow going when a slip-up could have such severe consequences. So I glanced away and gave him one of my practiced smiles, hoping he'd pay attention to that instead of my eyes.
"So what can I do for you today?" I said.
**********
8b
The migraine started not long after I took my medication--a new cocktail of pills--for the night. I tried to ignore it. At least that hammering pain was familiar, unlike everything else around me. It wouldn't be pleasant to ride it out. That didn't mean I couldn't do it.
In the morning, when I told the daytime orderlies that the migraine was nauseating me, they hooked me up to an IV so they could get at least low-level painkillers into my system as frequently as was safe without making me swallow pills. They didn't have to mention that it would also let them keep me hydrated. The worry on their faces said it all: none of them thought this was a good idea, but they weren't going to try to talk me out of it.
Despite their efforts, the pain kept getting worse. It went past the point where I'd have caved and taken the strongest meds I had, if I'd been home. It went well past when Shaun would have locked our bedroom doors and taken up residence in my bed, lying in utter darkness with me and going quietly out of his mind at the inactivity, but there.
I let myself think about how badly I wanted him there, which I usually tried not to do. It wouldn't bring us back together any sooner. The CDC were doing their best to make that happen, for all of our sakes. As soon as I was better, the doctors caring for me could go back to studying KA. They had to want that as much as I did. And when I was better, when I was with Shaun, we could look for...
There was something in the CDC I wanted to find. Something bad. I knew they were looking for it too, trying to root out the thing that was hurting everyone. They'd find whoever was causing the problem, and they'd take care of it, but I wanted to help. They'd done so much for me already. I could help.
If my head would only stop hurting, I could help. I whispered Shaun's name like a prayer, trying to remember how his hands had felt on my face, until even that hint of my own voice made the migraine more vicious.
I lasted for three days, during which I barely slept. I somehow kept myself from screaming, but by the end it was close. God, I couldn't remember it ever hurting so much. The pain left me sweating through my clothes and the sheets. During the day, the people monitoring me rotated; I knew when it was night because it was Gregory, the quiet orderly with the sad eyes and impersonal hands, who came in every hour to do what little he could. It was mostly a blur through the pain: cool cloths on my face, clean pajamas, and a soft "I'm sorry, Georgia", each time he left the room. It was the most he'd said to me since we'd met after I first woke up.
The third night, Dr. Thomas played me audio from one of Shaun's reports, looping it over and over. After the fifth repetition or so I stopped hearing the words--at the time of the recording, he was camping with Becks and Alaric; Becks was bored out of her head; Alaric still couldn't shoot his way out of a wet paper bag, while Becks had racked up a record number of zombie deer kills--and only took in his voice. It was his "I know this sounds boring but I guarantee you'll think it's awesome by the time I'm done" delivery, smooth and relaxed as he spun his story.
If anything--incredibly, at that point--it made the pain worse, but it reminded me that I didn't actually want to kill myself to make the hurting stop.
I needed it to stop hurting. I needed Shaun, and the sooner I stabilized, the sooner I'd be able to see him. When Dr. Thomas came on the fourth day and asked if I wanted them to resume the treatments, I said yes.
Yes meant letting them strap me down to keep me from curling in on myself, to let them work without interference. Yes meant the headset going on, even that light pressure on my skull making me whimper no matter how hard I tried to bite it back. But yes meant that the voices came back, the soothing whispers I could trust. They resumed their stories about my life. They took the pain away.
I fell asleep and dreamed about Shaun's eyes lighting up when he saw me. I dreamed about how he'd stop hurting too.
**********
7c
I couldn't sleep after Gregory left, and I didn't bother pretending. The cameras could pick up whatever they damn well wanted to, after the day I'd had--the day everyone knew I'd had, with their six hours of alarms and flashing lights. I would have been in no mood to be cooperative now even if Dr. Thomas hadn't been such an asshole about the whole thing.
They'd tried to break me. They were planning to get rid of me any day now, and they'd deliberately tried to terrify me until my mind shattered, just like my four predecessors who'd lived this long. And why not? I was just another one of their science projects, so why not crack me open and dig out every shred of information they could? They'd need it all for my replacement, their "Georgia Mason" who'd had her brain fucked with until it was unrecognizable, who'd impersonate me while destroying everything I cared about.
It wasn't her fault. Whatever they were doing to her--and I could imagine, a little, but the specifics were the last thing I'd wanted to ask Gregory about--to warp her to their specifications, it wasn't her fault. She wasn't Georgia Mason, but there was one thing we had in common besides our bodies and whatever parts of Georgia Mason's mind and memories they'd let her keep: she wasn't anyone else, either.
It wasn't her fault, and I hated her so much I could hardly think. Maybe I was just as much an abomination of science as she was, but I would have strangled her with my bare hands if we'd been in the same room, just to feel her stop breathing.
To the best of my memory, the real Georgia Mason had never felt that way about anyone. There was no way for me to be sure if what I was feeling was part of that unknown three percent where my mind didn't match hers, or if it was something she would have felt in my position. I comforted myself with the knowledge that if 8b had even a trace of real love for Shaun left in her, knowing what they were using her for would make her want to die as badly as I wanted to kill her.
Of course, if they hadn't left her that love, she'd be worse than useless to them--which meant their walking time bomb loved him every bit as much as I did.
Once I'd had that thought, I couldn't unthink it. By the time I'd called for an orderly and he'd made the brief walk from the monitoring station, I was already getting sick. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was irritated at losing even the unappealing meal I'd had only a couple of hours before. For all I knew, I'd never eat again if Gregory and Dr. Shaw couldn't get me out. Maybe starvation was the next item on the list of stress tests for disposable clones.
The orderly and attendant guards stood in the doorway while I retched. "Keep the lights low, please," I said between spasms. He could see well enough to know I wasn't going to attack him, and there were tears in my eyes, running down my cheeks. Crying: just that extra dollop of indignity. Probably no one else in the world gave it a second thought if they cried while their guts turned inside out. I likely wasn't going to live long enough to get used to it.
Perversely, that thought helped me get myself under control. "Sorry," I said when I was sure I wasn't going to be sick again. "Can you take me to the washroom? I need a shower."
He nodded wordlessly and stepped back through the door, already making a call on his ear cuff. It didn't distract him from keeping an eye on me while I followed him into the hallway. We both knew the routine. I took several steps past him without trying to close the gap between us, and he and the guards maintained that distance while we went down the hall.
"There should be clean clothes inside," he said when we reached the appropriate room. "I called ahead."
The temptation to give him a grateful look was embarrassingly strong. I smothered it. He wasn't being kind. He was offering the barest human decency to a lab subject he had to know was about to be killed and disposed of like trash. "Thank you," I said anyway, putting my hand to the testing unit by the door. There was a line between being pathetically happy over crumbs and being unnecessarily brusque. When the lights flashed green and the door opened, I ducked inside without saying anything else.
Other than hiding under the sheets, being in the shower was the closest I could come to feeling like I had some privacy these days--which was ridiculous, since I was literally naked and on display for the inevitable cameras or anyone who felt like looking in through the mirror. In "my" room I changed under the covers, but showering like I was alone was the heartiest Fuck you I could offer at the moment, and the closest I could come to having control over my environment. Let them stare. They'd probably all seen my body inside out while it was being made, before they installed me in it.
I held my breath through the perfunctory bleach cycle and turned the water up so hot I could barely stand it, forcing myself to stay under the spray while my skin turned an angry pink. Scrubbing made it worse, and I didn't much care. If it hurt, I was still alive. If my face started feeling raw, at least it overshadowed the sore, puffy feeling that came with crying.
If I'd been truly alone, I might have taken a page from Shaun's book and battered my fists against the walls, but I didn't dare. The scalding water was the closest I could come to indulging the need to hurt something, and--disturbing as I knew the thought should be--that need made me feel closer to Shaun. It was a drive he understood, even if his work meant it rarely had a chance to build up inside him and demand an additional outlet.
"I won't let them hurt you," I said under my breath, not letting my lips move enough for any watchers to read them. "I'll die before I let them hurt you." The hiss of the water swallowed the words, but not the laughter that followed them. Of course I'd die before that, one way or another. If the EIS couldn't figure something out, the best I could probably hope for was shooting Dr. Thomas in the head when he led me out of my room for the last time.
I turned the water off and spent several minutes moisturizing my skin properly--something I could do in under two minutes at home, but why let the CDC know that? While I was at it, I debated whether Shaun would be proud of how pleasant I found that little daydream or if he'd take it as a sign that some ineffable piece of his sister hadn't been properly transferred into me.
I'd never know the answer if I didn't get to him before the irreparably damaged copy of me--of her--did, and any chance I had of that depended on being adequately cooperative no matter what the bastards holding me did. I pulled my worn pajamas on, palming my tiny gun and tucking it into a sock before scooping up the clean pajamas. I gave the mirror the most believable smile I could come up with.
It wasn't much. It would have to do.
The orderly straightened up when I came out of the room. "Thanks," I said, aiming the smile at him. "I feel a lot better."
He made a not-very-successful effort at meeting my eyes. "Nothing like a hot shower to make you feel more like yourself."
"Right. More like myself," I echoed, and waited for him to lead the way.