They've got me strapped in the chair, just like every week. By now it's almost familiar: the sterile smell of the lab, the cold metal of my restraints, the men in the white coats standing at their computers, watching as one of the assistants approaches me with the needle.
"Injecting sample now," he announces. I can't stand this part. I try and make my body go loose, because it hurts less when your muscles aren't tensed. I try not to look at the guy who's sticking me, but it's difficult, what with my head strapped in place and all.
The needle enters. A sharp moment of pain, and then the hot trickle of blood down my arm.
I look up at the balcony, and there's Ingleman, standing at ease, hands in the pockets of his day-job suit, watching what's going on with that tiny little smile on his face. I don't know why he comes to watch this stuff; maybe it gives him some kind of thrill. Maybe he likes to see things in pain or dying. Maybe he just likes me. All I know is that he's there every week, rain or shine.
He catches me looking, and the smile tightens a tiny bit more. I hate him. I hate him more than I hate the scientists or the wardens. For all I know they're just doing a job, but Ingleman's the one who planned this all, who made the Academy happen. Ingleman does this by choice.
It's starting to burn now, around where they stuck me. The assistant tapes a neat square of cotton over the puncture and then retreats to the booth with all the others. They wait, watching, monitoring. Any second now, I think. I try to relax, make my mind go blank. Retreating, Syra calls it, when you hide away inside yourself and try to ignore the pain. I'm breathing like I've just run a mile.
The burning sensation is spreading now, and the whole lab looks kind of blurry. Suddenly, a migraine slices its way through my head, and I know that it's started. Whatever stuff they've put in me this week is finally getting to work. I tense up in the chair, feel the restraints biting into my arms.
There's Ingleman, still on the balcony, although now I can barely make out his face. Everything's fading fast under the waves of pain. Retreat, I tell myself, retreat, but for once I can't seem to escape into my head. Is he enjoying this?
Damn him. I'd kill him if I could.
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