They all remember the tea set. The green ceramic held delicately in her careful hands, the click of the cup on the wooden table.
Some of them glare. Some of them storm around and knock their chair over. Some of them just ask for sugar or milk.
All of them drink it in the end, though.
Caroline's chase was not the longest Adelle had endured, but two years was still a bit tiresome.
For both of them, it seemed. Caroline is still angry, but she's mostly exhausted. Her arguments are half-hearted, a bluff and a show.
He's dead. She's at a dead end. And what's five years, anyway?
She picks up the pen in her shaking hand and pretends to be reluctant when she signs.
They didn't have to seek out Madeline, because she found them.
She's a wreck and a mess, and she can barely keep it together enough to explain her situation. Her trembling shakes the table and sends her tea spilling over and dripping onto the floor.
I need to forget, she sobs.
That's what we do here, my dear.
Her signature is barely legible on the form.
He's living on the street when they find him, but Adelle sees his potential, the beauty beneath the grime.
He's not quite crazy enough to trust them, but he can't cope, can't really do anything, and he's running out of options. He won't live much longer on his own merits.
And they promise that when he leaves, all this mess in his mind will be gone.
His script is small and crowded when he signs.
He surely wouldn't appreciate the military connection, but they name him Victor anyway.
There is no contract with Priya's signature on it.
They promise to take her away from the nightmare, and her contract is a desperate plea: help me please.
Dr. Makido signs the necessary forms, all stacked neatly on the clipboard Topher hands him, and releases her to their care.
They're supposed to help her.
Well, they do their best.
Karl William Kraft is brought to them in chains and stares at Adelle through a dividing pane of glass.
Five years, and I go free. That's it?
If you're willing to consent to the procedure, yes. Your sentence will be waived.
There's a glint of something behind his eyes, but Adelle ignores it, focuses instead on his eagerness and malleable mind and rather fine bone structure.
He signs in neat, heavy strokes and takes a moment to admire his artwork before sliding the form back under the glass.
They all remember the small, windowless room, the straight-backed chair, the table. They remember Adelle DeWitt's voice and her fingers on the paper they're handed.
They remember signing in ink that felt like blood.
And they remember the tea was still delicious.