Atonement
by Soledad
Author's note: For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction.
The technobabble has been taken the TARDIS Wiki. I don't even pretend to understand it.
Chapter 03 – The Tale of the Prodigal Son
Jack took his time, not only to ease Ianto's cramping leg but also to give him a thorough back rub and to massage his stiff neck as well. With all the tension worked out of his sore muscles, Ianto felt two hundred per cent better afterwards. In fact, he felt like a large blob of gelatine – and extremely reluctant to leave the medical bay ever again, as long as Jack was in there with him.
However, that was something they couldn't afford just yet.
"We must go," he said reluctantly, accepting an unhurried kiss from Jack. "As much as I'd prefer to stay here with you."
"Trust me, the feeling is mutual," Jack murmured, kissing him again. They'd just recently become intimate again, and he'd have preferred to work a little more on that part of their still somewhat shaky relationship. "But we can't; not yet. Work comes first. Let's deal with this brat, and then I'll take you home."
Ianto shook his head, willing the tremor of his hand to still so that he could button his shirt. Jack's fingers itched to help him, but he knew that in this case his help wouldn't be welcome. After his short moment of weakness after reawakening from the coma, Ianto had been adamant about coping with his condition on his own. The only help he'd accept was the massages, which they both enjoyed – Jack giving them and Ianto receiving them.
"I can't go home just yet, Jack," he said patiently. "My backlog of paperwork has nearly reached the level you used to keep while I was incapacitated, and I've got a video conference with Sir Archibald later on."
"Cancel it," Jack suggested. "Archie can wait; it isn't so as if there were anything of interest in Glasgow, ewer. You need to rest. You've been on your feet since six a.m."
Ianto sighed. "I can'. Sir Archibald and our other associates are willing to deal with me because I'm reliable. I can't afford to l lose that advantage."
"I never needed anything like that," Jack said with a shrug.
"Yeah, but you're an immortal time traveller from the 51st century who used to travel with the Doctor," Ianto pointed out. "I'm none of those things, so I have to win their acceptance in other ways," he grabbed his cane. "Let's go. Time to hear the story of our visitor."
Adam had been waiting in the bleak, dimly lit room for almost an hour. They'd left him alone, but he was sure that someone was watching him through the window high above his head. They'd placed a glass of water before him and that was it. He was left to his own devices, to cook in his own juices until they decided to pay him attention again.
Adam was no fool. He understood the intention behind the seemingly casual treatment. They wanted him to worry about his future; to make him more cooperative.
They were doing a lousy job of it, quite frankly.
The idea hadn't been a bad one per se. On anyone else, it might even have worked, cos hey! Secret underground base rum by a shady organization that answered to the Crown alone? Unlike most people, Adam actually had a fairly good concept of what Torchwood actually stood for. Mr. Van Statten liked to keep tab on everyone he saw as possible competition, and a secret British government agency dedicated to fight alien threats and confiscate every piece of alien tech they got across definitely fell into that category. Torchwood Three might be flying under his radar, but Torchwood London certainly hadn't.
Unfortunately for the Torchwood gang, Adam had also learned the true meaning of fear while working for Mr. Van Statten. Working with the ever-present chance of getting completely mind-wiped and set out somewhere on the street like a stray puppy just couldn't be compared with the mundane threat of being imprisoned in Torchwood's "dungeon", as the UNIT captain had called it.
It was probably just some subterranean prison cell anyway. One could always escape from a prison cell. Especially someone with Adam's genius-level intelligence and unparalleled computer skills. All he had to do was to bid his time. At first they'd be watchful; they'd be watching his every move seven/twenty-one. The surveillance equipment – what little he'd seen it so far – seemed extremely advanced, but there hadn't been a computer he couldn't have outsmarted so far. His time would come.
His increasingly confident thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. He expected to se the captain in the outdated military coat and/or the tough blonde girl, but he was apparently mistaken. Instead of them, in walked the tall young bloke who'd warned him away from that strange piece of alien tech – what had he called it? a sub-aetheric resonator? – wearing a sharp, three-piece pinstriped suit, an aubergine dress shirt with a navy blue tie that had diagonal white stripes and dress shoes.
The bloke walked with the help of one of those lightweight metal canes. He was accompanied by an even younger, strawberry blond woman with the delicate face of a porcelain doll, in an old-fashioned, turquoise pencil shirt with a jacket that seemed to have an exaggerated shoulder partie – very 1950s, Adam decided – a silk blouse of matching colour and moderately high heels. She was also carrying a thick manila folder in one hand and an up-to-date PDA-device in the other one.
"Well, Mr… Mitchell, was it the name?" the overdressed bloke asked, and Adam nodded. "Mr. Mitchell, my name is Ianto Jones. I'm the director of the Torchwood Institute. This is Ms Cowell-Williams, my personal assistant."
"Charmed," Adam muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Great! A paper pusher has come to interrogate him. That was going to be fun – not! And the pretty secretary was already taken, it seemed. To some fat and stupid Welsh guy, no doubt. It wasn't fair.
"Actually, I'm sure that you aren't," Director Jones replied with a thin smile, "and frankly, neither are we. But temporally displaced people fall under our jurisdiction, so for better or worse, we'll have to deal with you. For my part, I expect the worse," he added coldly, "considering your short career as the Doctor's companion."
"You have a problem with ex-companions?" Adam asked in surprise. Considering that several of them seemed to work for Torchwood, he found that a little strange.
"No," Director Jones answered blandly. "I have a problem with the Doctor. A very personal one," he turned to his secretary. "What have you found?"
The pretty blonde opened the folder and rattled down the basic facts of Adam's entire life – in much greater depth than Adam would have thought it possible. Everything was noted there, from the name of his first (and so far only) dog to that of his primary school teacher. From his father's arthritis to the tests the shrinks had made to certify his genius-level intelligence. The names and professional reputation of said shrinks. The girls he'd dated through secondary school and university and so on.
The only things missing were the years he'd spent working for GeoComTex and his short sojourn with the Doctor.
"To break into the system of GeoComTex we'd need someone with Tosh's skills," the secretary said apologetically. Director Jones waved off her concerns.
"That's not necessary, Emma. If anything of interest happened there, we have other methods to find it out. And he really hacked into the US Department of Defence computers at the age of eight? That wasn't just bragging?"
Emma checked her data. "Apparently not. I've got the corresponding document from the Home Office here… well, the copies anyway. The little brat didn't exaggerate; he'd really almost caused World War III."
Adam shrugged. "It's not my fault that I was born smart."
The Torchwood director ignored him. "What else?" he asked his PA.
Emma studied her papers. "Well, apparently he won a competition arranged by a certain Henry Van Statten, the founder and owner of GeoComTex when he was only fourteen. That must have been how he caught Mr. Van Statten's eye in the first place, so he got hired by GeoComTex when he finished university at the age of twenty."
"Twenty?" Director Jones raised and eyebrow. "At what age did he start?"
"Sixteen, it seems," Emma fished a sheet out of the many and handed it to her boss. From the corner of his eye Adam saw that it was a copy of his university records. "He studied computer sciences at CalTech, in the States, with the help of a scholarship sponsored by the same Mr. Van Statten."
"Must have made a lasting impression on the man," Director Jones said dryly. "What kind of competition was it he won as a kid and how did he win it?"
"By writing an essay on Why I Want To Meet An Alien?," Emma selected another sheet – clearly a copy of said essay – and handed it to Mr. Jones who read it with impressive speed.
"It focuses on acquiring advanced knowledge from visiting aliens, I see," he commented dryly. "He considers it a shortcut, in his own words, not cheating. He'd have fit in with Torchwood London wonderfully, with this attitude of his," he gave back both sheets and aimed those piercing, icy blue-grey eyes at Adam. "So, what exactly did you do for Mr. Van Statten, Mr. Mitchell? Cos I doubt you'd be doing any serious research."
"No," Adam admitted. "I'd have liked to, but he never took me seriously. I was just the English kid for him. My job was to find extraterrestrial artefacts for him, buy them on the covert online auctions of the black market and then get them catalogued in the Vault before the scientists would take over. Sometimes I got to play with small pieces, poke at them, try to figure out what they were for, but not all too often."
"Sounds dull," Director Jones commented. "So, how did you end up travelling with the Doctor?"
"Well, he landed with that blue box of his in the middle of the Vault," Adam explained. "It caused quite the uproar as you can image. Security was beside themselves how he could break through all the barriers."
"Which he didn't," Director Jones said. "The TARDIS doesn't work that way. But why would the Doctor go to Mr. Van Statten's Vault?"
"He said the Metaltron had called him," Adam shrugged. "It had sent out a distress call, it seems, and the Doctor supposedly followed it."
"The Metaltron?" the frown lines deepened on the Torchwood Director's forehead. Adam shrugged again.
"That's what the scientists called it. Basically, it was a big chunk of alien tech; rather ridiculous-looking, too, like a big pepper pot. Only that it was somehow alive in the inside – and heavily armed."
He had the unexpected satisfaction of seeing Director Jones go stark white; the man's hands started to tremble uncontrollably.
"You had a Dalek in that Vault of yours?"
"Adam nodded. "Mr. Van Statten bought it at a private auction after it had been moved from one collection to another for nearly fifty years, before my time. According to the records it came from the sky like a meteorite. It fell to Earth on the Ascension Islands – burnt in its crater for nearly three days before anybody could get near it. It was… damaged somehow, but when Rose touched it, the thing extrapolated her genetic material and the creature inside initiated cellular reconstruction."
Director Jones closed his eyes for a moment. "She touched it – and by doing so, she enabled it to heal… to repair itself. Wonderful."
"Not so wonderful, actually," Adam replied. "In the next moment, it broke out of its cell and basically massacred everyone in the Vault before the Doctor stopped it. Well, almost everyone. Diana Goddard, one of Mr. Van Statten's assistants, survived with a handful of people, and so did I, obviously."
"How did the Doctor stop the Dalek?" Director Jones asked doubtfully. "Those things are not easily stopped."
"By telling it that it was infested by Rose's DNA and basically arguing it into self-destruction," Adam explained. "He wanted to kill it with a makeshift weapon but Rose didn't let him."
Director Jones muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like stupid git. Adam was mildly insulted on Rose's behalf, but found it better not to argue.
"What happened – will happen – to Van Statten?" Jones then asked.
Adam shrugged indifferently.
"After the disaster, during which his only concern seemed to be to recapture the Dalek undamaged, Diana Goddard took charge of the company. Will take care of it," he corrected himself with a grimace. Time travel could really play havoc with one's tenses. "She ordered Mr. Van Statten to be mind-wiped and set out on the street somewhere, just as he'd done with employees he wasn't satisfied with."
"Charming," Director Jones said in an extremely dry tone. "That still doesn't explain how you ended up travelling with the Doctor, though."
"Rose asked him to take me along with them in the TARDIS," Adam explained. "I'd told her earlier that I always wanted to see the stars. To stand out in space, looking down at Earth. To know what real life was like, out there. To travel so quickly, I was everywhere at once…" he trailed off, not realizing that his eyes had become misty and his voice heavy with nostalgia.
The Torchwood director apparently did, though.
"There's nothing wrong with that," he said in a slightly friendlier tone. "I reckon the trip in the TARDIS was like a childhood ream come true. Why would he kick you out so soon, though? Is Mickey right? Was it because of that piece of tech in your head?"
Adam nodded reluctantly. "We visited Satellite Five, one of Earth's orbital stations, in the year 200.000. It was during the time of the Fourth Great and Bountiful Human Empire – and it was overwhelming! You can't even begin to imagine the wealth of information and technology available to anyone. It was as if all my Christmases had come together."
"And so you decided to get access to it."
It was not a question. It was a logical conclusion, but Adam nodded nonetheless.
"Yes; but I realized soon enough that only those with an implant could access the data."
"So you get your own implant," Jones concluded. "Was such a thing for free, for everyone?" he clearly doubted that.
"Of course not," Adam snorted. "In fact, the top-of-the-line version – the ones like mine – cost a fortune. But I had this paper from the Doctor, the one that could fool people…"
"Psychic paper," Jones nodded, obviously familiar with it. "You used it to fake a credit card and so get your computer interface port installed."
"Infospike," Adam corrected. "It's really incredible, you know. You can download ungodly amounts of information right into your brain within seconds."
"And get your brains fired like an egg on a plasma vent, or so Jack says," Director Jones commented dryly. "I assume the Doctor was not happy with your acquiring two thousandth century technology. Was that why he kicked you out?"
"Erm… not exactly," Adam considered lying but decided against it. These people might have a way to contact the Doctor, and then he'd be in even more trouble. "I… erm… to transmit information back to the twenty-first century, using Rose's superphone. Spoke it onto my Mum's answering machine, in fact."
"Oh, my!" Jones' expression was an interesting study of amusement mixed with exasperation mixed with pity. "Reckon that went down really well with the Doctor, considering his low opinion of the human race and all. Which kinda raises the question why he'd tend to choose human companions so often," he added thoughtfully, "but that's another topic for another time. I take he was furious with you."
"That's an understatement," Adam admitted. "He dropped me off at my Mum's faster than I could realize what was happening and destroyed the answering machine with the information I'd downloaded. Then he abandoned me."
"That's something he apparently does frequently," Jones said wryly. "You're in good company; only the others didn't deserve it. What about Rose, though? She'd been the one who wanted you to go with them – didn't she put in a word for you?"
Adam shook his head. "No; actually, she was more or less gloating about how she was the only company the doctor needed. Which, considering how she'd originally enabled the Dalek to escape was a little unfair if you ask me."
"I don't," the Torchwood director said bluntly. "But Rose had, as far as I can put the picture together from what the others told me, always been a condescending little cow who was never bothered with the possible consequences of her actions."
"And yet the Doctor kept her with him and kicked me out," Adam noted bitterly. "She got two hundred of our staff massacred because she couldn't keep her hands off the Dalek. I only wanted to gain a little from the information in my head. How is that fair?"
"Unfortunately, sometimes even the smartest men fell for dumb blondes," Jones glanced at his PA. "Present company excluded, of course."
"Of course," Emma replied amiably. "We both know that I'm not dumb. And neither is Jenny, Sally, Doctor Lloyd or Doctor McKay, hair colour notwithstanding. You, however," she turned to Adam. "may have the brain of a genius, but you still manage to be incredibly dumb. Don't you realize that by introducing that info in your head to the twenty-first century you could have changed the future?"
"It would have made a better future!" Adam snapped.
"Perhaps," she allowed neutrally, "although there is no proof for that. In any case, it wasn't your right to play God. It wasn't your right to decide about the lives of us all."
"Ain't that what politicians are doing all the time?" Adam returned, a little indignantly. "And they are dumb."
"Exactly," Emma said. "You're supposed to be a genius. You ought to do better than them."
Adam didn't like being lectured by a little secretary but wisely chose to shut up – for now.
"So, what's gonna happen to me?" he asked. "Are you truly shutting me away in a stinking cell for the rest of my life?"
"For the rest of your life? No. Till 2013? Yes," Director Jones replied. "You've crossed your own timeline, and I don't have to explain you how dangerous that can be, have I?"
Adam shook his head glumly.
"In fact, this is the only place where you'll be reasonably safe," Jones continued. "The Rift creates some sort of time bubble around the Hub, or so our scientists tell me. You can sit out the situation here till 2013, in which time you'll merge with your former self, keeping the memories of both versions."
"But that's gonna take years!" Adam protested. "I can't rot in one of your prison cells all the time."
"You can; and you will, if you choose to be uncooperative," there was a faint edge of threat in Jones' mellow voice. "We can't allow you out of the Hub, for obvious reasons, save for special occasions. But you don't have to waste your time here. We've got an immense amount of alien artefacts here that need to be labelled and catalogues and not enough people to do it. You could make yourself useful."
"You'd trust me around alien tech?" Adam asked doubtfully.
"With proper supervision – why not?" Jones replied with an elegant shrug. Then he grabbed his cane and rose. "You'll be given a thorough physical, Mr. Mitchell, and after that you'll be shown to your temporary quarters to settle in."
"You mean my cell," Adam said bitterly. Jones shrugged again.
"It depends on your interpretation. Rest assured that Jack used to live in a much smaller space for years, and he was already the head of the Cardiff branch by then," he glanced at Emma. "Please, take Mr. Mitchell to the medical area. Mickey will later show him to his quarters."
"So, what's the plan?" Tosh asked Ianto half an hour later. "Who's gonna work with the boy?"
The leading triumvirate of Torchwood Three – plus their general support officer – had relocated to the small dining room, newly established next to Ianto's office by some creative rearrangement of the available space, enjoying their first cooked meal of the day, courtesy of said general support officer. It was Rhys' new and advanced recipe of spaghetti alla carbonara, with three different sorts of ham and a new version of cheese sauce, with a spicy salad and, sadly, grape juice instead of wine, as almost all of them had to drive yet on that evening.
Ianto, using his napkin as a bib as was his wont, swallowed carefully and wiped his mouth before answering.
"I can't make him work with Jeannie, as practical as it would be to put him on the night shift," he said. "Would that thing in his head unexpectedly appear, it would freak Jeannie out. She's still not stable enough to deal with that kind of shock."
"True," Tosh agreed, "and Trevor wouldn't react well to our young friend's I can't help being a genius attitude. He doesn't suffer fools gladly. They'd kill each other within the first week."
"My money would be on Trevor," Rhys commented, grinning. He genuinely liked the nerdy Englishman. Especially his awkward courtship to Tosh. Rhys found it sweet.
"And I'm seriously tempted to help him," Ianto admitted tiredly. "The guy rubs me the worst way. But he could be useful; if only we could put that sharp mind of his to good use."
"That leaves me, then," Tosh wasn't very happy about that but accepted the inevitable. "Somehow I always end up with the brats; I wonder why."
"Cos I can trust you with them; more than I trust Jack or myself," Ianto replied. "Is it really that hard with Jenny?"
"Not bad; you know that I like her," Tosh sighed. "But it's not easy to share living space with her. She's a handful, just like her father; with the addition of being very young and… and bouncy. She makes me feel so old sometimes! And then there's the whole banana thing…"
The three men grinned in unison. Tosh was allergic to bananas – they made her throw up – so she avoided them whenever she could, while Jenny couldn't get enough of them. That could make sharing a flat – especially a kitchen – complicated sometimes.
"We could take her in, at least from time to time," Rhys offered. "She and Emma get along splendidly."
But Tosh shook her head.
"No, I don't want her to move out; I owe the Doctor, my Doctor, to take care of his kid. Besides, you're still newly wed, you and Emma. You need your privacy. God knows you spend more than enough time in here."
"At least you can talk about your Doctor with Adam, too," Jack suggested. "He used to travel with the same one, after all; even if his time was considerably shorter than yours. In fact, I think you're the one who'd been the longest with him in his previous regeneration."
"True; but I'm not sure I want to share my memories with a spoiled brat, genius or not," Tosh replied coldly. "I'll keep him in his reins, though, if that's what you want. It's gonna be a bloody long time 'till 2013, I'm afraid."
"So am I," Ianto pulled a face. "Especially as we can't let him out of the Hub; at least not during daytime, and in the night it would be easier for him to give us the slip."
"Can't we put one of those ankle bracelets on him?" Rhys asked. "You know, like in those movies where the bad guys are tracked by the police through those things."
Tosh shook her head. "If he's really used to handle alien tech, he'll remove it in five seconds."
"Do you have a better idea?" Jack asked.
"Subcutaneous implants," Ianto answered promptly in Tosh's stead. "Set deeply enough so he couldn't pick it out with a pair of nail scissors or whatnot."
"You wanna chip him like a dog?" Rhys was visibly shocked.
Ianto shrugged. "We can't risk letting him escape. Imagine somebody clicking their fingers near him – he'd be in some secret military lab in no time, and he doesn't strike me as someone who could keep his mouth shut under pressure. I don't want the military – or the government, for that matter – learn anything about the near future. The entire timeline could be contaminated beyond repair. The ramifications are well beyond the worst I could even imagine; and I do have a rather vivid imagination."
"Can't we remove that… that spike thing then?" Rhys insisted.
Jack rolled his eyes. "That thing in his head is two thousandth century technology. That answers your question?"
"Kinda," Rhys rose and collected the empty dishes. "Well, if that's all, I'm filling the dishwasher and then taking Emma home. Any objections?"
Ianto made vague shooing gestures with his hand.
"No, go home. You're running on overtime already; unpaid overtime, if I may add."
"Ain't we all, all the time?" Rhys commented philosophically and left.
Ianto touched his earpiece. "Owen? How far have you come with the physical of our guest?"
"Almost done," the voice of their chief medic answered. "He's a fucking prima donna, though. More afraid of needless than Harkness, and that's saying a lot. And I haven't even stabbed him with anything yet."
"Too bad," Ianto said coldly. "I want him chipped, so that we can always know where he is. I had Sally modify one of the chips we usually give the Weevils; I want it deep enough, so he won't be able to pick it out on his own."
"You'll get it," Owen replied and disconnected.
At first sight Adam didn't find the medical area of Torchwood Three very impressive. For starters, it adjoined the autopsy bay, which didn't necessarily fill one with trust towards the local medics. It was fairly small, too. Only the remarkable variety of alien medical instruments made the place moderately interesting.
The head medic of the base was a thin, wiry, weasel-faced man with dark hair, a London accent and the lousiest bedside manner Adam had ever seen. He had to admit, though, that Dr. Harper, whom the others simply called Owen, was highly efficient at his job. In less than an hour, he performed dozens of different tests, using strange-looking – obviously extraterrestrial – tools, from x-rays though brain scans, collected tissue- and DNA-samples (which he handed over to a tall blonde by the name of Lloyd), had Adam weighed and measured and thoroughly interrogated about his medical history.
The only thing he hadn't done was a simple blood test.
"It's for your own good," he explained bluntly. "I'm a dry alcoholic; and while I've been therapied within an inch of my life and I'm almost back to my old self, my hand isn't steady enough to find a vein. Not anymore. The blood test will have to wait till Milligan comes in in the morning."
He turned to the sweet-faced, blonde technician who brought him something that was too small for Adam to recognize; then he tossed a small glass beaker to his patient.
"Piss into this," he ordered. "We'll have to test you for any possible bacterial infection."
"You know, you could be a bit more reassuring towards your patients," Adam commented on his way to the washroom. The doctor snorted.
"My patients are usually dead and don't complain," he said. "I prefer them that way. The living ones are Milligan's responsibility; he's the one who does the hand-holding, too," someone must have spoken to him through his earpiece because he suddenly fell silent. "Yeah, I got it," he then said. "Don't shit your pants, Teaboy, I'll deal with this."
He turned back to Adam, who'd just finished providing the obligatory urine sample. "Gimme your arm!"
Adam involuntarily backed off at the sight of the XXL-sized injector.
"I thought your hands aren't steady enough for blood work."
"They ain't," the doctor agreed, "but I'm still capable of placing a subcutaneous implant. Now, shut up and hold still!"
He grabbed Adam's wrist, pressed the injector to his upper arm, right under the hem of his shirt sleeve and pushed the button. In the next moment, there was a hiss and something went through Adam's skin, smoothly and with high speed. It hurt a little, but not overly so; certainly a lot less than an actual needle would have.
"What was that?" he asked.
"A tracking chip; with its help the system will monitor you all the time," the doctor replied. "And don't bother trying to remove it – you won't be able to do so without serious self-mutilation." He touched his earpiece. "Mickey, I'm done here. Come and store him away."
The young black man who'd driven them from London to Cardiff came almost immediately. To Adam's utter shock he was wearing a leather apron bound before his clothes, and that apron was definitely soiled with blood in several places. He caught Adam staring at him in open-mouthed horror and grinned.
"Sorry for that," he said. "I've just fed some of the other residents; they're not so fond of cooked meals. Come with me!"
Adam was too terrified to ask who the other residents would be and followed him obediently, out of the main Hub area and down a series of tunnels that were lit by a string of fluorescent lights lining the ceiling. After a while, Mickey Toshiko took the left hand tunnel where several doors appeared on either side. He opened the first one and Adam could peer into a room that seemed way too small to spend the next couple of years in.
"This is one of the rooms we use to sleep in whenever we have to spend the night in the Hub," Mickey explained as he flicked on the light.
At the second look, the room seemed even less promising, if that was possible at all. A single bunk was against one wall and a small table was beside it… and that was basically it.
"It's temporary only," Mickey added. "We do have bigger rooms, but they ain't furnished yet. Ianto said you'll get one of them as soon as they're finished, but until then, this has to do."
Adam nodded resonantly and looked around with obvious disgust. "And this is different from a prison cell – how exactly?"
Mickey shrugged. "Well, for starters you ain't confined to it all the time. You'll work with us and eat with us and can move around the Hub freely; save fort he Archives, of course, but those are restricted, even for the rest of us."
"I'm just not allowed to leave this place at all," Adam groused.
Mickey gave him a less than sympathetic look.
"Nope, you ain't," he agreed. "Learn to live with it, cos it ain't going to change any time soon. Besides, there are worse places on this planet. Now, the showers are just around the corner if you want to clean up first."
Adam drew his breath in at the thought of the feeling of being completely clean. He couldn't even remember the time he last had a long, hot shower, and he definitely didn't want to sleep in the clothes he'd been in for longer than he cared to count.
"Yeah, I'd like that," he admitted.
"Good, I'll show you where they are," Mickey said. "Fresh towels are laid out there, and so are toiletries, but do you have any change clothes?"
Adam shook his head mutely. That was another problem he's avoided to contemplate so far. Mickey gave him the once-over thoughtfully.
"You seem to be about the same size as Trevor," he judged. "He usually keeps some changes in his locker. I'll ask him if you could borrow some of his stuff until we get you something else to wear. Come now."
He gestured Adam to follow him, showing the way to the large communal shower room, which had an almost startling resemblance to the changing rooms of Adam's old school, with it white tiles, the steal showerheads jutting along one wall at regular intervals, separated by nothing but waist high walls. There were some proper cubicles at the end, too, but the symbols on their doors marked them for female use only.
Along the other walls stood basins, each with a mirror and a shelf of its own, and there was a bench in the middle of the room, with half a dozen freshly laundered and neatly folded towels laid out for anyone's use. Various toiletries stood on an open shelf in the corner, and a clear sign showed the way to the toilets.
"It's not very modern, but at least we've got enough hot water for everyone," Mickey explained. "I'll give you half an hour – that will give me the chance to finish the feeding – and then I'll come and bring you some clothes. "
With that, he left, leaving Adam alone in the shower room – although Adam suspected that there would be some sort of surveillance device hidden in there. He didn't care. The chance of a hot shower was too good to care for such unimportant things as modesty.
He moved to one of the showers and started undoing the buttons on his shirt. Escape plans – despite the tracking chip they injected under his skin, he didn't give up on them – could wait. Shower and rest, and probably a hot meal were more important at the moment.
~TBC~
