Chapter 10 – Self-Medication

Midway through week three, Amélie Lacroix had been downgraded to "Non-Threat" and thus was only moved about by scientists. Mercifully, they said virtually nothing (ending the rain of insults) other than to acknowledge her existence as "the subject." During one such change-of-scenery, three of them stopped to speak about something, employing lengthy words she had virtually no understanding of.

Even Gérard would probably be confused.

Surprisingly, Amélie hadn't been completely starved. Though her food usually took on a disgusting appearance, she forced herself to eat it on the slim hope she might one day awaken to see Overwatch's guns blazing as they tore her personal hell to bits. It was ironic, in a way, that she gained an understanding of exactly how her husband and other Overwatch agents could have such visceral desires to destroy, kill, and obliterate certain types of people only by being subjected to the whims of such people herself. She still wondered if they flirted with the edge of becoming exactly what they purported to hate, but even Blackwatch was not this brutal.

Maybe they'll be finished with me today. Like I've hoped every day since I got handed to the lab coats.

Whatever they were talking about, one disagreed strongly with the others. He gestured rapidly and in large motions, articulating his opinion by shouting over his companions.

The duality of hoping for rescue and death at the same time led her to take a risk. She only studied biology as it was required as "life science" at university, but remembered the "biohazard" symbol on sight. A trolley trundled down the hallway, followed by what she assumed was a lab technician. Not proficient in combat of any kind, she'd have to smash-and-grab. Quickly, she deduced the easiest method would be an injection needle, not the large container on the trolley's bottom. Several of them adorned the left side but had latches holding them down, probably to keep anyone from getting accidentally poked by whatever these purple fluids were.

As the tech and his cart passed to her right, she lunged, bodyslamming herself into the section with the needles.

She smiled as two pricks registered on her right arm and shoulder. She pressed herself against them, hoping it would push the injectors down and fill her body with whatever biohazard adorned this cart.

Just let me die.

Amélie could feel herself slipping away.

Yes…let this be the end. Just let me die.

She would have screamed if she could, waking up to the obnoxious beeping of an EKG in a hospital bed. Instead, curses flowed freely through her fogged mind as she realized whatever she'd done hadn't been enough. Some kind of mask covered her mouth and nose while her limbs were restrained (again).

The shouting scientist laughed in the faces of those who doubted his work.

"The subject is very much alive, though I had no idea she planned to accelerate our schedule!" he'd said in a report to superiors. "The injections were…shall we say…unplanned and suboptimal. However, she did survive!"

"While requiring a nontrivial amount of investment before she was ready" replied his superior coldly. "The subject is not in the correct mental state to be converted. This is an awful risk—it had better work!"

"I will not disappoint you. Begin the procedure!"