She is awake.
There is something different about this one.
Normally when they awaken, alone in this empty, locked room with only a camera and a light on the high ceiling, they scream, hit at the door and curse in panic, but this one is calm.
She sits in the middle of the room cross-legged and stares up at the camera, at me.
Has she been here before?
Does she know what is about to happen, because I don't.
My place is to observe and obey, not to question them, though this woman makes me surprisingly curious.
Her blue-eyed stare bores straight through to the very depth of my being.
Who is this lady?
She seems so familiar.
When I picked her up from the bus station, she looked like a gypsy, a long free-flowing red dress accented by golden greenery, barefoot, with low hanging brass earrings.
I pricked her back with my syringe before covering her mouth, she didn't struggle even then.
The next time I see them, I must ask.
In the monitor, her large brown eye still stay on me; wait, brown eyes?
A moment ago her eyes were the most piercing shade of blue, weren't they?
Is this a test?
Her eyes couldn't have changed hue like that.
She is standing up, I don't like this.
They should hear about this, I know that I should call them, but some part of me wants to see what she will do next.
Is she waving to me?
Oh, she flinched, they are at the door.
The thick reinforced door swings open, just as it should; two large beings wearing gas masks and boiler-suits enter, just as they should; they shut the door and the yellow gas starts filling the room, again, just as usual.
Why is the feed still playing?
This is not normal.
Once the gas pours in, the feed should end, that's the way that it has been since they recruited me.
I am not usually privy to what happens next; I do my part and I'm paid, I don't ask questions.
This is their way.
What has changed?
Something is wrong.
My hand shoots for my phone, I call them.
It rings, then nothing.
The yellow gas sucks out of the room, clearing the feed, she is alone, in the same place, still staring at me.
Where are the boiler suits?
Nobody is picking up.
I guess I'll go down to the room and wait for someone to arrive.
Wait, what is she holding?
It looks like a tennis ball, but the video keeps going out of focus.
She throws it at the camera and the feed cuts out.
I know for a fact that there was nothing left in the room, apart from the blue medical-robe that I dressed her in, a camera and a light bulb.
Maybe one of the boiler suits gave her something.
I pocket my phone, run and open my front door.
My door swings wide open, hitting me in the jaw and knocking me to the floor.
She is here.
There's no way that she could be, but she is.
She holds what looks like a furry grey bowling ball; this ball is larger than the one on the feed.
I lie back on the carpet, she walks around me and holds the ball over my face.
Her almond-green eyes reassure me that this is the way that things are now.
Not their way, the way of all things.
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