Seated still at this polite, touch-less breadth, on your equally static bed has to top her lists of nerve-wracking phenomenons. To be at flanks, instead of the routinely distance, with a ticking time bomb was an unorthodox.

Truth to be told, Indira held this status quo: barge into your fluorescent-beamed cage, restrain, and pump your cries dry through fucked up trial runs. How this was, or, if it was even legalized—no clue. Why they do this—for the greater good? That's what Indira tells her, after all. A few sacrificed tears won't be in vain.

She's grown used to bearing witness a few feet away, only intruding the streak of bystander safety to park a hand on your skin, whisper, "Go to sleep," and knock your screams to zero.

The ad-hoc silence, guilt would always corrupt the respite in it. Would brew a thousand sorries. But right now?

Nothing of repentance. Just hollow, robotic bullshit.

"How are you?" Her teeth drowns the nucleus of her lower lip. First courageous thing she mustered and it's for that. Could she subject herself to be any more of a fucking idiot? The answer's been said afore, it's why she's here:

"She's deteriorating, Cate," Indira implored. "I need to you to fix this. Get her in line. Cheer her up if you must," and like clockwork, she'd been so eager to please, to be good.

"Your—wounds," she corrects herself, blue eyes probing the ivory get-up from head to toe, to and fro. Taser teased across your skin yesterday. Hammer to nail on your backbone a moment ago. "Hurts still?"

The gall she has, huh? Concerns now subsequent to her idly watching.

She marginally scoots from the bed's edge, a hand poised in its slow approach, and you flinch. Recoiling 'til you are practically a secondary coat to the wall. Ah. That set in a wound. You lost your autonomy excessively because of her—of course, she's a piece of shit to you.

She retreats. "I—I can make you feel better," hastily spills, gloved fingers twitching—ready to follow suit. "I'll make everything feel better."