Her eyes were ciphers. Bloodshot, bleary - searching for a pattern, he used his glass to examine the veins branching through her sclerae. She reached for him, her hands like skinny (fat, big?) white spiders wandering and skittering and scratching across his back, down his chest. He could feel the fangs between her fingers. He could feel venom drop from the fangs between her fingers.
And he, in turn, reached back to her, but of course he couldn't fold his mind into tentacles of flesh, outstretched arms and fingers, as she could. She was not tangible. She was barely even real. Yet he could feel that thread of touch, the cold flesh on his back, even as he watched her writhe and pound against the glass between them.
She bit through her lip and pressed her mouth to the glass. Her blood was deep deep red and flecked with gold.
It didn't register at first but slowly he came to understand that she had a direct line to his somatosensory and striate cortices.
He ran his finger across the point where she had kissed (left her impression on? better?) the glass. As he traced the outline of her lips his hand went numb and he jerked away.
She had moved to the far end of her cell (room?) and was chewing on her cut lip and looking at him through half-closed eyes.
(or - she chewed at the cut on her lip and considered him through heavy-lidded eyes.)
She was young, this one, barely out of childhood. He could tell by the shimmer on the side of her face from the scales that hadn't fallen yet. Yes, she was young, but she had a lot of power. She might prove tricky and he was already on the back-up plan. Damn, he hated this part of the job. Their fear, their anger, could make them volatile, and very, very strong.
Distracted, he flipped through Catherine's notes:
(She was young, this one, barely out of childhood. He could tell by the shimmer on the side of her face from the scales that hadn't fallen yet. Yes, she was young, but she had a lot of power. She might prove tricky and he was already on the back-up plan. Damn, he hated this part of the job. Their fear, their anger, could make them volatile, and very, very strong.)
He looked back at the girl. She was crouched near the back of the compartment worrying at her lip.
What was it that set Catherine off?
And why wasn't she here? She was supposed to be working this case with him. He stared at the girl. She was on her haunches now, palms flat on the floor, steadily watching him. Swaying a little from side to side. If he didn't know any better he would think she was hissing at him, but it was probably coming from the pipes that ran overhead. He pressed his hands to the cold glass, and for a moment there was silence. His reflection showed a worn face, haggard. He was exhausted. The stubble growing to a fine beard, his eyes puffy. Catherine had tried to get him to transfer; told him the job was getting to him. Maybe, they always did, a little. But this was his job - this girl, staring at him with such hatred, was his job. He shivered and the hairs on his arms rose and slowly he felt cool fingers trace their way around his throat. Oh no you don't, he thought, and took a step backwards as the girl suddenly threw herself at him. She hit the glass with a resounding crack, and landed on her back on the floor. There was a trickle of blood on her forehead, but she looked peaceful. Finally she was still. She was out cold. He'd have to act fast.
All he could think was fuck, fuck, fuck, that silly bitch. It could be a trick. Was she really out? He looked to the cameras that ringed the room. Was anyone watching upstairs? Catherine would have ignored this, he thought. He looked at the girl. She was breathing and, and he thought he saw her fingers clench into a fist. Should he go in? Rathburn's voice buzzed in his head, "You must minimize physical contact at all times. I repeat, protocol requires that you minimize physical contact with the subject. They're soft and warm these, girls. You never knew where it might lead". Even if he did want to get in, he had no idea how to break the seal.