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Freak
Electra
“I don’t need to go to the doctor.”
“You’re going to the damn doctor,” my handler snarls. “I’m not filling out another fucking incident report where I get censured because you didn’t get checked out thoroughly and your weird body fries itself.”
“I don’t fry. I’m not a fucking machine,” I growl. “I’m a normal woman.”
“Nothing normal about you,” he says, his face twisted with disgust. The first time he met me, his eyes lit up with lechery. He was excited to be put in charge of me, to be given the keys to my cuffs, the passcode to the iron door which leads to my cell. He thought he could take advantage of the softness of my curves and the innocence of my eyes. He was very swiftly proved wrong.
I do not look frightening, not at first. I have what I’ve been told are sweet eyes. They’re naturally wide and pale blue. There’s something about the combination of blue eyes and curling blonde hair which makes people trust girls more. I don’t know why. I have a feeling the reason is unpleasant. Right now, my curling blonde hair is going wild in a riotous mass around my head, obscuring my gaze. That too, is impractical.
I was made to be appealing to men. It was part of the design. Every gene in my body was selected by the doctors who made me. I am science’s greatest pride and joy and their darkest secret all wrapped up in one fucked up little package. I am short. My body curves with a feminine flair, hips and breasts rounded in a way I’ve always found impractical for the purpose for which I was made, but I know the impracticalities are deliberate. I’m not a brute force soldier. I’m designed to go behind enemy lines, to surprise the target and dispatch them while they’re still ogling my ass, which seems to attract men like a magnet. It has for a long time, much longer than it should have. My handler is no exception. He wanted me, until I made sure he wouldn’t want me anymore. He loathes me now, as much as I loathe him. But I’m still stuck under his inept authority, dragged from the training course with an injury which is barely an injury. He’s done worse to me out of temper than I did to myself by ‘accident’.
He’s going to file a report saying that I was clumsy, even though it’s pretty much impossible for me to be clumsy and everybody who sees it will know better. Nobody will care. I’m not a person. I’m property. My handler isn’t worried that I’ve been hurt. He’s worried that he’s broken a very expensive piece of equipment and that he’s going to be in trouble.
“I’m not hurt. I don’t need to see the doctor. I need to go back to my cell.”
“You’ll do that when you’re signed off. Goddammit. Stop kicking me.”
“If I was kicking you, you’d be screaming in pain. I’m nudging you to let me go.”
“Quit nudging, or I’ll make sure you’re good and broken.”
“You wouldn’t dare. She’d skin you alive. You know she would.”
I don’t even have to invoke her name to make him afraid. Doesn’t matter how much muscle he has, or how mean he is, everybody inside these concrete walls quakes at the prospect of a run-in with the woman who runs this place.
“I’d make it look like an accident,” he says, dragging me into the elevator.
“If you were smart enough to do that, you would have already.”
I hate my handler.
I hate my life.
I especially hate doctors. Doctors made me. Birthed me. Hurt me. Experimented on me in ways big and small. Things I didn’t notice and things that made me scream all day and all night long. Every time they try to make me see a doctor now, I fight tooth and nail. I’m usually heavily sedated, but I guess Tyko doesn’t have any on hand today.
“I told you, I’ll kill the doctor if you make me see him again.” I hate the doctor they have here. He touches me places he shouldn’t. He’s always making excuses for me to be put through tests I don’t need. I almost killed him the last time Tyko made me come here. I will definitely kill him this time. I’m in that kind of mood.
“It’s a new doctor,” Tyko says.
“What happened to the old doctor?”
“Someone killed him.”
I’d laugh, but I’m in a headlock and can barely breathe. Being injured isn’t a reason to handle me with any more human care than any other time. Guns are handled more carefully, and they have less tendency to go off than I do.
“Be quiet and let the doctor do his job,” Tyko says, dragging me out of the elevator. “And don’t say anything stupid. Don’t say anything. Don’t attack him.”
