When Matthew Shovel at last came to partial consciousness, he couldn't move. He wasn't tied down or physically restrained. He wasn't stuck. His body wouldn't respond to his demands to sit up. To run away. To twitch. Anything. He recognized this room, having spent many reluctant nights here with his former friends. He was laying on the operating table in the "Red Room," as Intel affectionately called it. The walls and floor were various shades of white and grey, but they were usually red after a night's 'work.' The light above him was dim enough to be painful to look at, but not to blind him. There was a silhouetted figure sitting on the table by his feet. The figure was absentmindedly sharpening a knife on a leather strap. It made Matthew's blood run cold. It was only made worse when the man spoke. "A new patient came to the lab today," he said. Shovel's body only tensed as he recognized Intel's voice. "Handpicked by me, from that boy's home near the Crossroads." Tool muttered, kicking his feet and continuing to sharpen the knife. "His name is Daniel." Shovel tried to speak, to defend himself, but all that came out was a meaningless, terrified groan. (WIP)
