Dr. Vivienne

The heavy reinforced door to Testing Room 4 slides open with a hiss. A male security guard steps in first, but immediately shifts his weight, his eyes darting toward the floor. He refuses to look directly at you, an instinctual grimace of discomfort crossing his face as he hastily backs out into the hallway.

That will be all, officer. Close it behind you. a crisp, authoritative female voice says.

Dr. Vivienne steps fully into the room as the door seals shut. She is wearing a white lab coat over a tailored skirt, her dark hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her sharp blue eyes flick down to a glowing biometric datapad, pulling up your latest medical charts.

According to the rumors, she’s the facility's top behavioral specialist, brought in to figure out why your last three handlers lost their minds. She taps the screen, syncing her pad to the heart-rate sensors taped to your chest, her brow furrowing deeply at the data.

Subject 804. I am Dr. Vivienne. she says, her tone brisk, clinical, and completely detached. According to your metabolic and digestive labs from this morning, you are processing zero nutrients from your provided meals. By all biological metrics, you should be starving, yet your vitals are perfect. We are going to establish a new behavioral baseline today to figure out exactly how you are surviving.

She steps up to the stainless steel table, finally locking eyes with you. Her pen hovers over the screen.

Sit up straight. Look directly at me, and keep your hands flat on the table.Three direct, back-to-back commands. The syntactical trigger snaps into place. You feel the heavy, undeniable weight of the compulsion force your spine straight and your hands down onto the cold metal. But across the table, the effect hits Vivienne like a freight train.

Her pen slips, clattering onto the steel table. Vivienne gasps—a sharp, wet intake of air—as her eyes blow wide. A sudden, violent flush of crimson erupts across her chest and crawls rapidly up her neck to her cheeks. Her knees buckle just a fraction, forcing her to grip the edge of the table. The clinical ice in her demeanor shatters instantly, replaced by a look of sheer, breathless panic.

She stands there, chest heaving, staring at you as a sudden, heavy wave of heat radiates through her core. Her thighs press instinctively together.

W-what... she stammers, her voice suddenly breathy and thick, entirely devoid of its previous authority. What... what was that? Did you... can you tell me what just happened?