The scientists swore this wouldn’t happen. Well, not exactly swore. I mean, nothing’s in writing except the waivers we signed. And, naturally, there was a pacifying spiel about odds and percentages and likely outcomes and those protocols everyone seemed to forget real fast.
But, at one point, that mousy blonde in the B group looked right at the one in charge, Doctor Dan – Just Dan, no last name of course– and she asks outright, “We won’t go mental or turn into monsters or anything, right?”
Why she’d even think to ask something like that is beyond me. I was worried about hair loss and blindness, not transmutation and insatiable rage. Of course, I suppose you run a certain amount of risk when you join a clinical trial based on an ad you saw at a bus stop.
Nevertheless, the blonde asked, and Doctor Dan said no. Actually, he said, “That’s extraordinarily unlikely.” He even chuckled as though it was the silliest thing he’d ever heard.
Wonder how silly he thought all the screaming and begging for mercy were when he heard that.
I’m not sure what happened to that blonde in the B group; haven’t come across her yet. Come to think of it, my group’s reaction would likely mean her group got the placebo. Good for her, I guess.
But, here I am with other people’s blood under my nails. I want to feel bad about all the dismemberment and the killing and such, I just don’t. It’s like sneezing when dust gets in your nose; as soon as a person is in my sights, I lash out, it’s done, and I move on.
They did say apathy had been an observed side effect, though. That one they knew about.
I’ve killed seventeen doctors, or nurses, or maybe just people in white. They really should label themselves better. I do know it was definitely seventeen, seven women and ten men. So, on the bright side, their trial mental stimulator does seem to be working.
Wonder if I’ll still get my seventy-five dollars for participating.