Docile Hunger
Copyright© 2026 by TMax
Chapter 1: New Leadership
Whoever last cleaned the room had missed a blood spot. Not a large one, but noticeable on the bright white walls. About shoulder height in the right corner, the size and shape of a thumbprint. Sloppy, and sloppy could mean instant death in this place, or worse, agonizing undeath.
An overweight older woman stood in the middle of the room and stared at the mirrored wall. Glassy-eyed. Stiff. She didn’t move. Not a muscle. Didn’t even look like she breathed.
“This is our first successful subject,” Stephan said. Youngish, early thirties, he wore a white lab coat over a grey dress shirt and a red clip-on tie. He hadn’t brushed his hair nor, by the smell of his breath, his teeth. Black jean pants. Brand new white and red sneakers. He held a silver, scarred computer tablet in his right hand. He hated the feel of latex gloves, so he had taken them off and shoved them in his pocket.
He walked around the subject. Poked her right shoulder with his left pointer finger. No movement. No acknowledgment. He waved his left hand in front of her face. Her eyes didn’t twitch. Even the momentary shadow didn’t cause her pupils to dilate or expand.
His colleague, similar height, similar sandy-brown hair, but at least combed, manicured hands, a gold tri-band wedding ring, glasses, in a button-up white lab coat over a white dress shirt and red tie, with proper black dress pants and dress shoes. Lem, who smiled after every third word, said, “Don’t worry, nothing to worry about. She’s safe. I mean, it’s safe, or at least safeish, as much as we can make it, her.”
Lem had his right hand over his nose to block the almost overwhelming lilac smell that the subject exuded. Lem hated the lilac odor. His left fingers flicked his wedding ring.
Stephan interrupted Lem’s ramble, “Subject 1217, be exact, Lemuel. Fix your thinking.”
The third man, Cliff, a general, the new commander of special projects, stood with his feet wide and rolled his eyes at the scientists. Dressed in crisp, newly laundered battle fatigues, he looked like a recruitment poster model. Dark brown hair with just the right amount of grey to convey wisdom. High, prominent cheekbones with a scar on his jaw, just below his right ear. He respected their minds but not their actions. Selected for this position because of his undergraduate degree in biochemistry, he had only half understood their technical jargon so far.
“She’s set to docile, or resting mode, energy conservation. Steve has the button to activate her. It,” Lem said, and reached across to press a button on the tablet.
Like a child, Stephan pulled the tablet out of Lem’s reach and used his body to shield it. “It’s Stephan. I hate that name.”
Cliff, as he insisted they call him, stepped between the two of them and gestured for the tablet. Stephan’s eyes narrowed, and he pressed his lips together, but he handed the tablet to Cliff.
“Careful. Don’t touch that button, or you might activate her, it, and kill us all,” Lem said and gestured so close to the tablet that he almost touched the red button.
Cliff stared at the tablet, at the sliding bar for speed, the wheel for aggression, the green button for automatic engagement, and the red button for stop. That button pulsed to indicate active. Grease stains of fingerprints appeared and disappeared on the screen as he moved it around in the fluorescent light.
Stephan and Lem’s eyes darted in unison between the mirror, the tablet, the old lady, each other, and the door. The lady’s right pinky finger twitched.
“How far along is she?” Cliff asked. He tapped on the screen to pull up a menu with her statistics, heart rate, respiration, brain pressure, abdomen acidity, plus symbols and numbers that didn’t make sense to Cliff. Both Stephan and Lem shuffled closer to the door as Cliff read the lady’s information. Lem had his right hand in his pocket and rubbed a small dime that he found on the floor in the washroom. Unconscious, he didn’t remember which side had faced up, and he wondered if the angels watched over him or not. Stephan would have laughed at him and then would have had a long discussion about how it didn’t matter. That finding a dime didn’t mean anything except that, based on their salaries, Lem lost money reaching down to pick it up.
Lem answered first, “Full integration, energy sacks complete, rewiring done, the chip is the only thing keeping it docile. No enhanced strength yet. That takes months to develop.”
Stephan pulled at his hair and slid his fingers between messy locks as he said, “Pituitary, adrenal, liver, heart, anaerobic, but we do not know if the stomach’s substance converter is fully operational. We have not tested that yet.”
Behind the bulletproof one-way mirror, Major Lara Jenkins sighed as she leaned back in the metal chair. Cliff, General Horthrone, might turn into a problem. Too new to the command to fully understand the dangers. Too new to appreciate that while the scientists held a lower rank, their knowledge made them infinitely more important. But too old to fear pressing the wrong button, and likely too brave for his own good, such that he might press the engage button just to test the subject. Bravery looks good on the resume, but not here. Here, it will get you killed, and everyone around you.
In theory, the three men in the cell had nothing to worry about. In theory, the chip inside the subject would stop it from attacking the three men even if engaged. In theory. But in practice? Who knew. The reason they test. Theory and practice often differ immensely.
Lara wouldn’t even go into the cell, even with the thing in docile mode. She had sat in this chair as the last subject had malfunctioned and ripped its own head apart when they touched the activate button. Subject 1203 had shown so much promise.