When he ventured forth again, a young rabbit was sitting where the researcher had last been. He did not request Evaluator’s presence, but that no longer mattered. A question had occurred to Evaluator, and he needed to know the answer. He switched on the terminal monitor, which had been turned off, and his question scrolled across the screen.
- Where is she? -
The rabbit blinked owlishly at the screen, looking curious.
“Who? Marianna?”
Marianna, Evaluator remembered, was the name of the female researcher.
- The girl from the research station. -
Mentioning the research station made pangs of fear shoot through him. He suppressed the feeling ruthlessly. The rabbit leaned forward, manner intense.
“What girl? A survivor?”
- Her hair was red. -
Not red, not really. Coppery. He disregarded accuracy for the sake of brevity in this case.
“Who was she?”
- She was his target. -
Target was as close a word as any. Plaything, toy, victim, prey, the words all applied. He had hunted her through the dark halls after everyone else was gone, until he caught her and took her to the place where Evaluator could not go.
“Whose target?”
They still wanted to know who he was. Well, Evaluator didn’t know, and furthermore, he wasn’t going to think about it.
- Where is she? -
The young scientist said nothing, and Evaluator knew that no answer was forthcoming. He turned his attention away from the terminal in disgust and sought the databanks, extending his senses along the ephemeral rivers of data travelling in and out. He found a particularly strong transmission and attached himself to it, allowing it to carry him away from the rather secluded research database. He would find the girl himself. He would see if she still lived, and what had been done to her. He needed to know that another had survived.
In the computers, Evaluator was safe from him. But the girl was trapped in the physical world. She was, to his mind, in danger. Obviously the others didn’t understand this. Well, Evaluator would keep an eye on her, once he found her. This time, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. He’d follow her like he hadn’t dared to do last time.
Maybe if he had, he would have been able to save her.
He began searching, driven by no motivation more powerful than guilt.

~*~
Pain.
She came awake with a start, instantly alert. Barbed sharper than any wire, pain twisted through her calf muscle, drawing involuntary twitches from her. Just a muscle cramp, natural and fleeting.
Lesser pain assaulted her then: stings from various scrapes; a bone-deep ache throughout her healing body; sharp stinging from the IV in her bruised wrist. The medical tape holding the IV to her arm tugged viciously on the fine ivory fur, that was still growing in where they had shaved it away.
It was time to be gone.
The cramp twisted higher, contorting her leg. She gasped and attempted to stretch it out, then sat up and began massaging it vigorously. The pain receded as she relaxed, and she pushed her hair away from her face with a sigh.
She wanted out of the hospital, with its impersonally friendly doctors and nurses; wanted out of the sterile white room; wanted out from under the eyes of her oh-so-concerned benefactors. Wanted out.
Every passing hour, the hospital became less of a haven and felt more like a prison. She felt trapped, not safe. If he came looking for her, there was no escape from her room, with its harsh flourescent lights and dispassionate, clinically white walls and linoleum.
She felt like an exhibit in that room; out on display for all the curious staff and interns. How she hated feeling their eager eyes on her, observing the miracle patient who should not have survived.
She wished she knew her name. She wanted to scream it at them, wanted to say, you see? this is who I am. I have an identity. I have a place, a purpose, in this universe; I am my own, not some lab rat for your use. I am a person.
Of course, she had no identity, no place, no purpose. All she had was restlessness, a general sense of discontent, and memories of pain.
It was dark outside, dark enough that her window was transparent despite it being the middle of the sleep cycle. Often she woke to windows opaque and featureless, blocking out the dawn or twilight. She was thankful for their current translucency, for it made the room feel less prison-like. The hallway lights, though dimmed, threw a glare onto the windowpane, through which she could vaguely see the cold glitter of stars.
In the soft glow of the hall lights, she could make out the bulky shapes of furniture and machinery scattered throughout the room. The hospital was quiet at this time of night, save for the hum of equipment and the distant sound of the night staff’s conversations. Light reflected off of the white linoleum, making obvious the scuffs on the floor. The temptation to leave was almost overpowering.
Of course, she had nowhere to go.

~*~
Evaluator flitted from database to databasee, floowing information trails in search of the girl he knew had survived. Security measures had been applied to many of the datastreams, but they were no match for his skills.
It had taken him far longer to escape the well-meaning researchers and their closed database. It seemed the defenses intended to keep him safe also worked to keep him imprisoned, but he had slipped out through one of the few datastreams to the outside world.
And oh, the information he had found. First, her location; Whitmore was a well-known hospital with an excellent trauma ward. Next, her records, including doctors’ notes on her condition.
Acute memory loss resulting from severe trauma. Recurring nightmares concerning incident. Physical recovery satisfactory. Counselling sessions recommended.
She had been there for over a month.
Finally, visitor recordsd. Names he identified as members of the investigating police force, and one signature that was not a signature at all, but merely a squiggled line. It appeared only once, three weeks after her admittance.

~*~
Daybreak brought rain.
She lay in the white-draped bed, watching the rain drool down the windowpane and aching to be outside in it. Her restless energy was engendered by her acute frustration, and compounded by her enforced inactivity.
Predatory smiles and the copper scent of blood hovered in the back of her mind, waiting for her relax her guard.
She refused to think about it.
The rain dripped, monotonous and dreary, drizzling from a grey sky as heavy as her heart. Machinery droned, blending in with the sound of the rain. The ticking of the clock seemed very loud.
She had spent many hours studying its square white face, framed in black, blank and boring. It was a very plain clock, uttery unexciting.
The nearest bank of flourescent lights dimmed, then returned to their ordinary state of brightness.
The hum of the machinery seemed very loud indeed.