"It's not fair," she thinks, distracted, immersed in obtuse, ambiguous schemes, improper for a woman of her caliber, for a contributor of her ability. She gives a puff to the menthol cigarette that she precariously holds between her scrawny fingers; she lets the smoke escape with parsimony, she doesn't care about the security regulations in this regard, much less about the atrocious sign that one of her assistants hung up for her, referring to the dangers of embarking on the vices of tobacco; in any case, it is just as forbidden as the thoughts that, crossing her mind, pretend to award themselves the gallant title of 'facts,' of 'actions.'
"Why do we do this?" She wonders, lost in thought, with her gaze fixed on the bulletproof glass that separated her from the exotic creature; it wandered, like a dog cornered by idleness and boredom. On the floor, decomposing, the corpse lay twitching, a bloody mess of torn muscle and dismembered skin, the remains swollen, the volume of the body exponentially increased by the offspring of that bizarre creature that, for Santana, was nothing more than a misunderstood one. A single mother in a hostile world, she wanted nothing more than the welfare of her offspring. Yet there she was, cornered, waiting for the Foundation, those demons with plain faces and shining lights, to throw sleeping gases at her as an excuse to claim her progeny unscathed.
"So much cruelty, so much barbarism, why? Are we better than them?" She pondered, she reasoned in her mind while she nervously played with the credential that read 'Dr. Marie Santana', and which gave her the very high honor of being the main instigator of the insults against that creature, who was still wandering in her cage, like every day since countless years ago. Her hand against the bulletproof glass, pale and icy due to the effect of the controlled, cold environment. She tried to make eye contact with the eyeless creature, like someone looking for something they are not sure they have lost. Like someone who doesn't want anything. Like someone who does not know what the next few minutes of that endearing mystery we usually call destiny, have in store for them.
"I have to do something, I cannot allow this. I won't go unpunished for these crimes, I must redeem this aberration," she repeated to herself, confident, convinced without further ado. She typed with determination, with the speed of an expert, triggering a sequence that, minutes later, when she was ready and equipped with appropriate protective gear, would release the incapacitating gases that would end up knocking out the ungraceful creature with smooth, honey-colored skin, that would then fall to the ground after uttering somnolent grunts. With the risks reduced and her morale high, the woman entered the containment chamber dragging along a stretcher on which, after a lengthy procedure, she placed the corpse infested with the offspring of 023.
"This is going to cost me my job, and even my life. But I can't remain neutral here, the injustice is too great, the lies are too tangled; the world must know the truth, these unfortunate creatures must be free." She was scheming, convincing herself. Her common sense was desperately trying to make her stop her deliberate efforts to martyr herself, but nothing seemed to make her desist from her decision; neither the nervousness that made her pulse tremble, nor the stress that tensed her every muscle, nor the urgency that made drops of cold sweat run down her bare back under her lab coat and blouse, nor the panic that made her knees shake, much less the adrenaline that increased the torturous rhythm of her heart racing with anticipation of adventure, which, based on her ability to remain unnoticed, would turn into misadventure accompanied by the music of a thunderous security alarm, militarized screams and a security squad leaving her on the ground, restricting her movement with a pair of handcuffs until it was time to hear the sentence of her sin; Nothing but a fusillade awaited the doctor if she was caught in this moralistic madness.
"It shouldn't be like this, it's unnatural, we should let things follow their course. What do we think we are as a species? Judges, juries and executioners of flawed procedures? The judgment of the natural by those who fight against their mother, the condemnation of that which opposes us, like the simplest of parasites." She moved smoothly through the first stages of her journey; a rather long elevator ride back to the ordinary, sterile corridors of Whiskey-004, the Site buried beneath kilometers of industrialized city, a monument for the marginalized and the dying. She was noticeably nervous, she knew it; the cameras in this sector could not be deactivated by her limited authority as a researcher. She was at the mercy of the Foundation in the midst of this now hostile terrain. She hurried, straight to the security supplies storage, an area rarely accessed, perhaps once a month for security inspections. More than enough time for the hatchlings to be born and to grow, to cast off the chains that the Foundation, in its relentless grip, had placed on them.
"Good evening, Doctor Santana." One of the Whiskey-004 guards greeted her, very subtle, very informal, way too much. She knew it, it was over, the Foundation was triumphant again. In the blink of an eye, the man went from being in front of her with a wide smile to being on top of her, subduing her with the gun and a pair of handcuffs; she laid on the floor, screaming, kicking, crying; she felt the cold of her tears on her cheeks and remained in silent stillness when she noticed that there was no more reason to continue. She had failed, she had been arrested.
"Damn it! 023-3! I repeat, 023-3. Level 4 Security Alert." Shouted the partner of the guard who was pinning Santana to the ground.
"Wow, Doctor, do you have any explanation for this?"
I'm dead. She thought, resigning herself to her grim fate.
"I'm sorry, Lucy," she simply said, knowing that for all practical purposes, her life was over.