Subject 81 was a slip of a thing, probably no more than twenty years old. She was petite, with expressive kaleidoscope eyes set in sunken, sleep-deprived, darkened sockets, her irises always twisting in slow, gentle, fractal geometries. It was a phenomenon specific to her type of Psionics, an Empath, and one that not a single scientist could offer a feasible explanation for. She was pretty and looked her age, which was unusual for her kind, the inbreeding and lack of sunlight often causing the Sisters to look like albino hags of ancient myths. She was sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, eyes shut, breathing slowly, seemingly unaware of what was going on around her. They were sitting in a small office that had been vacated by the evacuated personnel, a dirty coffee mug set precariously on the desk edge, the walls littered with posters of smiling children and happy mothers.

“So, 81 here is going to help you smoke him out, possibly put some suppression down.” Vincent ran his fingers through 81’s long, black, straight hair, letting it run through his fingers like water. “It’s very special. Very talented.”

Killian leveled his gaze on the girl before him. Try as he might, he couldn’t call any psionic by a neutral pronoun, as was deemed customary and acceptable among the rank and file of the Families. They may not be Homo Sapiens Sapiens, but they were human of some kind. Calling a person ‘it’ seemed disquieting to him. Maybe he just wasn’t academic enough.

“Mornin’. I’m Captain Killian, Security.”

81 opened her eyes and the world faded in Killian’s mind, dimming perceptibly. It was like suddenly facing a tunnel as the girl sought out his emotions and sense memories, slowly dragging them to the surface. Oh, she was good. And very fast. He clamped down on his emotions, hard and strong, a training required of all upper personnel, or researcher, of any Family. It took a full two years of training to deflect a psionic attack, and heavy, sheer concentration. But it was a necessity if one was to work with a Psionic, especially Empaths, who would seek out emotional states almost subconsciously...and manipulate them. As the training kicked in, the repetitive clearing of his mind and emotions, the careful deflection of eye contact, the methodical analysis of every thought to make sure it was his own, her influence faded and snuffed out. The world around him sharpened.

“Hi,” she said finally, glancing down, embarrassed and frustrated that her attempts of probing were rebuffed. She side-eyed him, this tall stranger smelling of leather, broad in the shoulders, unkempt auburn hair brushed back, hazel eyes partially hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses. He looked tanned, an unusual feature in the Tower, where the denizens primarily stayed within the walls. Excepting the modern cotton clothing, she half-expected him to shout ‘yeehaw’ and jump on a horse.

Smirking, Vincent pushed her head slightly with his forefinger, breaking her train of thought. “It’s a smart one, our 81. Powerful. But very docile and calm. Quiet. Follows...directions.” There was a gleeful, greedy look in his eye as he stared down at her. “Your training should protect you from its probing. I’m sure you’ve already felt it rooting around. 81’s just testing you, see if you’re worth its time, and it’ll help you flush out 23.” Vincent opened the door out in the hall. “Anyway, I’m getting myself out of here. Tower’s gonna go dark, cut off as much access to powered doors as possible. Play nice.”

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The door swung slowly shut behind him.

“23?” 81 finally looked up when the door shut with a click, dark eyebrows raised.

“Yes, 23. He murdered Justin Arriques, the security guard.” Killian focused on 81’s forehead as he spoke, eschewing customary eye contact. The training allowed him to do so instinctively, to keep him from staring into those strange, hypnotic eyes. It did, however, make it difficult to gauge any emotional response an Empath might let play across their features. “And he’s loose in the Complex. Do you know him?”

Pausing, the girl nodded curtly, hands moving from lap to table as she leaned forward slightly. A sign of something? She looked up at the pictures on the wall, considering them as if the posters were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “I...we played together when we were kids. In the Common Hall, where all the Children are kept.” Her fingers traced little designs on the faux-wood table in front of her, perhaps a nervous habit of hers.

“I know the Common Hall,” said Killian gently, following her gaze to a picture of a child holding a big orange ball, tracking her nervous little movements. Sometimes, body language can speak just as plainly as someone’s tongue. “You’ll help me find him? We just don’t want him to hurt anyone else.”

Her focus instantly snapped back to the Captain, her eyes dancing over his face. “No one asks if we ‘will’,” she said sharply, a note of anger rising in her voice. “We do not ‘will’, Captain Killian. We are commanded.” Then, flushing, she covered her anger by clearing her throat. Her long white fingers picked at the fabric of her utilitarian black dress. “Sorry. That was uncalled for. I do not wish to seem ungrateful for the Family’s care.”

Killian stood, checking his sidearm. “I can understand frustration with the Family, but they write our paychecks and keep us in business. They keep you clothed and fed and working.”

“And a slave. They give us everything but our freedom.” The note of anger again.

“You’re awful loose-lipped about the Family, aren’t you, 81?” He smirked, shaking his head. “That’s fine. I ain’t gonna tattle on you. Just keep a civil tongue when His Royal Highness Vincent prances by, alright?” Checking his magazine, he popped it free of the gun, and slid it back in, racking a slug into the long barrel. “You have a name?”

That surprised her. “Name?” Her kaleidoscope eyes flicked up to his face again, but he smoothly avoided the direct gaze.

“Yeah, name. I know you Children give each other names and such. Frowned upon and all, but I don’t like the number system.”

She stared at him, and he could feel that peering, searching gaze seeking to find purchase on his mind. “I am called Lucina.”

“Alright, Lucina. Let’s hunt a killer.”