Chapter 3: The Medical Evaluation
The transport vehicle stopped. The engine cut off. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the heavy clunk of the driver’s door.
Mae lay still, her world defined by the straps and the dark. The back doors opened, flooding the compartment with institutional fluorescent light. Leo and Ben appeared, their faces neutral.
“End of the line,” Leo said. They unlocked the gurney wheels. The jolt as they pulled her backward out of the vehicle made her body tense against the restraints.
They were in a garage, all concrete and echoing sounds. A set of double doors hissed open automatically. They wheeled her into a bright, white corridor that smelled sharply of bleach and something else, something metallic and cold. The wheels made a high-pitched whine on the polished floor.
Doors passed, numbered, until they reached one marked ‘Evaluation Suite 3.’ Ben swiped a card. The door unlocked with a heavy thud.
The room was a study in sterile blue. Cold, shadowless light came from panels in the ceiling. The hum was different here—a higher, electrical frequency that set her teeth on edge. In the center of the room stood a large, padded table, wider than the gurney, upholstered in the same easy-wipe vinyl. Its surface was perforated with metal D-rings at regular intervals. A tray of instruments sat on a stainless steel stand nearby, glinting.
A man in a white coat stood by a computer monitor. He was older, with silver hair trimmed close, and wire-framed glasses. He turned as they entered. His expression was one of mild, professional interest.
“Ah. Subject M. Right on time.” His voice was calm, dry. “Transfer her to the table, please. Limb protocol four.”
Leo and Ben maneuvered the gurney alongside the table. “Alright, Mae. Big move,” Ben said, his tone devoid of any real reassurance. They released the torso and thigh straps. Again, the swift, impersonal hands lifted her—a weight to be shifted—and deposited her onto the padded table. The vinyl was cold through the back of her onesie.
Dr. Hale approached, looking down at her. “Hello, Mae. I’m Dr. Hale. This is Nurse Anya,” he said, nodding toward a woman in pale blue scrubs who had entered quietly. “We’ll be conducting your baseline intake assessment. It’s comprehensive. The goal is to understand your neurological and physiological responses. Your cooperation is appreciated, but not strictly necessary.”
He said it like he was reading a weather report.
“Begin with primary restraints,” he instructed, turning back to his screen.
Nurse Anya moved with a serene efficiency. She unfastened the transport strap from Mae’s ankles, but instead of freeing them, she immediately threaded a wider, heavier-looking cuff through the D-ring at the foot of the table. She pulled Mae’s right leg straight and buckled the cuff tight above the ankle. The padding was thick, but the buckle clicked with finality. She repeated the process with the left leg, pulling it outward so Mae’s legs were spread and anchored in a wide ‘V’.
Mae’s breath hitched. She tested the give. There was none.
Anya moved to her left arm. She released the cuff from the gurney’s rail, took Mae’s mittened hand, and pulled her arm straight out to the side, perpendicular to her body. A similar heavy cuff was fastened around her wrist, then chained through a D-ring on the side of the table. The chain was short, allowing no lift, no bend. The right arm followed, stretching her out in a rigid, spread-eagled posture. The harness she still wore from transport felt superfluous now, a useless layer under the absolute anchoring of her limbs.
Dr. Hale observed, making a note on his tablet. “Proceed with the sanitary assessment.”
Nurse Anya gave a slight nod. She walked to the foot of the table. Her hands were cool and clinical as they found the snap buttons at the shoulders of Mae’s yellow onesie. She unsnapped them, then moved to the long zipper that ran from Mae’s neck down past her waist.
The sound was loud in the quiet room. Zzzip.
The onesie fell open. The cool air of the room washed over Mae’s torso, her thin undershirt, her stomach. Anya peeled the garment down off her shoulders and arms, trapping her bound arms inside the sleeves, baring her from the waist up. The embarrassment was a hot, sudden wave. She squeezed her eyes shut behind the visor.
“Lift your hips, please,” Anya said, her voice flat.
Mae couldn’t. The leg restraints held her pelvis firmly against the table. She made a small, strained sound.
“Understood.” Anya simply pushed her hands underneath Mae’s lower back. With a strong, practiced heave, she lifted Mae’s body just enough to tug the onesie and the overalls down past her hips, to her thighs. The diaper, white and thick, was fully exposed.
The process was brutally efficient. Anya unfastened the tapes on each side. The diaper was peeled away, the wet, padded evidence of the morning’s anxiety briefly visible before being rolled up and discarded into a clinical waste bin. The wipes were cold, methodical, wiping her clean front and back with swift, impersonal strokes. The new diaper was unfolded, slid under her, and taped snugly into place with a pat. It was all done in less than a minute.
“Sanitary baseline recorded,” Anya stated, pulling the onesie and overalls back up over the fresh diaper but leaving them unsnapped and unzipped, a messy bunch of fabric around her restrained form.
“Now the cephalic apparatus,” Dr. Hale said.
Anya unclipped the pacifier from its ring and set it on the instrument tray. She then unstrapped and carefully removed the hard-shell helmet. The cool air felt strange on Mae’s head. Freedom was momentary.
From the tray, Anya lifted a different kind of headgear. It was a tight, elasticized black cap, studded with a web of small, silver electrodes. Wires trailed from each one, coiled neatly. She stretched it over Mae’s head, pulling it down until it hugged her skull tightly, her hair flattened beneath it. The electrodes pressed cold against her scalp.
Next, Anya picked up a large, beige, rubbery object. A bite guard. It was far bigger than her pacifier, shaped to fit over both dental arches.
“Open, please.”
Mae pressed her lips together, a last, feeble act of resistance.
“It’s easier if you cooperate,” Dr. Hale said from his monitor, not even looking over.
Anya’s thumb and forefinger pressed firmly on the hinge of Mae’s jaw. The pressure was insistent, professional. Mae’s mouth opened on a gasp of protest, and the guard was slid in, crowding her tongue, filling the space completely. It tasted of sterile rubber.
Before she could even think to spit it out, Anya fastened the chin cup of the electrode cap. It was a wide, firm strap that clamped under her jawbone and buckled snugly at the crown. She tightened it. And tightened it further. The pressure locked her jaw, holding the bite guard firmly in place. Mae tried to push with her tongue, to work the guard out, but the chin strap was too tight. She could only breathe heavily through her nose, the large guard forcing her mouth to stay slightly open.
A low, panicked noise vibrated in her throat. The feeling of intrusion was overwhelming. She pulled against the wrist restraints. The cuffs bit into her skin. She tried to bend her knees, to curl away from the exposure, but the leg anchors held fast. A sharp, jerking thrash traveled through her body, making the table shudder slightly.
“Shhh, now. Easy.” Nurse Anya’s hand came to rest on her forehead, not restraining, just a steady pressure. Her voice dropped, becoming a murmur meant only for Mae. “Just sensory input. Nothing that will harm you. The guard protects your teeth and tongue. The cap reads your brainwaves. It’s just measurement. The more you fight, the longer it takes. Just let the data settle.”
Mae panted through her nose, her heart hammering against her ribs. The nurse’s hand was cool. The words were a practiced litany, but the tone was a lifeline in the cold, blue room. The struggle had gained her nothing but a racing pulse and the certain knowledge of her own powerlessness.
She forced her muscles to go slack, a slow, surrendering melt into the unforgiving padding of the table. The restraints didn’t care. The electrodes didn’t care. The bite guard filled her mouth with the taste of procedure.
Dr. Hale turned from his screen, a penlight in his hand. He leaned over her, his expression one of detached curiosity.
“Good,” he said, not to her, but to the state of compliance she represented. “Let’s begin with pupillary response.”
The bright light clicked on, aimed straight into her dilated, helpless eyes.
The light stabbed, a white-hot needle in the blue gloom. Mae flinched, her world contracting to that unbearable point of brilliance. He held it there, counting silently, then moved to the other eye.
“Pupils reactive and equal,” Dr. Hale noted aloud, the penlight clicking off. A purple sunspot swam in Mae’s vision. “Now, let’s get you properly situated for the somatic review.”
Nurse Anya returned to the side of the table. Her hands, still cool, grasped the bunched fabric of Mae’s yellow onesie. She tugged it up, smoothing it over Mae’s torso with a brisk, impersonal touch. She guided Mae’s trapped arms, still bound at the wrists to the table’s sides, back through the sleeves. The zipper’s teeth meshed with a low, persistent buzz as she drew it shut from her waist all the way up to her throat.
The final snap at the collar was a soft pop against her windpipe. She was sealed in again. The familiar pressure of the zipper was a weird comfort, a known boundary against the room’s clinical chill.
“Harness integration,” Anya said, turning her attention to the complex web of straps Mae had worn since the bus. She hadn’t removed it earlier, just worked around it. Now, Anya began unclipping the various D-rings and buckles from themselves. She gathered the straps, threading them with new purpose.
She fed the waist strap through a heavy-duty D-ring anchored at the center of the table, right under Mae’s back. Pulling it taut, she buckled it, locking Mae’s midsection flush against the padding. The shoulder straps were next, drawn tight and clipped to rings near the table’s edge by her head, preventing any upward lift of her chest. Finally, Anya secured the leg straps of the harness to the same anchors that held her ankle cuffs, creating a redundant, inescapable latticework of restraint.
Mae took a shallow, testing breath. The harness compressed, collaborating with the limb restraints. She could not turn her head more than an inch due to the chin strap. She could not curl a finger. She was no longer a person on a table. She was a specimen, mounted and presented.
“Excellent. A stable platform for assessment.” Dr. Hale rolled a stool closer, sitting at her side. He picked up a small, rubber-tipped hammer. “We’ll begin with deep tendon reflexes. Try to relax.”
The first tap was below her kneecap. Her leg, already tense, jerked violently against its anchor, a spastic, useless motion. The hammer moved to her other knee, then to the inside of her elbows. Each percussive tap sent a shock through her rigid frame, her body betraying her with automatic, mechanical responses she could not suppress.
“Hyperreflexic, as anticipated given the noted neurotype,” he murmured to Nurse Anya, who recorded everything on her tablet.
He exchanged the hammer for a slim wooden tongue depressor. “I need you to depress the bite guard for a moment, Anya.”
The nurse’s hands were at Mae’s chin. The strap loosened a fraction. “Spit the guard out, please.”
Mae worked her aching jaw, pushing the massive rubber block out with her tongue. It fell onto her chest with a soft, dull thud. She gasped, sucking in air through her dry mouth.
“Open wide, Mae. This will only take a second.” Dr. Hale’s penlight was on again, peering into her mouth, pressing the depressor down on her tongue. “Say ‘ahh.’”
The sound that came out was a choked, guttural rasp. He studied her throat, the light glaring off the wet interior. “Oral cavity and pharynx clear.” He sat back. “You can replace the guard, Anya.”
“No,” Mae croaked, the word thick and desperate. “Please. I can’t… it’s too much.”
“It’s necessary for the cranial scans later,” Dr. Hale explained, his tone one of infinite patience. “To prevent movement artifact and possible injury. You’re doing very well.”
The guard slid back in. The chin strap cinched down, tighter than before. The rubber taste flooded her senses again, a gagging thickness she had to breathe around.
The assessment unspooled with a slow, terrible thoroughness. Stethoscope discs, cold through the onesie fabric, on her chest, her back. “Heart and lungs sound clear.” A blood pressure cuff inflated on her bicep, squeezing until her fingers tingled. “One-twenty over eighty. Elevated, but contextually appropriate.”
He took her mittened hand, uncurling the fingers within the padded cloth to press a fingertip sensor against her index finger. A pulse oximeter clicked into place. “Blood oxygen is fine.” He tested the capillary refill in her nail beds, applying pressure until the bed went white, then watching the pink sluggishly return.
“Peripheral circulation is adequate, if slightly delayed.” He made a note. “Likely a combination of restraint positioning and autonomic stress response. We’ll monitor.”
He moved down her body, his hands palpating her abdomen through the onesie, pressing for tenderness or organ enlargement. He checked the lymph nodes in her neck, her groin, his touch firm and searching. Every inch of her was cataloged, a living map of functions and potential flaws.
The diaper, so recently changed, was checked with a pat, its fit assessed as part of the whole. “Containment secure. No risk of dermal breakdown at this time.”
He then produced a tuning fork. He struck it against his knee, and a low, pure hum filled the air. He brought it first near one ear sealed under the electrode cap, then the other. “Can you hear that, Mae? Nod if you hear the tone.”
She nodded, a tiny movement against the table. The hum moved, touched to the bony prominence of each wrist, each ankle. “Vibration sense appears intact.”
Finally, he wheeled over a small machine on a cart. He attached two adhesive pads to her chest, connecting wires to the monitor. A green, jumping line appeared on its screen—the electrical rhythm of her heart, captured and displayed for him. He watched it, his head tilted, for a full, silent minute as Mae stared at the ceiling, listening to the accelerated beep-beep-beep that betrayed her fear.
“Sinus tachycardia,” he announced, as if diagnosing a fascinating bug. “Otherwise, a normal rhythm. The baseline is establishing itself nicely.”
He peeled the pads off. The beeping stopped. For a moment, the only sounds were the room’s electric hum and Mae’s ragged nasal breathing around the guard.
Dr. Hale removed his glasses, polishing them on the edge of his white coat. He looked at her, a complete, immobilized package strapped to his table. “The physical portion is concluded. Your cooperation has been satisfactory.”
He stood, placing his glasses back on. “The data is robust. Nurse Anya will prepare you for the next phase: the neurological and sensory reactivity profiles. Those require a more controlled environment.”
He gave a short, professional nod, a job well done. “We’ll be assessing your threshold for auditory, tactile, and visual stimuli. The caps electrodes will give us exquisite detail.” He turned toward the door, his coat swishing. “I’ll return shortly to begin.”
The door sighed shut behind him.
Mae was left alone with Anya and the humming lights, a map of sensations—cold disc impressions, the ache of the bite guard, the deep, permanent pressure of every strap—etched into her skin. The physical invasion was over, but his words hung in the sterile air.
The next phase.
It wasn’t an end. It was an intermission. The true measurement was yet to come.
The true measurement was yet to come.
Nurse Anya didn’t look at her. She busied herself at the instrument tray, her back to the table. The clatter of metal on stainless steel was sharp, out of place in the humming room. Mae stared at the acoustic tiles above, counting the tiny perforations, trying to make her mind as blank as the blue walls.
A digital chime sounded from a wall panel. Anya glanced over. “Half past twelve,” she said, more to herself than to Mae. She turned, her eyes doing a quick, assessing sweep from the helmet cap down to the restraints. “They didn’t feed you on the transport, did they? Of course not. The schedule said lunch.”
She walked to a cabinet and opened it, rummaging inside. She returned with a clear plastic bag filled with a beige, viscous liquid and a long, coiled tube with a tapered end.
“We can’t have you getting hypoglycemic for the reactivity profiles. Skews the data.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, almost conversational. She hung the bag on a stand near Mae’s head. “This is a nutrient emulsion. Vanilla. It’s fine.”
Mae’s eyes tracked the bag. She made a muffled sound against the bite guard, a weak negation that died in her throat.
“I know, I know,” Anya murmured, but she wasn’t listening. She inspected the bite guard protruding from Mae’s mouth. With a deft pinch, she found a small, nearly invisible silicone plug on its top surface and pulled it out, revealing a perfect, round port. She connected the tapered end of the feeding tube to it with a soft click.
“There. Sealed system. No mess.” Anya gave the bag a squeeze. The beige liquid moved, snaking down the tube toward the guard.
Mae felt the first warm trickle hit the back of her tongue. It was cloyingly sweet, thick like melted pudding. She gagged, her body straining against the harness. The liquid kept coming, a steady, invasive drip she had no choice but to swallow. Her nose burned with the scent of artificial vanilla.
“Easy,” Anya said, adjusting the flow to a slow, constant stream. “Just let it happen. Swallow when you need to. Your body knows what to do.”
She pulled her stool closer and sat, watching the bag drain with an air of routine boredom. Her gaze drifted over Mae’s spread-eagled form, the network of straps, the electrode cap.
“You know,” Anya began, her tone shifting into something oddly confiding. “In a way, you’re lucky.”
Mae’s eyes, wide and wet, locked onto hers.
“I see a lot of people come through here. The strugglers. The ones who fight the straps every single second. They exhaust themselves. They cry. It’s a whole production.” She tilted her head. “But you… you settled. After a bit, you settled right down. That’s a kind of sense, isn’t it? Knowing, deep down, that the fight’s just wasted energy.”
She reached out and casually adjusted a strap over Mae’s thigh, her fingers checking the tension. “Life is so simple when you just accept the containers they put you in. No decisions. No wondering what to wear, what to eat. It’s all taken care of.”
The vanilla sludge coated Mae’s throat. Each forced swallow felt like a defeat.
“Personally, I think a full liquid diet and a permanent oral guard would suit a lot of our clients,” Anya mused, as if discussing a new brand of laundry detergent. “Eliminates choking risks, simplifies hygiene, ensures perfect nutrition. The guard quiets the noise, gives that deep pressure input. It’s a logical solution.”
She sighed, a short, pragmatic sound. “Not very popular, of course. People get attached to chewing. To speaking on demand.” She watched the last of the beige liquid disappear from the bag. “A pity.”
The tube emptied. Anya disconnected it with that same soft click and re-sealed the port on the bite guard. She wiped a stray droplet from Mae’s chin with a cool, damp cloth.
“All done. You’ll feel better with some calories in you.” She stood, dismantling the feeding equipment. “The profiles won’t take too long. Then it’s back to Havenwood for your schedule review. You’ll be in your quiet nook or the soft room before you know it.”
She said it like a promise, a return to normalcy. The words should have been a comfort. Instead, they coiled in Mae’s stomach, cold and heavy as the nutrient emulsion. The soft room was just another kind of container. The quiet nook was just a different shade of silence.
Anya turned at the sound of the door mechanism releasing. Dr. Hale entered, followed by Leo and Ben, who positioned themselves at the foot of the table.
“Excellent,” Dr. Hale said, noting the empty feeding bag. “Proceed with the transfer for sensory transport. We’ll begin the auditory stimuli in Chamber A.”
Anya gave Mae’s shoulder a final, patronizing pat. “See? Soon.”
Leo and Ben moved in, their hands on the new restraints. The journey wasn’t over. It was just turning a corner, leading down a brighter, whiter hall where the true measurement was waiting, patient and exact, in a room designed for nothing but response.