Chapter 9: Medical
The two-toned whistle sounded different here. In the Glade, it was a sharp intrusion into a living world. Here, in the sterile service corridor, it was just another clinical sound, bouncing off polished floors and beige walls. Jessica followed the familiar pattern, falling into step behind Sloane, but every sense was bristling. The air smelled of antiseptic and recycled coolness, a flat nothingness that made her nostrils ache for the damp, compost richness of her enclosure.
They entered a bright, white room that felt violently artificial. Stainless steel surfaces gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights. The windows looked out onto more corridors. There were no leaves, no dirt, no dappled shadows. A deep, instinctive aversion settled in Jessica’s gut. This was a place of procedures, of things being taken apart and measured.
“Up here, Glade,” Sloane said, patting a padded examination table covered in crinkly paper.
Jessica hopped up, the paper crackling loudly under her weight. The table was cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, not from modesty, but from a sudden, profound sense of exposure. In the Glade, her nudity was natural, unremarkable. Here, under these lights, on this paper, she felt like a specimen.
The door opened, and two people entered. One was a man in his forties with a kind, weary face and a laminated badge that read ‘Dr. Aris, DVM’. The other was a woman who made Jessica’s breath catch.
Dr. Mackenzie River was probably in her late thirties, with a calm, intelligent face framed by dark, silky hair she’d twisted into a loose knot. She had warm brown eyes and a full, unsmiling mouth. She wore a white coat over smart trousers and a blouse, but the professionalism of her attire only seemed to emphasize a serene, grounded beauty. She moved with a quiet, economical grace that reminded Jessica of the zoo’s big cats.
“Subject Gamma,” Sloane said, by way of introduction.
“Hello, Jessica,” Dr. River said, her voice a low, pleasant alto. She said the name without a hint of irony, a simple acknowledgement. It was disarming.
Dr. Aris gave a friendly, distracted smile. “Let’s have a look at our star forager, then.”
The examination began. It was a bizarre, dual-purpose affair. Dr. Aris checked her over as he would a prized exotic animal. He peered into her eyes with an ophthalmoscope, felt along her joints, listened to her heart and lungs with a stethoscope, his touch brisk and practiced.
“Remarkable condition,” he muttered to himself, palpating her calf muscle. “Lower body fat percentage than our zebra population. Muscle tone is exceptional. Dentition is perfect, no signs of enamel erosion from the foraged diet. A credit to the environment, truly.”
Meanwhile, Dr. River conducted her own assessment. Her hands were cooler than Dr. Aris’s, her touch more deliberate. She checked Jessica’s reflexes with a small rubber hammer, ran fingers along her lymph nodes, examined the skin on her back and shoulders.
“Any signs of repetitive stress or abrasion from the training apparatus?” Dr. River asked Sloane, her fingers tracing the line of Jessica’s shoulder blade.
“None. She’s exceptionally adaptable. Learns sequences faster than our primates.”
“Cognitive engagement?” Dr. River’s hand moved to Jessica’s neck, feeling her pulse.
“High, during structured tasks. But Finch’s logs from their interviews suggest some… circularity in her abstract thinking. A narrowing of referents.”
Jessica tried to stay still, to be the passive subject. But Dr. River’s proximity was overwhelming. The clean, faint scent of her soap, the whisper of her cotton blouse as she leaned in, the focused intensity of her brown eyes—it all coalesced into a potent distraction. When Dr. River placed the stethoscope’s bell on her chest, just above her breast, Jessica’s heart gave a betraying thump.
Dr. River’s eyes flicked up, meeting hers for a fraction of a second. She moved the stethoscope. The cold disc slid over the swell of Jessica’s left breast, then down to her ribcage. A trail of fire followed it. Jessica willed her body to be still, but a traitorous warmth was spreading, a low, familiar pulse beginning to beat between her legs. She was horrifyingly aware of her own body’s response, a slick, undeniable readiness.
“Cardiovascular system is robust,” Dr. River said, her tone unchanged. But then she paused. She had moved to check Jessica’s temperature internally, a routine procedure. Her clinical touch encountered unmistakable, wet warmth.
A beat of silence hung in the bright room. Dr. Aris, scribbling on his tablet, didn’t notice. Sloane, leaning against a counter, did. A faint, knowing smirk touched her lips.
Dr. River withdrew her hand slowly. She didn’t comment. She simply cleaned her fingers with a wipe, her expression unreadable. But the flush that crept up Jessica’s chest and neck felt like a screaming confession. Shame, hot and acidic, burned in her throat. They knew. They could see it, smell it. This wasn’t a reward earned through obedience. This was her own stupid, human libido, triggered by a beautiful woman’s clinical touch. It felt like a failure. Was this her last grip on a crumbling humanity? Not art, not philosophy, but just… base, pointless arousal?
“Physiologically, she’s in peak form,” Dr. River said, her voice carefully neutral, moving the conversation along. “But we should note the elevated… responsiveness. It might indicate a need for more consistent physical relief protocols to avoid frustration behaviors.”
Sloane nodded. “Understood. We can adjust the reinforcement schedule.”
The humiliation was complete. They were discussing her need to be masturbated like a zoological management issue. Jessica stared at a crack in the ceiling tile, wishing she could dissolve into the paper beneath her.
“One last thing,” Dr. Aris said cheerfully. “Standard procedure for all our high-value residents. Time for your chip, Jessica.”
He turned to a tray and prepared a syringe, but this one had a large, thick needle and a strange, plunger-like apparatus. Jessica’s composure broke. A small sound of protest escaped her.
“It’s okay,” Dr. River said, her hand returning, this time to rest firmly on Jessica’s bare shoulder. The touch was meant to be calming, but it sent another, unwelcome jolt through her system. “It’s just a microchip. Smaller than a grain of rice. It goes right here, between the shoulder blades. You won’t feel it after today.”
“All our animals have them,” Dr. Aris added, swabbing a spot on her back with cold alcohol. “If you ever got out, wandered off, it helps us bring you home safe and sound.”
The wording was gentle, but the meaning was brutal. All our animals. She was being tagged for retrieval. Permanent identification.
She felt the sharp, deep prick of the needle, a brief, intense pressure as the chip was implanted. Then it was over. A small bandage was applied.
“All done,” Dr. Aris said. “You’re officially part of the inventory.”
The bandage was a small, stark island of white against her skin. Jessica remained on the table, the crinkling paper the only sound in the sudden quiet. The chip felt like a brand, a tiny, cold pebble of ownership lodged forever under her skin. Dr. Aris turned to wash his hands, his part evidently done.
Dr. River leaned back against a counter, crossing her arms. She studied Jessica, who was staring fixedly at the wall. “The physical metrics are exemplary,” she began, her tone shifting from clinical to contemplative. “But Finch’s cognitive logs are a concern. If we don’t address the potential for mental stagnation, we risk neural atrophy within, say, six months. She needs more than just physical puzzles.”
“More training sequences?” Sloane asked, her arms folded.
“Different kinds. A creative outlet might stimulate other neural pathways.” River’s gaze was thoughtful. “Something that engages the parts of her brain that aren’t just about reward and obedience. Drawing, perhaps. With safe, non-toxic materials she can’t weaponize.”
Dr. Aris dried his hands on a paper towel. “Or,” he said, tossing it into a bin, “we consider a more fundamental biological stimulus. Pair bonding. A mate.”
Sloane let out a short, dismissive laugh. “You’re dreaming. Who else is signing up to live naked in a habitat? We’d never find a compatible subject, and the behavioral variables would be a nightmare to control.”
“The mating drive is a powerful creative stimulant,” Aris countered lightly.
“It’s a powerful disaster stimulant.”
River held up a hand, quieting them. Her eyes hadn’t left Jessica, who was listening, her face burning. “There’s the more immediate issue of her current physiological state.” She said it plainly, without embarrassment. “We noted the arousal. It’s a stress response, but also a biological imperative. Leaving it unaddressed could lead to agitation, distracted performance.”
The air in the room grew thicker. Jessica’s muscles coiled tight.
“So, we manage it,” Sloane said with a shrug. “Part of the enrichment protocol. I can handle it in the training room post-session. It’s efficient.”
“Is it?” River asked. “Or does that just further cement the reward structure to us? Perhaps allowing her to self-soothe in her own environment is more natural. It would be an independent behavior.”
Aris rubbed his beard. “The Glade isn’t private. The guest sightlines are designed for observation. If she does it there, visitors will likely see.”
“Would that be a problem?” River’s question was genuine, analytical. “It’s a natural behavior. It might even enhance the authenticity of the exhibit. A truly unguarded moment.”
Jessica couldn’t breathe. They were discussing this like she was a piece of malfunctioning equipment. Her humiliation curdled into a sharp, desperate anger. She pushed herself up on the table, the paper screaming in protest. “Stop it,” she said, her voice trembling but clear. “Just stop. I’m right here. You can’t just decide—”
Sloane was on her in an instant. Not with violence, but with a swift, invasive proximity. She planted a hand firmly on Jessica’s chest and pushed her back down onto the table. “Quiet,” she snapped, her flinty eyes hard. Then she looked at the others. “See? Verbal interference. Regression.”
She looked back down at Jessica, her voice dropping into that cold, conditioning tone. “You don’t bark at the vets, Glade. Lie. Still.”
The command was a lash. Jessica went rigid, the fight draining out of her under the weight of that practiced authority. She lay back, tears of frustration welling in her eyes, blurring the fluorescent lights into starbursts.
“The training room,” Sloane stated flatly, ending the debate. “It’s controlled. We can’t have her performing for an audience; it twists the dynamic. It makes it a show. Here, it’s a medical adjustment. Simple.”
River was silent for a long moment, watching a single tear track from the corner of Jessica’s eye into her hairline. She finally gave a slight, reluctant nod. “Alright. Proceed. We’ll monitor for changes in baseline stress.”
Sloane didn’t hesitate. She reached for a drawer and pulled out a small, clear bottle of lubricant. The sound of the cap clicking open was obscenely loud. Jessica turned her head away, squeezing her eyes shut, her entire body a cord of shame.
“This will be easier if you relax,” Sloane said, her voice devoid of any inflection. It was just instruction.
Jessica didn’t relax. She held herself perfectly rigid, jaw clenched, as Sloane’s efficient hands moved. The touch was exactly as it had been in the training room: purposeful, mechanical, and devastatingly effective. It was not pleasure. It was a systematic release of a biological pressure valve. The other two doctors turned slightly, giving a nominal pretence of privacy while reviewing a chart.
It was over quickly. A rushed, shuddering climax was wrung from her body, a purely physical spasm that left her feeling hollow and used. Sloane wiped her hands clean, then wiped Jessica down with a cool, damp cloth.
“There,” Sloane said, as if she’d just administered a shot. “All adjusted.”
River’s lips were pressed into a thin line. She finally approached the table again. She didn’t touch Jessica. She just looked at her with those deep, unreadable brown eyes. “We will arrange for drawing materials,” she said softly, a promise meant only for Jessica. “Charcoal and pressed paper. Something for you.”
Then she turned and left the room. Dr. Aris offered a faint, sympathetic smile before following. Sloane gripped Jessica’s arm and pulled her upright. “Come on. Back to your habitat.”
Back to your habitat.”
The return walk was a silent, hollow echo of the journey out. The sterile corridor air still clung to Jessica’s skin, a phantom chill. The implanted microchip itched faintly between her shoulder blades, a persistent whisper of ownership. Sloane didn’t touch her, just walked ahead, a silent escort to the edge of the fabricated world.
The service gate to the Glade hissed shut behind her with a final, metallic clank. She was alone.
The contrast was violent. The Glade’s air was a warm, living blanket, thick with the scent of wet soil, blooming jasmine, and the musky perfume of the fig tree. Sunlight, filtered through a million leaves, dappled her skin in shifting gold and green. She stood still, letting the sensory overload wash over her, trying to drown the clinical memory of the exam room.
She walked to her stream, the one with the smooth, flat stone she used for bathing. Kneeling, she plunged her hands into the cool, clear water, scrubbing them over her face, her neck, as if she could scour away the feel of their hands, their discussing voices. The water ran clean. Her skin was just skin. But the chip was still there. The memory of Sloane’s efficient, impersonal touch was still there.
She lay back on the sun-warmed stone, letting the heat bake into her muscles. A butterfly, wings like stained glass, fluttered past her face. She watched it, mesmerized by its pointless, beautiful journey. Her body, nude and stretched on the rock, felt simultaneously alien and perfectly correct. The sun touched every part of her, a total embrace the white coats could never replicate.
Would it be so bad? The thought arrived fully formed, drifting up like a leaf on the stream. To just… be this. To let the intricate, demanding human mind—the one that wrestled with humiliation, that remembered art galleries and coffee shops—just quietly dissolve into the green. To live in the simplicity of sun, hunger, touch, and sleep. The doctors feared cognitive decline. But what if decline was just… simplification? A shedding of painful, unnecessary layers.
Finch’s interviews were the anchor, but the rope was fraying. She had to grasp for words with him sometimes now, the concepts slipping like wet stones. The other idea followed, warm and shocking. A mate. Dr. Aris had said it so casually. Another person here. Not a keeper, not a scientist. Another body, naked and real, moving through the ferns.
A female mate. The specificity of the thought was a quiet thunderclap in her chest. She imagined another presence in the twilight. Not conversation, but shared silence. A touch that wasn’t a command or a clinical reward, but a mutual discovery. The warmth of another back against hers in the sleeping nest. Her hand drifted idly across her sternum, her fingers brushing her own nipple. It peaked instantly, a sharp, sweet point of sensation.
Her mind flashed, unbidden, to Sloane’s hands. Not in the exam room, but in the training room. The deliberate, praising stroke down her spine. The way her thumb had rubbed that perfect, tense spot on her shoulder. The memory wasn’t of humiliation now, wrapped in the Glade’s safety. It was just sensation. Potent, focused, and deeply arousing.
She realized her fingers were still circling her nipple, her breath coming a little shorter. The other hand slipped down her abdomen, through the neat thatch of hair. Her hips arched slightly off the warm stone, seeking her own touch. She was wet again, but this was different. This was hers. This heat was for the fantasy of Sloane’s focused attention, for the imagined shadow of a female mate moving towards her through the trees.
A sharp, chattering cry split the air. The gibbon family was arguing over a branch high above. Jessica’s eyes snapped open, her hand freezing. She was fully exposed here on the rock, in clear view of the guest path. She could see a family standing there, a man pointing a long lens camera right at her. Her arousal curdled into a cold wash of exposure. They were watching. They’d been watching.
She rolled off the stone into the cover of the ferns, her heart hammering. The moment was broken, replaced by a familiar, cagey tension. But the heat between her legs remained, a persistent, aching echo. She stayed crouched in the green, listening to the distant chatter of the guests moving on.
Later, as the sun dipped, Finch arrived for his scheduled interview. He sat on his usual log, tablet balanced on his knee. He looked tired. “Jessica. How are you feeling after today’s… procedures?”
She pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them. “I have a chip in my back,” she said flatly.
“For your safety,” he said, but it lacked his usual conviction. He tapped his tablet. “Dr. River is concerned about your cognitive enrichment. She suggested art supplies. Would you like that?”
The word ‘art’ felt strange in her mouth, a relic. “What would I draw with?”
“Charcoal. On pressed paper. It’s biodegradable, safe.” He leaned forward slightly. “What would you draw, if you could?”
Jessica looked out at the Glade. The waterfall, the specific way the light caught the spray. She opened her mouth to describe it, the composition, the play of shadow. The words tangled. “The… water. The light on it. The green.”
Finch waited for more. It didn’t come. He made a note, his brow furrowed. “I’ll have the materials brought to the drop point tomorrow.”
He asked more questions, about the gibbons’ social dynamics, about the taste of different grubs. She answered, but her descriptions were simpler, more visceral. Less about comparison, more about immediate experience. The white grub is creamier. The brown one cracks. Finch’s notes grew longer, his questions more frequent, as if he were trying to pull something back from the edge.
When he left, the twilight was deepening into a velvet blue. The longing returned, deeper now, mixed with a new loneliness his interview had somehow amplified. The idea of a mate wasn’t just a fantasy now; it felt like a potential solution. A way to be less alone inside this skin.
She thought of Sloane again. The strict line of her ponytail, the cool certainty in her flint-colored eyes. Her hands. Always her hands. Jessica’s own hand crept back between her legs, this time with a purpose born of a deep, twisting need. This time, she didn’t stop at the sound of guests.
She found a denser thicket, a hidden hollow formed by the roots of a great fig. Here, she was invisible. She let the fantasy play: Sloane here, in the dirt, not in a white room. Sloane’s authoritative voice telling her what to do, her hands not clinical but claiming. The imagined touch wasn’t a reward. It was a possession.
Her climax, when it broke, was silent and fierce, a convulsive shudder that locked her muscles and blurred her vision. She lay panting in the leaf litter, the scent of decay and her own sweat rich in her nose. The pleasure was acute, but the emptiness that followed was vast. It was just a chemical release. It solved nothing.
She stared up at the first piercing stars through the canopy. The doctors were worried about cognitive decline. But maybe they had it backwards. Maybe her mind wasn’t declining. Maybe it was adapting, streamlining itself for its new primary functions: to perceive beauty, to seek pleasure, to avoid pain. To want.
And she did want. The desire was a hollow in her center. She wanted the beauty of the Glade to be shared. She wanted the touch that wasn’t a tool. She wanted to be seen by someone who wasn’t taking notes. The fantasy of a mate solidified, not as a vague idea, but as a specific, aching hunger.
As she drifted towards sleep in her nest, one final, clear thought surfaced. If they ever did bring someone else, a woman, into this place with her… she knew exactly how she would greet her. Not with words. She would walk right up to her, into her space, and she would touch her. She would learn her skin the way she knew the bark of her favorite trees. She would start with her hands.