Trial 139C

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~ Prologue ~

Bentley Torres was desperate when he took the job at the Lufdor Institute.

The job was a low-paying, unrewarding position, but he didn’t have a lot of options in the small ocean-side town where he lived. There was little work in Pickford for 20-year-old’s with no college education – especially ones who got seasick just stepping onto the docks.

The town of Pickford was remote, on the northwest coast of British Columbia. Granite rock beaches, ocean, and forest as far as the eye could see. Economically, the small town relied on the tourists (few and far between) who came up the coast in summer to fish or whale-watch.

Vancouver City born and raised, Bentley had travelled after high school, finding odd jobs in small towns up the coast for a change of pace. Chance had brought him to Pickford. He had been in there for nearly a month (with a bank account containing less than 27 dollars, living in what could be kindly referred to as a hovel, and facing a mortifying phone call home to ask his mom to transfer money into his account) when he saw the ad in the weekly Pickford Press.

Help Wanted
Night shift only. Minimum
30 hours/week. Salary
negotiable. No experience
necessary. Apply in person.
1129 North Port Road.

Located on the far north side town, the Lufdor Institute occupied a sprawling, three-story, grey cinder block building. It was surrounded on three sides by tall fences topped with razor wire and butted against the ocean on the fourth. The facility was shrouded in mystery; even the ad had been strangely vague. When Bentley had shown up at the gate the first night (with nothing but the help wanted ad in one pocket and a copy of his overdue rent notice in the other) he hadn’t known anything about what went on there.

He had only known he had been seriously in need of a job. As a result of that, when he was taken in a back door, sequestered in a small windowless room, and asked to sign a stack of confidentiality agreements before he was even interviewed for what turned out to be a minimum wage, janitorial job - he signed them.

Through his teenage years, Bentley had watched his fair share of sci-fi movies, but he had been unprepared for the information he received after accepting the job:

The facility was being used for genetic research. Some bullshit story about lengthening life spans, improving quality of life, and all this other PR junk that frankly went right over Bentley’s head. What it seemed boil down to was that they had genetically engineered some sort of creatures, only referred to as trials. Bentley wasn’t meant to have any direct contact with the trials. Instead, he was assigned several corridors of rooms to clean, mostly bathrooms, offices, and large, brightly lit laboratories with expensive looking equipment and cabinets of research he was told not to touch.

‘Just sweep the floors, empty the garbage bins, and wipe down windows and doors as needed. Keep your nose out of everything else,’ were his supervisor’s directions word-for-word.

Bentley worked a nightshift, from 8 p.m. to 3 a.m. He had no idea what went on in the daytime and didn’t let himself speculate on it. The freaky research notes he sometimes caught sight of – the ones labelled ‘xenotransplantation’ and ‘somatic cell fusion’ – were enough to convince him he was probably better off not knowing.

The first few months of work were unremarkable. Bentley found the cleaning tasks straight forward and mindless, but the regular pay check allowed him to stay with a roof over his head and food in his fridge so he had no real complaints. Then, in June, things changed. He was called into his supervisor’s office at the beginning of his shift. The higher-ups were pleased with his work blah, blah, blah... bottom line: another janitor had quit and they were considering moving Bentley onto his rounds. There was a dollar-fifty an hour salary increase. The only catch? One room on his new rounds would hold a trial’s cell.

Sign him up.

Only a few days later, his new position came into effect. The first day, Bentley readied his cart of cleaning supplies as usual. His supervisor (a balding middle-aged man who always seemed out of breath and rushed off his feet) took him to the new rooms personally.

The trial’s room was distinctive right away. Every room in the building had an electronic lock that opened with a key card. Bentley had his own so he could go room to room, however the trial’s room had several additional security protocols. His supervisor showed him how to use the palm scanner and imparted the keypad codes needed to get into the highly secure room where the trial was kept.

Walking in the first time, Bentley expected to see: (dramatically) some sort of diminutive, alien-like creatures floating in test tubes, or (undramatically) lines of small, square cages on the walls filled with white lab mice.

Nothing could have prepared him for what the room actually held.

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The room was enormous and the ceilings were probably over 20 feet high. There were a few stainless steel workbenches in the center of the floor, and huge, tall bookcases on the left and right walls, packed full of records and textbooks and other miscellaneous papers. Ladders rested again each, to be climbed to reach the higher shelves. However, none of those details registered to Bentley because wall opposite the door was one huge, floor to ceiling, glass panel opening into a massive aquarium tank. At first glance, Bentley’s memory was jogged to a visit to an observation room at the Vancouver Aquarium. He had been ten years old and had watched the beluga whales for hours through the thick glass.

But the...thing in this tank was categorically not a beluga.

His supervisor stepped into the middle of room, arm outstretched to the glass panel. “Bentley, meet Trial 139C.”

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This new prey was different than the others.

Everything about it called to him.

The way it stood tall, but not overconfident. The way its short, unkempt hair stood up in some places and tried to curl in others. The way its green eyes shone intelligently, though he could not tell their exact shade. Over the years, although his vision had sharpened to allow incredible visual acuity, his ability to distinguish colours had faded, leaving everything but the most vivid colours washed out shades of grey.

The new prey moved closer to the glass, bright green eyes staring into the water with something akin to awe. He swam closer for a better look, too. The prey reached a hand out, its fingers trembling lightly as it touched the glass. A bolt of white hot need cut through him.

Yes, this prey was different. This prey was his.

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