There was pained look in those lilac eyes. "If only...you were so lucky."

"Then what's this all about?"

"I'm afraid that's classified."

"This is bullshit," snapped the Sniper, his eyes clouding over in anger, and he straightened up. "Then I'd rather you get a firing squad or whatever and just get this over with."

The Doctor's eyes didn't change. "You have exceptional abilities. And the Family here doesn't wantonly throw away exceptional talent."

"The Family, huh? I thought you were just a pharmaceutical company."

He frowned, a look of consternation washed over his face.

"Who hired you?"

"Fuck you."

The Doctor leaned forward slightly, his eyes urgent  "That you don't know what we do here...and you were sent for what? To assassinate me? The Surgeon? Who hired you but didn't tell you anything?"

"I don't need to say shit."

The Doctor's hands briefly clenched in what looked to be frustration, before he pinched the bridge of his nose just above his glasses, and squeezed his eyes shut. His hands flew to the pen, and as he flipped to the last page, the Sniper held a hand up. In his urgency to get him to talk, the Sniper was afraid he'd tip off anyone who might be watching the cameras.

If he wanted to get out of here alive, and before whatever they intended to do happened, he needed the Doctor's help. No sense in throwing that away if there was a slim chance at escape. With or without the Doctor in tow.

"You're pretty terrible at this interrogation thing, aren't ya, mate?"

Suddenly reminded of what he was there for, the Doctor paused, took a deep breath and sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose again. "You....aren't exactly making this easy on me, yes. This isn't exactly my job here."

"So you're actually a doctor."

"I am. But...again...didn't you get a briefing before heading out here? Or are you just the type of man who murders for a paycheck, no questions asked?"

The Sniper's eyes darkened again. He jabbed a finger at him. "Don't mistake me for just some soulless mass murderer, Doc. I got standards.”

Another emotion bloomed in the Doctor's eyes. Regret? "I...I'm sorry. I've offended you." He dropped his gaze to the floor, his fingers now rolling the pen between his thumb and forefinger, agitated.

It gave the Sniper a pang of instant regret. There was a very clear sense of earnestness to the Doctor. Genuine. Desperate even. Maybe he could be trusted...but if he could, he didn't seem to have any plan of action. So even if he did give his trust to him, what could he do if the situation came down to it?

Especially if he didn't even know what this Facility had in mind for him.

"They didn't tell me anything." He leaned back against the cold wall, and looked up at the ceiling. It was the truth. A text message, a grainy picture from a window, and an order: the formula to the Family's best selling drug...or proof of the Head Surgeon's death. With a price tag: $100,000.

They didn't tell him there were 2 men with that same face.

"They even didn't tell me he had a twin brother."

"We're not brothers," growled the Doctor. The Sniper looked back at him in surprise. The Doctor was looking at the floor, his hand clasped around the pen tightly. If he wasn't wearing gloves, he'd expect to see his knuckles turn white. "We're cousins."

"Hell of a genetic roll to look just like him. Unless there's some tom fuckery in plastic surgery."

He was silent until he cleared his throat, "There isn't."

An uncomfortable silence settled over them both.

"I got scammed then," the yellow eyed man said with a heavy sigh. He had a bad feeling from the start but...he was recommended...and it was the largest paycheck he had ever seen. 

The Doctor gave him a look of pity.  "Moreover, whoever sent you here didn't give you a suicide plan if things went wrong."

"Maybe they thought I'd succeed." A degree of hope was in his voice.

"Doubtful. I fear they didn't think you'd come out alive…so they didn't bother."

"Are you saying I needed a suicide plan to get out of this?"

The Doctor looked back down at his clipboard, pity still on his face. He didn't say anything.

"Do I have a choice?" If he was going out in some way, he wanted at least some agency in that.

The white-haired Doctor gazed at him with a mix of pity and bitterness. "That's the one thing we have in common: no. Not here."

The Doctor really did seem desperate. And whatever they seemed to have in store for him really did seem worse than death. That sinking feeling was growing in his stomach again.

"Then at least give a man on the cusp of death or worse some semblance of understanding," he pleaded, his voice quieter, bereft of the previous anger or bravado.

The Doctor's shoulders sagged a bit as he sat back, folding his hands over the clipboard once again. He stared at the papers for a long while, before he inhaled slowly and flicked his eyes back to meet the Sniper's. "Once you're cleared for the procedure, you'll be escorted to the labs for testing."

"Testing what?"

Silence. Then, "If you survive the procedure, you'll be put under observation until you're mentally fit, then you'll be sol--sent to work. I don't know who will take you, but I suspect with your abilities as a sniper, you'll perhaps be going back to the same work as you're used to. ...Just...no longer...freelance."

What the fuck was this man saying? "Procedure? Mentally fit?? What the fuck are you going to do to me?"

"Simply put, a trial of the drug I suspect your contract might have wanted retrieved. Unless assassination was your only goal."

He couldn't find the words to respond at first. He grasped the sides of the metal cot, digging his nails into the thin blankets, breathing harder until he looked up at him with a desperate face.

"A test subject??"

The Doctor's face melted into a look of pity once again. He exhaled slowly. "Yes."

"I'd rather die."

"I'm afraid that's out of both our hands."

"The hell it is!" he shouted, flicking his eyes down at the clipboard. He watched the Doctor's fingers curl around it reflexively, nervously. In a fit of desperation, he brought a finger to his lips and shushed at him, shaking his head as his eyes glanced at one of the cameras.

"Look, I know this isn't what you want to hear but you wanted the truth, and I'm giving it to you!" He stood up and put a hand out to his shoulder, as if to reassure him, but the Sniper slapped it away angrily.

"And you asked me to trust you," he hissed, his face looking down, and his voice a low growl that was barely audible.

He couldn't catch himself. The Doctor quickly tossed the clipboard onto his chair, grasped both his shoulders and shook him once, peering into his face with a look of desperation in those lavender eyes. "Please...!" he whispered, so softly that the Sniper was sure he'd have missed it completely if he hadn't been looking back at his face.

They stared at one another, both not daring to breathe, until the Doctor gently released his grip and stepped back. He drew a shaky breath and continued. "I'm sure you'll survive.  I'm sure of it!" He looked up at him, gesturing with his hands. "The survival rate is higher than it used to be, and under this current formula--" He caught himself, cast his gaze to the side, and shook his head as if to clear it. He took a few more breaths, composing himself, then straightened up.

"It's...it's a painful procedure. But...I'm sure you'll be able to take it. You're healthy enough."

The Sniper couldn't look at him any longer. He simply dropped back down onto the cot, bent over his knees. Leaned his forehead against his forearms, clasping his hands, and let out a long sigh.

"What...happens if it...doesn't work...? Will I die slow? Or quick?" 

The Doctor was silent again. When he spoke, his voice was once again stoic, calmer. "The first hurdle is whether or not your heart can take the reactions you are is going to have. After that...if you haven't lost your mind...you'll feel...changes. Many changes. If you...table...it's..." His voice wavered slightly. "It's very quick. It's painful...but I promise...it’s quick."

The Sniper was quiet a long time. Long enough for the Doctor to return to his seat, and watch him, clutching the clipboard.

"And if I lose my mind...?"

Silence. Then, "I assure you, I will make it painless and quick."

They were quiet a longer time this time. Both of them staring at the floor, the hum of the overhead lights filling the space. After an eternity, the Sniper lifted his head, and looked over at the single window. The sky was inky and jet-black. He couldn't see the trees anymore. 

He looked back at the Doctor and bitterly leaned back, his hands now resting languidly on his lap. He looked at him simply, a look that said so plainly "then what?"

".....well. It's not like I can say no, can I?"

The Doctor looked down at his clipboard, flipped to the last page and uncapped his felt tip pen once more. "Just a few more questions...then I'll leave you alone until we prepare the examination room for the remaining tests."

The Sniper gave a derisive snort and nodded once.

The Doctor started jotting down another note, and asked "Next of kin?"

The gravity of the situation finally spilled over into the Sniper's chest. His breath caught in his throat as his face crumpled in resignation. That he would prefer to leave this cell in a body bag than gamble with whatever the procedure had in mind was a frightening thought for a man who'd only lived 34 years, day to day, week to week, with no regard to any future beyond the next job. He thought there would be a calm in facing the spectre of death once he was given his first glimpse.

And yet he only felt the hollow, painful realization that an easy death may be the one blessing he could never have.

"….not any more."

The striking melancholy of those 3 words made the Doctor stop writing. He didn't look up.

The Sniper gave one last roll of the dice. "….but I have a friend."

The Doctor glanced at him, and the look of pity turned to faint hope. "And….would they come looking for you if you fail to show up after a long time?"

He paused, holding the Doctor in his gaze. "...more than likely." His voice was less defeated than his eyes.

The white haired man exhaled lightly. "Is that a promise…? Or a threat?"

The other man's yellow eyes narrow slightly. "Maybe it’s a threat."

The Doctor looked back down to his clipboard, finished the note, and surreptitiously tipped the board up. "Sounds more like a promise. But for your sake…I hope it’s a good promise. Because a threat here isn't going to buy you any time."

Will he look? asked the backwards written note.

It's pointed, but he can't tell if the Doctor is hopeful...or mocking him.  He exhaled faintly, his eyes deflecting dejectedly  "Hope so."

His face remained stoic, but his eyes visibly wilted in mild disappointment and he scribbled out the last backwards note.

me too

Flipping the papers back down, the Doctor began sorting his pile, quickly, like a magician fishing for a card, and quickly collected the secret message sheets into a single bundle, where he folded them in half and unclipped them from the packet, sliding them smoothly into an inside pocket of his lab coat. He rose and slipped both the clipboard and the scale beneath his arm, folded the chair and turned to the door. He knocked twice, and when the sliding panel at eye level slid open, he quietly spoke with the guard outside. The numerous locks began to turn. As the last once clunked loudly, he turned to the Sniper and gave him a long, blank look before exiting.

The sound of the door slamming shut seemed to echo in the sound dampened room.

For the first time in a long time, the Sniper was very, uniquely, aware of the sound of his own beating heart. Marking a march of time he could never stop or slow down. A thumping hour glass that marked time, and yet seemed so timeless; a limbo. The kind of waiting that, as a sniper, he was so keenly aware of, now that he was on the other side of that metaphorical barrel.