It

He drew deeply on his cig, leaning toward the stainless steel bars.

"What is it?"

It might have seemed a fair question, but I still felt anger boil my blood. Because he was right: this poor soul was an 'it' now. Because of him.

"His name was Marcus. He was the first subject."

Upon his name, the bald and slicked creature seemed for a moment to return to some form of sentience. It's eyes opened, showing pure black. An increased speed of beeping accompanied it and I raced to the machines, frantically reading the vitals. Within seconds, it was over. The creature was again slumped and non-responsive.

I closed my eyes in pain. There had been a few times this had happened and each time my hopes rocketed. Each time I believed that somehow I could now make my promise to this man be unbroken - that he would be alright.

"Huh. Happen often?"

The careless baritone was not enough to rouse me from my moment of sorrow. I merely shook my head and breathed deep. After a few seconds, I forced myself to look up.

"No. Not with this one."

"The other's are better?"

I looked out over the three thousand cages, three thousand sown mouths, three thousand empty black eyes.

"Yes," my mouth set in a straight line. "The others are better."