There must be a link… there must be.

But after thoroughly rewinding recordings of the interrogation process, the Professor can find no apparent trend. His eyelids are beginning to droop and his left hand starts to falter, neatly printed notes merging into thick ugly gashes. The survivors are all convicts – unfortunately, their similarities begin and end at that. Almost none of them display co-operative behaviour and he begins to wonder, really wonder, if this will ever work.

Sighing heavily, he mutters "rewind" once more.

Instantly, the projected screen whirs to life. His calculating gaze scans the recording intently despite having witnessed these scenes several times over. The first survivor is female, the only girl out of the group. Her features are quite peculiar, all angles and cheekbones. She is not beautiful – no, she could never be called that. Nevertheless, there is something about her. The way she positions herself speaks of an aristocratic upbringing. The words she chooses are courteous but spoken in a detached monotone so void of emotion he begins to wonder if she really means them at all. The interrogator seems to be thinking among the same wavelength for he peers closer for a sign of sarcasm. Her grey eyes reveal nothing. As blank as canvas, they stare back large and unblinking – 'Clear, like glass.' he thinks. Slightly unnerved, the WhiteCoat rushes to ask the final question.

"Do you notice anything unusual?"

"Why, yes – there has been something troubling me since this process started."

Eagerly the WhiteCoat leans forward. Any additional information is useful at this point. With an immense lack of evidence, they're grasping at straws.

"You see, there are various strings connecting to your being. And I was wondering…." She jerks her hand toward her in one swift movement. "What should occur if I pulled them?"

His right arm lurches forward, his mouth forming a shell shocked 'o'. But the girl is not finished yet, her hands move in liquid motions – smooth and fluid. The WhiteCoat's limbs flail helplessly, similar to the theatrical showcase of a well trained monkey. He staggers forward falling to his knees, his face painted with fear. His body is roughly dragged along the floor, tangling itself in the most absurd contractions, writhing like a victim of plague. He attempts to resist this manipulation but the more he struggles, the sharper the pain gets. It embeds itself into his limbs, a million needles piercing through his being. The girl begins to laugh – laugh. Power surges through her fingertips and her grin stretches wider for she has the world at her feet. In one final movement, she sweeps her hand upwards. There is a loud click and the WhiteCoat slumps to the ground, his body no longer capable of movement…

"Forward", he orders.

The Professor has seen all he wishes to see and the rest of this unpleasant scene holds no use for his research. Nevertheless, the images are burned into his memory. He will not forget. He cannot forget and the feeling of dread lingers in the air despite the change of scene.

This time, the convict is a handsome young man. His hair falls in a tousled braid over his shoulder, shorter strands concealing his right eye. As the questioning progresses, the only thing apparent is his stubbornness. He does not even respond to most of the inquiries posed and when he does, it is only to direct a sarcastic comment towards his interrogator.

The WhiteCoat is infuriated.

How dare he? How dare this arrogant imbecile show such a blatant lack of respect?

In her eyes, he is not merely insulting her but standing in the way of everything they have strived for. The interrogation is needed to gather information about the survivors, so they can determine what qualities are needed to survive the genetic mutation caused by the "X". Without it, there will be nothing. He is the obstacle blocking the silk road to success, and obstacles, can always be removed.

She glances downwards. The convict averts eye contact and is apparently examining the wall behind her. He unconsciously drums his fingers against his thigh, creating an odd rhythm in his boredom. Finally, the WhiteCoat snaps. Wrenching the neck of his garment, she gnarls her five fingers into an angry fist, knuckles bleached white.

"Answer the question." She hisses through gritted teeth.

Cocking his head slightly, a slight smirk stretches across his features.

"I'd rather not."

A peculiar thing occurs at that instance. His white blond bangs slide sideways, revealing his previously covered eye. A sharp flash of green meets the scientist's gaze behind her spectacles for a second, a fleeting moment, a single grain of sand in the hourglass.

In that fleeting moment, she turns to stone.

The rock coat spreads rapidly across her body, forming a perfect mould. The grey substance hardens over her neatly ironed lab coat, buries her surgical gloves, and leaves no place uncovered. Her face is the last to be concealed and she gasps, inhaling her final breaths. Unable to move, the WhiteCoat has no choice but to stare directly at her assailant. His green eyes are petrified in raw shock, terrified by his own doing.

She realizes, with a jolt, he looks just as scared as she is.

There is silence, a horrible silence. Then, all you can see is a young man in the grip of a stone statue.

It is remarkably life like.

'The bespectacled woman was a good WhiteCoat', the Professor thinks absently. She was extremely useful for sorting out the menial tasks bestowed upon him, and most of all, she would not complain. Always practical, always willing, it is a shame that she should have expired in such an unsightly manner. However, the Professor does not feel pain. No, he has long forsaken emotions such as these. All that remains is a hollow aching, so deep he begins to wonder if it really exists. With a sigh, he turns his attention back to the screen.

The last cell holds a shock. The survivor's hair is coarsely dyed startling neon blue, matching his hardened gaze. Adorned with cheap studs used to mark petty crimes, his left ear is evidence of his delinquent origins, glistening like knives in the light. Despite his disheveled appearance, the way he slouches in his seat can only be interpreted as blatant arrogance. Even in this situation, he is still their leader and must act accordingly.

A WhiteCoat enters through the door.

'Big mistake' He thinks, grinning inwardly. 'Trespassers will be executed.'

He walks up to the scientist who is by no means a small man. The WhiteCoat's shoulders are broader than the horizon, his arms as hard as concrete. Nevertheless, the convict's stride is confident. He throws the first punch.

There is a sickening crunch as knuckles collide with bone. The WhiteCoat staggers back from the impact, clutching his jaw in pain. It's dislocated.

"That's for attempting to kill me, you fucking bastards."

He launches into a series of blows, but the WhiteCoat soon regains his senses. The boy is quicker, but the scientist is stronger – an enormous bulk of a man. The Professor had specially ordered them not to harm the survivors, but in this situation, he has no choice. The convict is young - perhaps only 17 years of age, but he is no inexperienced child. Over a decade of vicious street battles have hardened him beyond his years; there is steel in his eyes. If the scientist were to take him lightly, he would be a dead man.

The WhiteCoat retaliates.

They are no longer at the Institute. No, this sort of grappling brawl is only worthy of the streets. There is no elegance, no courtesy, no test of wits – this is certainly not a performance in an aristocrat's theater. This is a show of brute force, a blatant outbreak of violence. Mannerism has no purpose here – the WhiteCoat decides to use this to his advantage.

Dipping his hand into his pocket, he draws out an electric taser, a 'safety precaution' pulsing with charge. Without a moment's hesitation, he jams the device into his victim's side and watches him fall to the ground lifeless. The scientist's breath comes in raw gasps, winded. Halfheartedly, he sloppily kicks the limp body only to find no response. Squinting, he peers closer – the boy is not breathing.

He couldn't be dead could he? The WhiteCoat is almost certain that the taser voltage was relatively low, but he cannot seem to shake that inkling of doubt. Panic rises as he remembers what the consequences for killing the subject are – no, he cannot risk that. Bending down, he presses two fingers to the boy's neck… only to find a steady pulse.

"Dumbass." He hears a voice mutter.

Then, the screen goes blank.

A/N: I'm sorry, I got a bit carried away with descriptions again! The next chapter will add more depth to the Institution and lead into the main plot. I hope to update sometime next week.