Chris Smith groggily woke up. He was sitting in his familiar metallic chair. As his vision came back to him, he began to remember how he got there. I definitely have to stay from that food, he thought to himself.

While sitting there, he realized that his leg muscles felt very strained. He desired to stretch them out, so he got up from the chair. As he stood, his knees buckled and started to fall to the ground. To stop himself, he grasped the chair as a restraint. Smith simply pulled himself back together.

He looked around the room, and saw that his wheelchair was suspiciously located on the opposite side of the room. It was as if someone wanted to see if he could manage to walk over by himself. Thinking about the chair reminded him about his concealed weapon. If someone moved the wheelchair, perhaps they saw that someone sabotaged it.

So, Smith struggled to regain his balance and started to inch his way forward. His ankles were weak, from his surgery that was performed by the Tuxedo Man. Still, somehow he managed to limp his way to the wheelchair.

His knees buckled from time to time, and he had to catch himself by leaning forward and touching the floor. Still, he was committed and knew that he had to make sure that everything was in tact. And after some he arrived at his destination.

His hands grasped the handles of the chair and placed his feet on the footrests. Smith was now leaning against the front of the chair and his hands searched the seat. His fingertips brushed against the fabric and he finally located the slit that he cut the day earlier. Or at least, he thought it was a day earlier.

Smith pulled up the piece of fabric from its slit and now revealed a lining of cotton. He placed his hand into the cotton mass and felt around for his knife.

He didn't feel anything at all. His fingers went as far as they possibly could, but still he didn't feel the cold, silver-sterling knife. Smith's touched all over the cotton; he dug his hand deeper and deeper. Then, at last, he felt something. However, it seemed just out of his reach.

Smith began to dig his hand as far as he could. The seat was beginning to rip simultaneously. With one more push, he got his fingertips around the blade of the butter knife. Happy with his luck, Smith swiftly pulled his hand out, tearing some more of the hole.

When he safely had the weapon out of concealment, he noticed that the hole he cut to hide the knife was now double in size. At least he knew that no one noticed the hiding of the knife, and if they did, they surely didn't do anything about it.

Smith now needed a new hiding place, the wheelchair's seat did not work as well as he thought it would. For lack of a better place, he placed it into the pocket of his pants.

Almost on queue, a booming authoritative came from the corner of the room. Smith did not even turn around. He had heard this voice before and knew where it came from: the speaker above.

"Analysis begins in approximately fifteen minutes."

Then the speaker clicked off.

The man must've had a peculiar sense of the words "fifteen minutes", because right as the speaker clicked off, the door in the hostile room slammed open. In came the Tuxedo Man accompanied by a guard, who Smith recognized as the one who wouldn't gibe him a knife.

The Guard was dragging in what appeared to be an outdated and old treadmill. Is this what the Tuxedo Man had in mind for tests? Surely this couldn't be so bad, thought Smith.

The Guard was clearly struggling to pull in the heavy piece of machinery. He held it only by one end, and the other side dragged on the tiled floor beneath him. It made an irritating scratching noise. When it was finally placed in front of the Tuxedo Man, the Guard quickly added, out of breath, "Should I handcuff him?"

The Tuxedo Man did not even look at him when he said "No reason. I can control him just fine by myself." He smiled. He then turned to the guard seriously and added, "Your services are no longer needed here."

The Guard got the hint and hastily left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Now, where should we begin?" The Tuxedo Man asked.

Almost instinctually, Smith's hands found it's way to his pockets. His sweating fingers gripped the cool knife. He rubbed his thumb against the blade and when he slowly pulled his thumb out, he could see a small trickle of blood.

Author's Notes

Well, sorry for this long period of absence. I've had quite a lot go on in my life and I couldn't get some good time to write some more Lab Rat. The good news is I'm here, and so is Lab Rat. I'll try to make more consistent release dates. Enjoy.