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Chapter 12: Safe House

I shift uncomfortably in my seat; I've been stuffed in the back of the car with Twelve and two of Patrick's friends. My human neighbor apologizes:

"Sorry, this car was made before Bio-morphs. The seats aren't made with tails in mind." Twelve nodded off shortly after being strapped in; I've had no such luck. I shift my weight to try to find a comfortable position between the seat belt and the backseat. Or, at least, one that isn't forcing me to sit on my tail... except there doesn't seem to be one. I have to settle for half-sitting, half-standing on the seat to give my tail some free room to move. Of course, that means I have to unbuckle myself. At least it allows me a good view of the ride through the front windshield. The ride itself is smooth, albeit slow as they seem to be going just below the posted speed limit; going any faster would draw unwanted attention, which we'd want to avoid. I can't help but wonder where this safe house of theirs is, and who Patrick's 'friends' are.

I didn't pay attention to them when were in the restaurant, focused as I was on Patrick. Now, its too dark to make out definite features on their faces, even with my better night vision. With the strobing artificial light from the street lamps, my eyes keep having to readjust, so I can't see any better right now than the humans in the car. What I do see is that we're heading out of the city center and into the older suburban areas surrounding it.

From the look of the houses I'd say most of them were built around the turn of the century, making them older than anyone in the car.

The driver speaks while turning the car onto a side road:

"Almost there... Patrick, these two are your responsibility. We're doing you a favor after all the hard work you've done the last several months."

I have to grab a hold of the armrest on the passenger door to keep from sliding around... Fur and cheap clothing doesn't have much friction on leather seats when someone is sitting like this.

"I know. And I thank you for all the money I've earned working for you." Patrick politely replies. It makes me more curious who the three of them are, and how they're related to Patrick. I'm also fearful due to what I remember of the not-so-legal means to earn the money it took to get out of that place.

The car slows and makes a sharp turn onto the driveway of a small single story house, immediately refocusing my attention. Weeds dot the overgrown grass, and the outside walls of the house either need new siding or a good paint job. All in all, it's a dump.

At least the windows are nice and intact, though just like the neighboring houses they have bars over them. As the car approaches the garage door, the mechanism slides it open with surprising smoothness, showing that at least something on the property is maintained. Still, I dread what the inside must look like. How good are the chances that it isn't an abandoned meth lab? For a second I seriously consider bolting from the car as soon as it stops.

The driver only stops the car once we're completely inside the garage. I can't help wincing at the sound of the parking brake after he shuts the car off, it's so damn loud. When the lights come on they reveal an empty garage, save for the parts and tools needed to keep an ancient car like this one running. Tool boxes line one wall, while some smaller spare parts are tucked away on the floor, as well as on wall shelving units, leaving a wide open area in the center for the vehicle.

Patrick's friends waste no time exiting the car. One of them gently picks up Twelve and holds her in his arms: she stays sound asleep through it all, barely even twitching as she's carried inside. Patrick exits the car before I do and opens the rear passenger door to help me get out of the car. It also allows both of us to get a better look at one-another.

He's taller than me now, painfully so, considering how much I have to look up at him. He doesn't look any older, only a bit rougher, due to some serious stubble on his face and slightly longer hair than he used to. Lucky bastard! When I was human, beards didn't come easy.

I must look completely alien. I'm standing next him in a cheap robe that looks like a kimono, nothing like what I would've worn if I'd had a say in things.

"I'll... Show you around the house before we remove those radio frequency tags. Sorry for the long trip, highways have readers on every overpass sign." As he speaks I look him in the eyes, and realize with a start how much of I've come to rely on reading signs from ears and tails to read moods.

Patrick reaches for my hand as we head for the door leading to the rest of the house. Part of me knows why he is doing this, and I don't know if I want to explore it or squash it. So I make a light yip and shake my head before walking on ahead of him. Harder than it sounds since I'm so small now.

"Sorry Jack, I um... I guess I just, um... You know... Since you are um... Okay, the reason isn't important, I'm just sorry I assumed you'd need the help." Patrick refuses to look at me as he says this, I just have to wag my tail and laugh. Well, more like let out light yip or geck; sounds weird, whatever you call it. Even so, it was enjoyable to see him like this... As we enter the house proper, I promptly set aside a cluster of thoughts and feelings I don't know how to deal with. He has of course quickly caught up to me and is walking right behind me. Dammit, why does everything have to remind me on how short I am?

The inside of the house is actually better maintained than what the outside suggested. The main hallway is well kept and clean, with no clutter on the nicely carpeted floors. As soon as my feet touch it I can't resist the urge to simply stand on the carpeting for a few seconds and relish the feeling of something soft between my toes. It's been a long while since I felt any kind of soft flooring.

Walking down the barren main hallway takes me past a few closed doors before it ends in the living room where everyone else is milling about. Unlike the hallway, the living room is fully furnished. Twelve is laid out on a fold-out sofa-bed, still sound asleep. There are a few plain-looking chairs with a couple of collapsible metal stools mixed in; all of them are turned towards the giant sized video screen dominating the far wall. What catches my attention immediately, though, is the vintage computer set up nearby. Ignoring one of Patrick's friends who is sitting in a chair facing the video screen I walk on over to the computer to examine what they have. I drop to my hands and knees with my tail wagging, oblivious to what I must look like, especially with the way I'm dressed. It looks like it's something that was made within the last decade! Score! Maybe I can actually get into contact with my mother using this? Only the sound of Patrick's polite cough and the sensation of him tapping my waist with a finger distracts me from taking the thing's cover off and getting a better idea of what it can do; my attention comes back to the room.

I was so focused on examining the computer that I hadn't even noticed the telltale smells and sounds of food being cooked in the kitchen. Honest-to-god-damn real food! There's no helping it, I lick my lips and start to drool at the scent as he directs me back to the fold-out bed so I can sit down and wait.

As we pass him again, the man in the chair explains: "I see you found the living room and our computer, I hope it's up to your standards. On the way in you passed the master bedroom, the guest bedroom and the communal bathroom, there's another one in the master bedroom. Over there is the kitchen and the dinning room, that's where we'll be removing the radio frequency chips after dinner." Patrick moves to sit next to me on the fold out bed. I fold my ears back in embarrassment at the inflection in his voice - it only now hits me that I probably gave him an unintentional 'show' in my excitement over their machine. The feeling doesn't last long, as another waft of air coming from the kitchen carrying the heavenly scent of whatever is being cooked sets my tail to wagging - and of course hitting Patrick in the process. He laughs and points to my muzzle: I've started panting like any other canine to draw in more of the scent.

I know he meant no harm, but it does make me more nervous and self conscious, so I force my tail to stop and close my mouth. My ears still droop and I've no intention of stopping them from doing so.

"Heh, sorry about that Jack. To be honest I couldn't help it. It never gets old... Every Bio-Morph we rescue from this area acts the same way when they smell real food. I don't think that super-processed shit they eat can even be considered 'meat', let alone food for anyone or anything to eat." Patrick puts his hands over his head and stretches his arms out before continuing. "Anyway, before you 'viciously' attacked me with your tail, I was going to tell you that this house has a secret basement; the entrance is underneath the dinning room table. Just lift the tile under the rear right leg of the table to get to the handle of the trap door. You can use it to hide just in case the police come looking for escapees. If it sounds like things are getting bad upstairs, there's a tunnel to a small tool shed about a hundred yards away where you can hide until the police leave. The owner of the shed should be able to help you get to the next stop, or at least out of the city. If that happens, you and your friend here will be on your own to get out of the country." My head starts tilting slightly to the side I listen to him. So he works for an underground rail road of sorts, I guess? There were plenty of rumors about such groups, I'd even heard some customers at Christopher's talk about it. Don't they also run drugs? Oh shit, Patrick, why the fuck are you working for them!?

My ears go flat on my head and my tail bristles as I stare at him. We'd promised each other we'd never resort to working for gangs to get ourselves out of there! All thoughts of the food are forgotten. I knew I should've bolted from the car the moment I saw the run-down state of the outside of this house. I didn't listen to my doubts, and now I'm going to be stuck running drugs, or worse. My freedom is not worth helping them ruin other people's lives! When I start growling, Patrick gently bops me on the nose.

"Cut it out Jack!" I rub my nose, realizing now how this feels when it's done to a pet dog. "I didn't forget our promise. The problem is things didn't work out that way. After you disappeared your mother got reclusive, refused to come out of her apartment or talk to anyone... So my family had to take care of her. My mother, father and my younger brother all had to do whatever they could to help keep her fed since the place wouldn't give us the extra food. Things got worse when S-mart moved into town and put me out of a job... I had two choices, and both of them sucked. It was either start working for these people" - he makes a small gesture towards his 'friends' - "and be able to feed everyone, or kick your mother out when she needed help the most so the rest of us wouldn't starve." He stares at me as he speaks. I can't read his face, why is it so hard now? I can at least tell by his voice that he is a bit angry, and a bit scared. Don't blame him for the bop, as a growling person my size with the set of teeth I have would be a bit scary.

"Looks like your friend figured out who we are, Patrick... For your information we pay for what we do here by buying drugs and other contraband here in the states, and then have escapees carry them into Canada. It's mostly just weed, and sometimes alcohol for the states that decided to reinstate Prohibition. Let me be absolutely clear though, the drug-running is only to pay for the safe houses. We do it for Bio-Morphs like you so you can get to Canada and be treated like real fucking people. We won't have you or your friend here carry anything on your way across the border. We're doing this as a favor for Patrick since he's helped us a lot these past few months. Your dinner will be ready in about an hour. So sit, or lay down, whatever you need to do to get comfortable."

I look at Patrick for a few moments before giving a loud huff and moving closer to Twelve on the bed. I get it, I shouldn't judge a gift horse in the mouth... Even if said horse is a drug mule. When I hear the heater kick on, I shed the cheap-ass robe I'm wearing without a second thought, my eyes focusing instead on the video screen. Patrick's friend in the chair has been channel surfing this whole time; he finally settles on some historical documentary on the 1990s. The show is mostly just sappy nostalgia, but it is at least semi-interesting to see how my grandparents lived in the decade before my mother's birth.

The bed shifts a little as Patrick moves closer to me again, and tosses a light t-shirt he got from somewhere into my lap, punctuating the landing with a polite cough.

Oh, right... I've been so used to being on my own that I'd forgotten that I need to wear something around strangers. Since the shirt is thinner than the robe, it shouldn't make me too warm, so I put it on. When I finish pulling my arms through the sleeves, the bottom hem drops damn near to my knees; my sub-five-foot height it makes me look like a kid trying to wear her dad's shirt rather than a fully grown adult. The shirt also smells like Patrick... He must have been wearing it recently. It's not a bad smell, though.

Glancing over to Patrick I say 'Thank You' in the tongue for the shirt. He replies to me with "your welcome.". Wait, what!? How does he understand the tongue? Who taught him? I scoot back over and face him, curling my tail into my lap to keep it out of the way. My curiosity makes my ears stand straight up again. Patrick blinks and stares at me; I sit in silence and try to think of how to reply to him. It takes nearly a minute to formulate the correct words in my head to do so.

'How you know how to speak?' I pronounce the words slowly and clumsily, but the fact that I am able to say them in the first place is, at least, something I can take pride in.

"Depending on traffic, it can take anywhere from seven to ten hours to drive from here to the safe-house near the border to Canada. During the trips I've made, I asked a few of the Bio-Morphs to teach us their language. As they taught us, we also taught others so we don't have to rely on them knowing how to write in English to communicate. For someone so recently converted, you speak pretty good, must have had a great teacher."

Dammit! I miss her already... Alpha was a great teacher, and if I'm being honest with myself, a great friend, too. I might even go as far as calling her my second mother, considering how she took care of me. Like that time she to consoled me after the attempted rape...

...I hope he's rotting somewhere as a throw away Bio-Morph in some remote job. That bastard's right up there on my unforgivable list, right after the guy who drugged me in that fake interview. I'm going to castrate him if I ever see him again.

With nothing else to talk about, the conversation ends; to stave off boredom I turn my attention back to the video screen. As I do, I start to wonder what else has changed about Patrick. My thoughts are interrupted when my stomach growls, reminding me that I have not eaten since before my escape. Has it been an hour yet? I want some of that incredible-smelling food they are making goddammit!

On top of all of this, I'm worn out from my last day at the 'job' I was just rescued from... It feels good to be sitting on a real bed. I'm actually tempted to lay down on it, but I know that if I do I may fall asleep like Twelve.

"Jack, I'm sorry. I know you're angry that I broke our promise, but I'm honestly just glad you're okay."

Yea, you'd better be sorry Patrick! I thought better of you than to work with drug runners. Although, I don't really have a right to complain about it, considering they freed me and will be taking me to Canada without having to carry any drugs. With a sigh I turn to face Patrick again: he'll expect an answer, just like I would.

I try to construct what I want to say to him using my limited vocabulary, only to let out a whine when I realize I don't know enough words to do so. I figure out where I tossed the robe I'd been wearing, reach into it, and fish out the notepad and pencil Alpha left for me. I'd have rather not needed to resort to this, but my escape cut my language lessons short. I'll have to resort to writing my words until I find a teacher in Canada. I write out my reply:

'Of course I'm angry! You made a promise and then broke it! Even if I can understand 'why' you broke it, that doesn't excuse it. But that also doesn't mean I'm not thankful, or that I'm not glad to see you again. I just wish you hadn't had to. Anyway is my human mother alright?'

When I'm done writing I hand him the pad; since he doesn't need to write a reply, I keep the pencil. My tail gives occasional nervous twitches as I await his answer and wonder what he's thinking about.

Patrick outright startles me when he leans in and hugs me tightly, causing me to let out a loud 'yip' and turn my tail into a bottle-brush. It's obviously meant as a friendly hug, since he only puts his hands on my back and his chin over my shoulder, so as to avoid touching certain areas. Yet, for some reason I wouldn't mind if he did touch those areas. He lets go, calmly sits back up, and faces me. At least I can tell that the smile on his face may be a good sign that he's happy. I haven't forgiven him about breaking the promise, but I just can't stay angry at him over it anymore. I stare back, waiting for him to say something, anything. I want to know if my Human mother is alright. If she isn't then... Well, I don't know what I could do, other than be distraught about it. Please, let her be okay. His smile soon fades but he still looks at me for some reason.

"Thanks for the partial forgiveness on breaking our promise, Jack. Smuggling the lam Bio-Morphs while packing some contraband into their gear is as far as my involvement goes. I promise I won't do anything else for them; I made the same promise to myself, and I intend to keep it. As for your mother, she's fine: she's living with my family at the halfway house just across the Canadian border. Your mother and my family got interested in helping the escapees once they learned the truth about them. That Bio-Morphs are as intelligent as people, and in some cases were human once. I honestly don't know how your mother will react to learning her son was converted, let alone seeing you like this, but I can guess she'll at least be happy to know you're alive. What worries me right now is this 'old Jack' business. Why do you write that?"

Hello nervousness my old friend.

My tail goes still and my ears droop to the sides as I look away from him. I should've been more careful with what I wrote down, Patrick is going to think I'm crazy, or going that way. I'm going to have to explain this carefully... I pick up the pad and flip to a clean page.

'Probably stating the obvious but I'm not exactly the Jack you used to know. When I first woke up like this I steadfastly denied that any of it was real. I even refused to eat until my body forced me to. As my body changed I convinced myself that all I needed to do was escape and find some help. The first time, at the conversion center, I got loose from my handler but couldn't even make it to the first door before I was locked in. The second was after I was sold to the place you sprang me out of, I stole knives from the restaurant's kitchen and opened the terminal in the front of the container. I also got access to the maintenance section of my container using them. With some equipment I found nearby I was able to dial out to a BBS server and post a message for help. They marked me as a troll and banned me. I was devastated.'

I steady my nerves and continue writing, Patrick has to know.

'After our Alpha male was injured and taken off-site, a Bio-morph named Sixteen got it into his head that he'd be promoted to the new Alpha. He'd also had his eye on me; he wanted me to be his Alpha Female. Right after I found out nobody'd believed my post, he barged into my container and tried to force me to have sex with him. I almost got away but he managed to get me to the point that I actually 'wanted' to have sex with him! If it wasn't for the pack's Alpha female entering at the right time he would've. That incident forced me to realize I'm someone else now, even if I have the memories of the Jack you knew.' I think for a moment as I'm putting the pencil down before batting it a bit farther away from me. I don't want to write anymore. I just hope Patrick doesn't think any less of me after reading it. Part of me imagines them kicking me out of the safehouse. I nervously push the pad over to Patrick.

"Dinner time." The man from the kitchen calls out as he enters the living room, carrying a tray full of bowls. The food smelled delicious enough when it was just in the kitchen; up close it's down right divine. He sets the tray on a small fold out dining table as Patrick reads through what I wrote down. Now that he's under some decent lighting, I can see he looks nothing like what the drug dealers back home, nor how I'd expect a smuggler to look: just your average middle aged man, short hair, slight gut, casually dressed. My attention moves from how he looks to what he's carrying as he hands me a bowl of that wonderful-smelling food. I quickly pick up the spoon already resting in the bowl.

As for what's in it, I can't tell. It's a mixture of nondescript meats and vegetables floating in some kind of thick nondescript broth. The scent of the food prevents me from thinking about anything other than eating it, so I start doing so. I promptly spoon a hunk of meat into my mouth; the taste and texture of real, honest-to-god meat makes me whine with joy. After serving me, the cook gently wakes Twelve up and places a bowl with a spoon in front of her. She yawns before picking up the spoon, shoveling the stew into her mouth and swallowing. From the look of it she isn't even taking time to taste the food. I have to wonder about her and what happened to her... Does she even realize she's free now?

The man from the kitchen serves Patrick next, followed by the guy watching TV. He take the last one for himself and sits down in one of the fold-out chairs to eat. Patrick eats while reading what I wrote down, when his spoon slows down I can guess which part he's gotten to. I turn my attention back to the food before my thoughts spoil my appetite. I hear Patrick handing the pad over to someone else while fishing out the last morsels of meat and vegetable. With all the large chunks gone I lower my head and start to lap up the thick broth; before I know it I'm actually licking the bowl clean.

Upon looking up I notice that I'm the only one who has finished their dinner. Twelve is still eating hers at a steady pace. The guy watching the video screen is halfway through his, while Patrick and the chef have barely touched theirs. Both of them were more interested in watching me eat. I feel my ears droop and my tail stop as I stare back and try to read their faces.

"I see that you liked my stew, sorry it wasn't a more substantial meal. After the shit you were fed for months on end, eating something too rich would send you into shock. Your digestive system needs to be built up to be able to take the more nutrient rich food so we will be doing that here and in the halfway house in Canada. Anyway, do you want more? At your size you could handle another bowl of it." I shake my head in response: I'm completely full after just the one. For the sake of being polite, I hand him the empty bowl and spoon whereupon he puts them on the tray.

"We weren't properly introduced earlier. My name's Mark, I can't tell you my last name for obvious reasons." He reaches out to shake my hand and I gently grasp his to do so... It still looks weird to me, how much smaller mine is compared to his. "I'm sorry for prying, but I couldn't help but wonder what made him lose his appetite. Honestly, what they did to you was pretty messed up, I mean I know conversion happens. We've helped a lot of Bio-Morphs that used to be humans escape to Canada. We've only had a handful that started out as the opposite gender, though most were switched the other way 'round. Still, your story may be the worst I have heard yet."

I put my ears back briefly, to show that I am displeased at him reading it. Still, I have to guess he's being sympathetic going by the tone of his voice as I stare at his face, which is enough to temper my anger. After a few seconds he pats Patrick on the shoulder before standing and taking my empty bowl and his barely-touched one away.

I turn my attention to Patrick: I expect him to avoid eye contact, to treat me like a stranger. What he does instead is sit right next to me and, holding his bowl of stew in one hand, reach around me with his other to hug me close to him.

"Jack, you'll always be my friend no matter what you look like on the outside. I just wish I could've found you sooner to spare you what you had to go through back there. I'm also thankful you didn't end up like your friend over there, she's going to need special care once you get to Canada. Anyway, I will be here for you no matter what, just like I was in that jobless center." Patrick reaches up with his free hand and messes up the fur on the top of my head like he used to do to my hair when we were kids and I was human. It's comforting, and makes me feel happy. So I slowly pronounce one word. 'Friend' Then I reach up and mess up Patrick's hair in return. Fair play since he messed up mine, I guess. He smiles in response and squeezes me gently.

"There's the Jack I know. Anyway, we should get that R.F.I.D. chip removed while your friend's still eating." Letting go of me, Patrick stands before turning and reaching a hand out to me to help me up.

Grasping his hand allows him to pull me to my feet. As I stand, I look down and sigh: The t-shirt he gave me falls closer to my knees than my waist... I fucking hate the fact that I'm so freaking short! It makes me feel like a kid trapped in the world of adults.

Patrick releases my hand before leading me to the kitchen table, which has already been prepped for removing the chip. Towels and cushions have been placed so that I'll be laying with my head hanging over the edge of the table. A towel has been thrown over the back of the chair, where my forehead will be resting. Off to the side is Mark prepping some disposable surgical equipment. This setup doesn't look all that comfortable to me, but then again neither does getting something cut out of me. Luckily I won't be laying there for long.

"Okay, here's the plan. Once you lay down on the table and rest your forehead on the chair here, I'm going to use this R.F.I.D. scanner here," - Mark holds up a small plastic wand with some LEDs on the base for me to see - "so I can find the location of the chip they injected into you at the conversion center. Once we find it, I'll numb the area with a local anesthetic." Mark puts down the wand and holds up an old style syringe with an inch-long needle. I wince at the needle, my tail goes between my legs and my ears fold back: human or not, I still hate needles. Mark shakes his head. "Please don't look at me like that. They started equipping them with surge protection and a band-pass filter last year, or we'd just fry the chip with a microwave gun like we used to do. Once the area is numbed I'll make a small cut into the back of your neck to get at the chip and the scar tissue that surrounds it." He holds up a disposable scalpel now to let me have a look at it. "Then it is just a quick snip and some stitches to close the wound. Won't take any longer than ten minutes to do not counting the time we will have to wait for the numbing agent to take effect. Any questions?" Looking over all the tools I notice a second set of them, probably for when it's Twelve's turn under the knife.

Shaking my head in response, I climb up onto the table and remove the T-shirt before handing it back to Patrick. I don't want to ruin it by getting blood on it, and I still have the cheap sports bra to keep me decent. Patrick accepts it and folds it over his arm while I climb up onto the table. Contact with the cold surface of the table causes my fur to puff up and the body under it to shiver. Patrick's reaction is to laugh out loud, so in retaliation I bap him in the face with my tail since on my stomach I can't reach him otherwise. He acks and backs up a few feet, spitting out some of my tail fur as he does so. Heh, serves you right. Mark just chuckles at the scene, I guess it was funny.

Once my fur settles and I'm as comfortable as I can get, I give Mark a thumb up to start. I hear him pick up the scanner wand and flip the switch to turn it on. The device lets out beeps similar to a metal detector as he waves it over my neck and upper shoulders. It lets out a loud tone just above the spot on my back between my shoulder blades. I hear him mutter 'There it is' as he places one of his hands on that spot so he doesn't lose it. Then I hear him put the wand down onto the table and picks up the syringe. Oh why couldn't he have one of those needless injectors?! I hate needles! I can feel my tail poof and twitch so I try to keep it under control.

"Try not to move, last thing we need is the needle breaking off in your back. You're going to feel a small pinch and then some tingling when I inject the local anesthetic. Most of your back'll go numb shortly after." The bastard doesn't give me any time to respond; next thing I know I feel the sting of the needle being pushed into my back, causing me to let out a short but loud yip.

The pain is quickly followed by the tingling sensation of the anesthetic slowly spreading from the injection. As I slowly lose sensation in my upper back I feel him gently rubbing my fur. Slowly, after several minutes of him rubbing me the tingling sensation turns into numbness. I draw Mark's attention by letting out a bark. In response Twelve lets out a curious set of yips from the living room in reply that roughly translate to 'yes?'.

"Numb already?" Mark looks at me and I give him a thumbs-up. To his credit (and my surprise), Patrick is still in the room with me, having taken a chair next to one of my arms. I don't know if he's trying to comfort me, or if it's a way of comforting himself. Patrick gently takes my hand in his as I hear Mark pull the wrapper off of the disposable scalpel. My ears swivel so they can focus on that sound; I realize there is no turning back. I take a deep breath and squeeze Patrick's hand to steel myself for him cutting my back open. All I feel though is him parting my fur, followed by a tugging sensation, and then the smell of my own blood, filling my nose with its coppery tang. I snort to get the scent out of my nose; I feel Patrick respond by putting his other hand on the top of my head. Again, I don't know who he's trying to make feel better, though honestly I don't think he has to worry, as long as the local anesthetic is working I can deal with this.

"This scar tissue is pretty thick, whoever implanted it must've been rough with the insertion. Ah, there's the chip. Give me a minute and I will get it out." He's mostly just muttering to himself, but I can hear it with these ears. Yea, that bitch was rough with more than just the insertion. I hear him place the scalpel into some kind of container before picking something else up off the table - a pair of scissors, from the sound of his hand opening the blades. As he grabs hold of the chip, I feel some tension and pressure, but not any pain. It feels like something much larger than it should be, given the size of the scar.

When I hear the sound of the scissors closing, that sensation of tension goes away. Then I hear him drop the scissors into the same container with the scalpel. I smell more than feel the rubbing alcohol that disinfects the incision. As a human, I'd never had the unfortunate pleasure of feeling what it is like to have your flesh sewn closed after a bad injury or surgery. The tugging sensation, though not painful, is still one I'd have rather not have found out about. Mark rubs the site with a towel soaked in rubbing alcohol again before patting my head gently in between Patrick's petting.

"I'm done, you can sit up now. Your back will hurt a little once the anesthetic wears off. If the pain gets too bad we have some over-the-counter painkillers that should be safe for Bio-Morphs. Send in your friend and I'll remove her tag next." I carefully sit up; as I do I have to shake my head to get the blood flowing again. Some tingling creeps into my shoulders, making the climb down off the table a little harder than it should have been.

Patrick returns the t-shirt once my feet are on the floor, so I quickly put it on. It still feels more like a robe rather than a shirt... Is this what wearing a dress feels like? I put my ears back slightly at this line of thought, I'm not going to go any farther down that road. Just because I'm female doesn't mean I'm about to go full on girly-girl, wearing dresses and the like! I thank Patrick in the Tongue, then make my way back to the living room. His foot falls tell me that he is following right behind me.

Twelve is still awake, and seems to have finally finished the bowl of food they gave her, so I get her attention by patting her on the shoulder. Then I point to the dinning room: 'Go, He Help' I am a little proud at the fact I managed to string together the needed words on-the-fly without sounding like a moron.

She gives me a single nod, stretches, then heads for the dinning room. I can feel the warm spot she left where I'm sitting... Not wanting it to go to waste, I curl up on it while playfully yawning at Patrick who sits nearby. Moments after I lay my head down sleep claims me.