#p.evans

Hey, got a pen? I wanna find the ugliest thing in here and make myself a name tag with the artist’s name, then stand by it so people are awkwardly forced to come up with compliments...

[Mouse sits quietly in the lab, and tries to focus.]

[The volunteer, who he knows nothing about, sits on the other side of a screen out of sight, so he isn’t impacted by their expression. They’re given prompts, written cards with descriptions of certain emotions they’ll try to focus on, memories or whatever provokes the clearest feeling.]

[On his side, there’s another person---an NWRF scientist, doctor, whatever. He’s never that interested in finding out details about them. This time it’s a woman, with soft features and a clipboard. Normally, he’s a lot more inclined to just go along with no comment---well, sparse comments, the occasional joke born of boredom---but it’s been a week of his new strictly-monitored life, and he’s tired. Like, bone-deep, hands shaking if he doesn’t keep them still levels of tired.]

[It makes everything sharper and less focused at the same time. Like he’s picking up frequencies that come in too loud, and can’t decipher them. He hunches over a little in his seat.]

[The volunteer shifts, and what he picks up intensifies uncomfortably, a weight in his chest and shoulders. He answers quickly, quietly, and doesn’t elaborate, hoping that’ll encourage them to switch the prompt. Besides, he recognizes it immediately, feels it from people around him every damn day.] Grief.