James stood and followed, his movements careful and slightly hesitant...the movements of a desperate man who understood he'd made a serious mistake but was too invested now to back out.
The medical processing center was sterile and professional in a way that made James's skin crawl.
Banks of monitors. Medical equipment he couldn't immediately identify. Two doctors in white coats standing over a stainless steel examination table.
"Strip," one of them said without looking up from his clipboard.
James removed his clothes slowly, aware that the listening device in his molar was recording everything. Aware that every detail he could gather was crucial.
The examination was thorough and degrading.
They took blood. They took saliva swabs. They examined every inch of his body, paying particular attention to scars, to marks, to anything that suggested prior medical intervention or strength anomalies.
One of the doctors...the younger one, looked at the scarring on James's abdomen.
