“Hands off me,” she coughed. “I’m saying no. No permission. I have rights!”

“Read her rights,” Tough Guy said.

“Oh, sure.” Phone Boy scrolled down his phone’s screen. “Yolanda Betancourt, under the Double-Zero Virus Congressional Settlement, all chimera designate genetic data is the partial property of AlphaBeta Pharmaceutical.

Truancy from your scheduled mandatory appointment deprives corporate representatives of their due right to inspect the continued viability of registered intellectual property.” He sounded proud of himself.

Proud of what they were doing. Yaya twisted from the hunting scissor blades. “It’s my body!” she shouted. Tears slid down her cheeks; for some reason, she hated ABP more for that than anything.

Doc never looked at Yaya while bent over the loveseat, her eyes aimed only at her silvery scissors. She wasn’t going to stop. Her mind had stuffed their weekend encounter into a drawer somewhere. Yaya was only company property right now.

She swallowed hard. Her dignity tasted acidic. “Can we at least do this in private?” she asked. “Please?”

Doc paused. Her scissors snipped air, and she stood up straight. “Privacy.”

“Like in the Sibs station.” Yaya’s eyes pleaded. Like Friday night.

The light shifted in Doc’s eyes, protocol and familiarity tipping the scales.

She snapped her fingers. “Bathroom.”

Tough Guy let go of Yaya’s arms. They slid boneless down the loveseat.

Doc’s scissors aimed at the bathroom doorway, bag at her side. She blocked the front door so Yaya couldn’t rush into the hall and escape.

“Per protocol,” Phone Boy said. “Doc, considering your personal history, your handling this might be inappropriate.”

Doc stared at him, considering. Yaya looked to her with wide eyes, desperate for one more scrap of mercy. She needed Doc to repeat for Phone Boy that it was fine if she examined Yaya and that if he had a problem, he knew where to shove his phone.

But Doc’s sympathy had run dry. She was at work, and Yaya was a chimera.

Doc aimed her scissors at Tough Guy and held out her bag. “Aziz,” she said. He approached, took bag and scissors, and opened the bathroom door.

Yaya thought of kicking Doc on the way into the bathroom, but lashing out wouldn’t help, and the kick wouldn’t be that strong anyway. She slipped into the bathroom, the sink cluttered with bottles of lotion and leave-in conditioner.

“I don’t know how you can poke around in there like it’s nothing,” Phone Boy said.

“Because nothing’s all it is, you troglodyte,” Aziz said, following Yaya inside and closing the door.

Yaya wanted to retort, but her tongue fizzled. She needed a second wind that wasn’t coming and collapsed onto the toilet lid. Aziz loomed, bag in one gloved hand, scissors in the other, an unspoken threat that they were behind a closed door by protocol, nothing more. Now he waited for Yaya to undress as if it were nothing.

She took a deep breath. “Do you know what’s wrong?”

Aziz set down Doc’s bag with a leathery clunk. His gas mask huffed impatience. “This is important like you’ve no idea,” he said. “Should’ve shown up, but now we do it here. Faster.”