Well, this was #@&&in boring.

Honestly, it was the worst part of his day. He'd killed a mark this month, which meant he had to pal around with another agent for a while. The bright side? He got to pick the agent he worked with. The down side? The little @#$^ took forever to get out of requisitions. Yup. You had to requisition the agent he was going to work with. Like he was a @$^kin piece of equipment or something.

He chuckled at the thought. Man, the world was a @#%^ed up place. He loved it.

The tatted up tool opted to take up the rest of his wait hitting on the girl at the front desk, leaning in and telling her about his car. Lamborghini. Red. Fast as @#$&. She was into it. She knew she was.

The door finally opened, and he was invited in. He had to establish himself with his partner every time they went out; they liked to assess whether or not he needed any further restrictions before they sent the little cuss out for any field work. He would have to get this part over quick. He was getting bored, and they had places to be.

They walked him back. The still observation room's doors burst open, and Delta 9 walked on in, unable to make a calm entrance. "Ayyyy, how ya doin ya little #$&%?" He walked over to his side of the assessment table. He looked left and right, and then pulled a chocolate bar from his sleeve. "Got the good stuff today. Cookies and cream. Them egg heads keep tellin me not to bring anymore in, so don't rat me out." He reached over to silently slide the bar to him.

He was Delta 7, and this was where D9 found out how much of a chore this day was gonna be.

He woke up, was given breakfast, was given a book to read. A normal start to the day. Brush teeth under the supervision of a guard. Read halfway through the book, bookmark, start with physical conditioning. All in the cell. All on his own volition. Back to reading. Cell door opens.

"Okay, D7," a uniformed man greeted, snatching the book, "You get to go outside today."

He took my book. Delta 7 was shepherded out of his cell and led to the lockers.

Part of why it took so long was that he had to change-- off with the linen shirt and shorts, into the civvie clothes. They were itchy and tight. Seven didn't like them. But they were necessary for blending-in. Civvie clothes were better than suits any day.

Shorts with too many pockets. T-shirt. Hoodie. Socks. Shoes.

"Alright, come on," the guard grunted. D7 complied. He went to the holding area, and was sat on a bench. No restraints. No bite-mask. He knew better than that, for the time being. He wondered who would be coming for him today.

>> "Ayyyy, how ya doin ya little #$&%?"

D9. It was almost always either D9 or K5. When asked which was the lesser of two evils, that was unclear. D9 said words that D7 didn't know which, judging by the expressions of the guards, were not good words.

>> "Got the good stuff today. Cookies and cream. Them egg heads keep tellin me not to bring anymore in, so don't rat me out."

D9 also, however, brought food that tasted differently than the usual overly-processed crap that D7 was so accustomed to being fed.

Wordlessly, and with subdued movements, D7 slid the offering into one of the too many pockets of the shorts. The faint sting of genetic residue prickled as the thing was tucked away.

He barely looked at D9. He made no indication of gratitude. If he did, they'd take the sweets anyways. He'd learned that the hard way. D7 kept his eyes forward and waited for directions.

He watched as the pathetic little runt reached out meekly to grab his offering, and chuckled. Not a single sign of appreciation for his gracious act? Oh well, you couldn't win em all, and the kid had

"Atta boy. You gonna be good for me today, right?" He stood up, walking a few steps back, and turning to face him. "Aright... Put your left index finger on the tip of your nose" It was a standard practice. They figured it to be imprinting or some dumb #$%^. You gave the kid a few simple commands to be sure he would follow orders throughout the mission.

"Tug your ear with the other hand." He smirked a bit. "And say 'I'm a little #@$^." He was supposed to make him state his classification there. He went off book a bit.

The SUPER soldier turned and looked to the observation room, spreading his arms out as if to say both 'deal with it' and 'we good?' all in one go. Assuming all was good, The little green light next to the door would turn on.

He would likely hear about this on his next review. Not that he gave a @#$^. There weren't enough mutants on the force, so he was a precious commodity, who was very good at what he did. They would get over it.

>> "Atta boy. You gonna be good for me today, right?"

"Yes, sir," was the quiet response that clipped past Delta 7's lips without so much of a second thought. That's how it was, when he was on an even keel. All of his thoughts were in neat little compartments. His end-goal was a successful mission, and the means by which to attain a successful mission was to follow protocol. Quite simple, really.

Delta 9 rose from his seat, and Delta 7 did the same, though he did not step away from the bench. He had not been instructed to do so. He stood at attention, shoulders squared. Back straight. 

>> "Aright... Put your left index finger on the tip of your nose"

Left index finger, to nose. Check.

>> "Tug your ear with the other hand."

Right hand to right ear. Tug. Check.

>> "And say 'I'm a little #@$^."

The shifter child's face crumpled slightly. Protocol was, after assessing physical response, he was supposed to give his designation. Designation Delta 7. Delta 9 was going against protocol. To follow protocol, or to follow Delta 9?

"I-" Delta 7 wavered, his throat clenching, before he obediently recited, "I'm a little @#$^."

It would benefit the shifter child to be in Delta 9's favor, since Delta 9 was the one requisitioning him. He was just following orders, after all. Delta 7 wouldn't be punished for following orders.

Delta 7 remained at attention, awaiting Delta 9's summons. It was easy to follow protocol. Except, of course, when Delta 9 was calling the shots.

He took the candy bar. "Goooood, Don't want no sh&* outa you, Kay?" Kid was creepy, fer sher, but it wasn't his fault. It was the eggheads, really. Them people who thought themselves smarter than anyone else, and then thought that make it okay to treat people like human garbage. He stared for a second. Well, wasn't any of his #$%&kin business, was it? What what he gonna go fix the world?

F*#% NO! He was a tool of the system until he saved up enough to fly off to @#%^ all. Somewhere were people wouldn't bug him.

The fact was, he was standing right in front of a piece of requisitioned government equipment.

The light turned green.

"That's right, #$%^er... You're a little #$%#, and we... are goin on a field trip. First, they give you the sample? The little yellow envelope?" He leaned in, pulling out a small envelope of his own.

"You know you don't get to touch it yet... Don't open it til we're there. Till I say you can. In fact... Give it to me. I don't want you #@$^kin with it till I say so."

He held out his hand.

"C'mon... Give it, and then we get to go outside."

>> "Goooood, Don't want no sh&* outa you, Kay?"

Delta 7 nodded quietly, remaining at attention. Did he pass, or would he be sent back to holding?

>> "That's right, #$%^er... You're a little #$%#, and we... are goin on a field trip. First, they give you the sample? The little yellow envelope?"

"N-no, Delta 9," Delta 7 said dutifully, staring at Delta 9's sternum. They never gave Delta 7 his artifact prior to going-out on the field. His time was limited, and if he shifted too soon, time was wasted in transit. Additionally, if the time ran-out and he reset prior to the completion of the mission, the mission was delayed and he could, potentially, go against his programming and venture off. All this was unbeknownst to the young agent.

A guard stepped forward and handed the envelope to Delta 7. It had been so muddled with genetic information that it stung Delta 7 to hold it, and yet it provided no information for him to read. The envelope sat there, prickling, like the pins-and-needles feeling when blood rushes back into a numb extremity.

>> "You know you don't get to touch it yet... Don't open it til we're there. Till I say you can. In fact... Give it to me. I don't want you #@$^kin with it till I say so. C'mon... Give it, and then we get to go outside."

Delta 7 gladly surrendered the offending envelope, letting it drop into Delta 9's proffered hand. He then wedged his hands in his pockets, eyes sliding from the guard, to Delta 9.

Now, they got to go outside. That was what Delta 9 had said. Then, he could partake in the contraband chocolate bar that rested heavily against his leg.

He paused when the little guy told him no, looking a tad mad and confused for a moment before the guard stepped in. Right, they kept the little cuss on a short leash, didn't they? He chuckled as he took the small envelope, and gave the guard a nod, albeit with a cocky smirk included.

He was well aware that everyone here hated him. Didn't bother him none. He was a mutant, and they were people who specialized in locking mutants in rooms. He wasn't gonna be their friend if he wanted to. "Alright, let's get outa this $#%&hole, huh?"

He stood and walked to the little green-lit door, pulling it open, and waving the kid toward it. "C'mon. Weather's great." It wasn't. It was grey and muggy, but it was probably the best weather this kid had seen in a while. The move from the containment area to the outside was pretty uneventful. D9 walked behind the young mutant, and everyone gave them a wide berth. He made the occasional face at someone who he knew wasn't going to complain.

Soon, they were outside. "Alright you little @#$^, get in the car. Just had it cleaned, so don't go looking for people to be, alright?" He saddled up to his work car. It was a boring as #$%& black SUV with no unique markings. He opened the door to the passenger seat, and waved him in.

"You know the rules. Get in. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't move too quickly, and don't do anything that will make me have to kill you. I ain't above offin a kid, but it ain't on the top of my to do list." He usually said something along those lines, so it probably wouldn't be to surprising for the kid.

He would close the door after the nameless boy climbed in and walk around the front of the car in order to keep eyes on him as he made his way to his door, and then to the driver seat.

Minutes later they were driving. "$#%^, I didn't eat breakfast. You hungry?" He figured Delta 7 might be eager to dig into the candy bar he'd given him, and he technically wasn't supposed to feed him or anything, but... #$%& authority, right? "I'm #@%$ing starving."

He swerved into a MCyDrees drive through. "Wachu want?"

>> "Alright, let's get outa this $#%&hole, huh? C'mon. Weather's great."

Delta 7 brusquely moved forward, keeping a clipped pace he proceeded from processing towards the exit. He made no indication of even seeing the people they passed.

Within the building, the temperature was kept the same at all times, a brisk 68*F. It was different outside. The sky could be different colors, the air could be different temperatures. It puzzled Delta 7, who spent a majority of their known life indoors. He always looked towards the "sky" when they went outside. Today the sky was the color of brushed metal, and the air was hot like the numbing poulstice that technicians put on your skin before they drew blood.

>> "Alright you little @#$^, get in the car. Just had it cleaned, so don't go looking for people to be, alright?"

Delta 7 nodded his head once, clambering up into the large, black vehicle. He planted himself in the passenger seat, and buckled the seatbelt.

Clean was an understatement. Sterilized was more apt. Just like the lab equipment that Seven was uncomfortably familiar with, there wasn't the faintest whisper of genetic information.

>> "You know the rules. Get in. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't move too quickly, and don't do anything that will make me have to kill you. I ain't above offin a kid, but it ain't on the top of my to do list."

Delta 7's mouth formed a hard line. The fact that he was not dead, yet, was testament to his own utility. He had required reprogramming a number of times (unbeknownst to him), but had never warranted decommissioning. He was too much of an asset. A manhunt that might take weeks of investigation only took a few hours with Delta 7's abilities. If he went against his programming, for whatever reason, tranquilizing was the usual preferrred method.

Delta 7 wondered what might warrant being "offed".

>> "$#%^, I didn't eat breakfast. You hungry? I'm #@%$ing starving."

The car started before pulling away from the building. They gained speed, passing the guard gate with a wave. Delta 7 waited until they were clear of the gate to reach into his pocket and fish the chocolate bar out. He assumed the question meant he had permission to eat the proffered candy. You didn't waste your time with eating treats. You might lose the opportunity to eat it.

Nimble fingers tore a split in the Hershey's wrapper, and the child broke a row off of the bar.

In the military, you had a set amount of time to eat (and it often was not enough time to eat politely). SUPER was much in the same, for mutants who did not willingly provide their service. As such, Delta 7 eagerly scarfed-down the chocolate, his senses overpowered by the cloyingly sweet treat. He was only vaguely aware of where they were driving, and he looked up when they rounded the building. Thankfully, he had finished the chocolate bar. Delta 7 was in the process of licking his fingers clean when they rolled up to the drive-through.

>> "Wachu want?"

More food. Delta 7 looked at Delta 9 again. More food? Delta 7 didn't really have preferences when it came to fastfood, because the frequency with which he got fast food was low. Thankfully, he could read, however, and looked towards the pictures for clues.

"A... chicken nuggets... please?" Delta 7 asked carefully. He had, of course, already eaten at the facility. But there had been times where, as punishment, his feeding had become irregular-- this led Delta 7 to be opportunistic when it came to eating.