In one of the tents, the air inside was stale with chemical smells and the smell of blood. Some white-coated men were rushing to and fro, their hasty footsteps and constant rustling of the cloth betraying anxiety that was on the verge of eruption. They carried clipboards, data pads, and measuring instruments, but even as they worked diligently to appear calm, sweat seeped through their collars. Their eyes would flick, again and again, to the center of the tent.
There, in a fortified glass container, something stirred.
It was no common item of study. Its eyes were wild, savage, as a cornered wolf that has starved for many years. Its eyes burned with fury and hunger, twin burning coals of hate from a deformed face. With every breath it exhaled shuddered against the glass, a low, vicious snarl, as if to breathe was an act of protest against its handlers.
