*This is another dark anesthesia chapter, only very loosely linked to the previous one. This one is very much not author-insert, and deals with even darker themes than I have previously. The narrator here is not nice. You have been warned.*

I watch the camera feed, tapping my phone’s screen to toggle between camera views. The redheaded woman approaches the building with confident steps; the clock in the corner of the screen reads 1:55 PM. She's early. Ruby Thompson, my newest patient, is considerately arriving ahead of schedule for an appointment she believes is legitimate.

She hesitates at the door, not completely sure if this is where she’s supposed to be. I can see the moment she finds the temporary vinyl sign on the building directory, which I applied only yesterday: "Pinnacle Dental Associates”, the name of her usual dental practice. Her shoulders relax, she's found her destination. Or she thinks she has.

Manipulating her calendar had been remarkably simple. A spoofed email from her actual dentist's office, citing an emergency equipment failure and offering this convenient alternative location "just for today's procedure." People rarely question medical correspondence, especially when it contains all the correct logos, appointment details, and insurance information. The company that employs us did the initial research, but I wrote the email myself. This plan is all mine.

Ruby opens the frosted glass door and enters the lobby, her long red hair cascading over her shoulders as she exits my view. I switch to the interior camera feed, following her progress into my trap.

Anya sits behind the reception desk. I can’t see from the camera’s view angle, but I know she’s smiling, the perfect image of professional cordiality. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, not a strand out of place. The tailored blue scrubs complement her tall figure. Her clothes are a deliberate choice, as my research showed the real Pinnacle Dental staff wears this exact color and brand. On the other hand, I can also see Anya has a pink stethoscope draped around her neck, which the real staff don’t have. An affectation, a color Anya likes. I don’t approve; details matter, but it likely won’t make a difference.

"Ms. Thompson?" The camera’s sound is poor quality from my phone speaker, but I can easily make out what Anya says. All the dialog for this situation follows an algorithm. "I'm Anya, the clinical assistant today." I made sure Anya even has a name tag.

Ruby nods, and I can see she’s nervous. "Yes, that's me. I have a root canal scheduled? My regular dentist sent me here."

"Of course," Anya responds, fingers gracefully navigating the keyboard of a computer that isn't actually doing anything. "We’re connected to the same system as the main practice. Dr. Mathews transferred your records this morning."

I appreciate Anya's performance, her apparent efficient disinterest strikes just the right tone. There’s a reason I’ve kept her as my assistant.

The waiting area behind Ruby remains conspicuously empty; there’s no other patients, no ambient conversation, no sounds of drills or cleanings in progress. There are only two of us here; me and Anya. Our third teammate, a woman new to the company, Kelly, waits in the parking lot. I had considered hiring extras to populate the space but ultimately decided against it. It’s not worth extra witnesses, and the empty office shouldn't raise too many alarms if properly explained.

As if reading my thoughts, Ruby glances around. "It's quiet today."

"Yes," Anya responds without missing a beat. "We're only handling relocations from Dr. Mathews today. His equipment malfunction affected quite a few appointments." She withdraws a clipboard from beneath the counter. "I'll need you to fill out these forms. Just verifying the information you’ve already provided."

Ruby accepts the paperwork, settling into one of the waiting room chairs. I observe her for another minute as she begins writing. The forms are convincing; they really are standard dental intake documents, mostly populated from information the organization somehow obtained from Dr. Mathews’s real office.

This office, of course, isn’t Dr. Mathew’s practice at all. It had been vacant for six months; some sort of corporate operation that fell victim to economic pressure. The building manager was all too happy to accept payment for a "potential tenant" to "evaluate the space." The existing equipment and basic infrastructure made it ideal for my purposes. It needed barely any modification. We paid cash; there’s nothing to trace back to Anglerfish Pharmaceuticals, our true employer. That’s how the company likes it, and I made sure of it.

Rising from my chair in the small back office, I smooth my own blue scrubs, making sure my name tag is visible. “Dr. Grace Hammond” it says, which is close enough to my real name. I move quietly through the hall toward the office’s primary operatory room. Most of the rooms are dark, intentionally, but the primary room is all setup for use. Unfortunately, the dental chair had already been sold off and moved. I didn’t have time to replace it, and it’s a detail I’ll need to work around. I’ve replaced it with a medical gurney; thin and articulated, plausibly useful for procedural work. The padding on top is bright white, and a small attached pillow acts as a head rest. Right now, I’ve tilted its back up and legs down, the whole piece of furniture approximates a dental chair, but does look somewhat out of place for the room. It is, however, conveniently mobile.

Restraints lie concealed beneath the gurney's thin mattress, medical-blue nylon with velcro closures. Quick to secure, difficult to escape, nice and padded. But I don’t think we’ll really need them; my plan is too good, my trap too deceptive.

Ruby’s need for a root canal is real; the company had been watching Ms. Thompson, waiting for something like that. It serves our purposes; the patient already has expectation of discomfort, understanding that they'll be immobilized for an extended period, and is likely afraid. All of this works to my advantage.

The room's overhead light; the standard dental lamp you’d see in any dental office, casts harsh white light over the chair as I flip it on. I’m checking that the rest of the room I’ve already prepared. The dental handsets and instrument tray wait nearby. I've arranged nearly all the tools I could find in the office. Excavators, files, picks, spreaders, whatever. They glint under the light, though they'll never touch a tooth. I don’t know what half of them are. No root canal is happening today. Not here.

The nitrous oxide delivery system stands ready behind the gurney, fresh tanks connected to the digital apparatus left by the previous tenants. I check the pressure gauges, confirming that I’ve already opened the oxygen and nitrous supply values. I’ve attached a new, fresh reservoir bag to the machine, and Anya’s setup the breathing circuit. At the center of the tubing is a disposable pink nasal mask, another one of Anya’s color choices. I don’t turn on the gas flow yet, but it’s all ready for my patient.

Finally, my focus comes to another set of metal trays, set out on the side counter, each currently covered with a blue surgical drape. Lifting them, I confirm we’ve prepared a couple more key items. A blue elastic tourniquet, alcohol swabs, various gauge IV catheters, extension tubing, and saline flush syringes make up one tray. A large syringe, partially filled with white propofol is capped next to it. A box of Anya's signature pink nitrile gloves is on the counter, too, along with a matching pink sleep mask, essentially a cheap cloth and elastic blindfold. I shake my head. Anya's skills make her eccentricities worth accommodating, though.

As if summoned by my thoughts, I hear footsteps, and Anya steps in, clipboard in hand. Her expression reveals nothing as she passes me Ruby's completed forms.

I scan the pages quickly, noting allergies, medications, emergency contacts; all information that will prove useful in ways Ruby never intended. Anya stands silently in the door, waiting for my assessment.

"No contraindications," I murmur, flipping through the pages. I’m particularly interested in the weight she’s reported, as I’ve dosed accordingly. I’m pleased to see that nothing is out of place against the research our organization has already done. "No significant medical history. ASA 1"

Anya crosses her arms. "She's healthy, compliant, and completely unaware. Anglerfish will be happy. She’s going to make us a lot of money. Can we get on with this already?" Her tone carries more than a hint of impatience. I expected it.

“Best to be diligent, Anya,” and I know we’re going to be again rehashing the real issue.

Anya sighs. "I still think you're overcomplicating this. A ketamine autoinjector to the thigh would drop her in seconds. Kelly and I could scoop her up in the parking lot. Quick, clean, efficient." She fingers the pink stethoscope hanging around her neck.

She reaches into her scrub pocket and produces a small pen-like device, with a bright orange cap, holding it up between two fingers. "All this dental charade is unnecessary. Thirty seconds with this would accomplish the same end result. A stick, a little confusion, then lights out."

"Put that away," I instruct her, keeping my tone even despite the familiar frustration. Anya's preference for brute force approaches has recently been a point of contention between us.

"It's about minimizing variables,” I argue. “So our methodology needs to reflect a professional standard. This sort of ruse is smoother, safer, and more elegant. And there’s less chance of the patient falling, being injured. Anglerfish wants her safe, healthy, and unharmed. We're not thugs, but medical professionals providing a… necessary service to the market.”

Anya tucks the autoinjector back into her pocket with a shrug. I can tell she doesn’t believe my justifications. "Have it your way, Doctor Grace."

I hand Anya the clipboard back. “Better go get the merchandise, before she gets antsy,” she says. I grimace as she calls our patient “merchandise”, but we’ve been over this, too.

“It’s funny, really,” she laughs. “If Anglerfish doesn’t part her out, they’re going to have to find someone to actually do her root canal.”

I want to scold her for her attitude, but this time, I let it go. As Anya retrieves our patient from the waiting room, I conduct some final preparations. I tie a white surgical mask around my neck, ready to be pulled up, but today, just a prop. I reach for a pair of blue nitrile gloves from a dispenser mounted on the wall, stretching them over my fingers.

In a way, these are like Anya’s stethoscope or my fabricated medical degree; symbols of my authority. I decide what is going to happen, and both Anya and my unsuspecting patient are below me in the medical hierarchy. I like that feeling, but after a moment push it aside, as I have a trap to close.

After a moment, Anya returns, with Ruby following behind her. Ruby's purposeful steps I saw on the camera have been replaced by the tentative shuffle of someone entering unfamiliar territory. Her eyes immediately scan the room, noting the dental equipment. She’s nervous. Perfect.

"Ruby, this is Dr. Grace," Anya introduces me with warmth I know isn’t genuine. "She'll be getting everything ready for your procedure today."

I step forward, plastering on my most reassuring smile. "Good morning, Ruby. I understand you're scheduled for a root canal on tooth number fourteen today. We'll make sure you're comfortable throughout the procedure."

"Nice to meet you," Ruby responds automatically, the social conditioning to be polite to medical professionals overriding her obvious uncertainty. "But I'm a bit confused. I thought Dr. Mathews was doing my root canal?"

"Dr. Mathews will be joining us shortly," I assure her, gesturing toward the gurney. "He's finishing up with another patient who was displaced by the office relocation. In the meantime, I'll get you prepared and comfortable."

The lie flows effortlessly. I have plenty of practice delivering medical half-truths to unsuspecting subjects. Ruby's expression shows the internal calculation occurring, weighing her trust of medical professionals against the irregularity of the situation.

Anya steps in, taking Ruby's arm with gentle pressure. "Let's get you settled, Ms. Thompson. If you could just sit here on the chair for me." Her tone leaves no room for refusal despite its warmth.

Ruby allows herself to be guided onto the gurney, perching uncertainly on its edge. The thin white mattress settles beneath her weight. Maybe Ruby thinks it’s odd that it’s more of a bed than a chair, but why would she question furniture choices? For all she knows, it’s common for more involved procedures like root canals. Anya moves behind her, hands on Ruby's shoulders, applying subtle pressure.

"Lie back for me, please," Anya instructs. "We need you in proper position before Dr. Mathews arrives."

Ruby complies, though reluctance shows in the stiffness of her movements. As she reclines, her red hair fans out against the white cushion. The overhead procedural light illuminates her face, washing out her complexion and accentuating the growing apprehension in her eyes. I reach up and intentionally point the dental light directly at her face.

"I’m pretty nervous," Ruby says, her voice gaining a slight edge. "I really think I should just wait for Dr. Mathews before we start anything."

I move to stand beside the gurney, positioning myself near Ruby’s head, slightly behind her.

"Dental anxiety is completely normal," I assure her, moving to the nitrous oxide apparatus. "Especially in an unfamiliar environment. We'll be using nitrous oxide to help you relax during the procedure. It's commonly called 'laughing gas,' though most patients simply experience a pleasant, calming effect."

"I didn't discuss sedation with Dr. Mathews," Ruby says, her brow furrowing slightly.

"Dr. Mathews will be here momentarily, but we can use this time to ensure you're comfortable for what can be a lengthy procedure."

I maintain my reassuring smile, though in my head, I’m calculating. Ruby's resistance threatens to disrupt my carefully orchestrated timeline. Anya catches my eye, her expression subtly shifting to suggest she was right about the ketamine approach. I ignore the implied criticism.

“It's very, very common for root canals," Anya interjects, her tone soothing yet authoritative. “It really just helps take the edge off.” This is, of course, true, if not entirely relevant to the procedure Ruby is going to have.

Ruby nods, and seems at least somewhat placated by this explanation, though her posture remains tense. But she’s accepting my plan, which is all that matters at this point.

"The nitrous will make you feel a bit light-headed," I explain, advancing with the pink nasal mask. "You may feel tingling in your extremities or a sensation of warmth. These are all very normal."

Ruby's eyes fix on the small mask with visible apprehension. "And it wears off quickly?"

"Very quickly. You can drive home afterwards," I confirm, another truth that will never be relevant to her experience. Anglerfish will have someone take care of her car. "Now, I'll place this over your nose. You'll need to breathe through your nose, not your mouth."

She nods again in acceptance. I carefully position the mask, looping the grey nitrous tubing over her head and behind the gurney’s backrest. It’s a little bit awkward; the setup is really designed for the thinner headrests of a dental chair. But, a few moments of adjustment is all it takes before I get them placed appropriately enough. The small pink mask pulls tight over her nose, sealing nicely. There’s a little clasp on the hoses that keeps the whole thing in place.

"There," I say, turning quickly back to the nitrous oxide system’s digital panel. I start the scavenging system, and power the machine on. The entire setup hisses to life. "Nice deep breaths now, through your nose, please."

Ruby complies, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. She’s still gripping the sides of the gurney hard, but she’s doing what we want. Anya moves to the other side of the gurney, her expression neutral as she begins moving around the dental tray, straightening the tools on it, taking the plastic off the handsets. It’s an act; she has no more idea which drills we’d use for endodontics than I do. But it distracts our patient nicely.

I spend a few seconds inflating the green reservoir bag, then adjusting the overall flow rate until Ruby’s breaths slightly deflate it. There’s no nitrous oxide flowing yet, only oxygen.

"And you're sure Dr. Mathews will be here soon?” Ruby stammers out. “I'd really feel more comfortable having my regular dentist perform the actual procedure."

"Absolutely, he’ll be here soon." I lie. "He should arrive any minute. In the meantime, we can get you comfortable. Breath in through your nose," I remind her. I reach to the control panel and begin pressing the button that increases the nitrous.

I press the button again, and again.

The textbook procedure for a dental nitrous oxide sedation might start low, maybe 30% nitrous, gradually titrated upward as needed. A more pragmatic practitioner, in a rush, might jump straight to 50% or 60%. For our purposes, I don’t want Ruby merely calm and happy, though. I turn the machine as high as it will go, to 70%. And then, gently, I squeeze the reservoir bag in time with Ruby’s next inhalations.

The high dose of gas fills her lungs. As my gloved hand squeezes the green bag, the extra pressure ensures her breaths are nice and deep, and just slightly increases how much nitrous she takes up. Anya stops playing with dental tools and just watches. The room is quiet and calm, and I can see Ruby start to relax. The tense expression on her face vanishes as her facial muscles relax. She blinks slower, and when her eyes re-open, they’re a bit glassy.

"I feel... strange," Ruby mumbles after several breaths, her words slightly slurred. "Kind of light-headed."

"That's exactly what you want," I confirm. "The nitrous oxide is beginning to take effect. You’re doing great, Ruby." And she is doing great; with each breath, she’s becoming more and more intoxicated. I stop helping with the bag; she’s fully compliant, breathing herself deeper now. Her hands aren’t gripping the gurney, but are relaxed at her sides, limp.

Anya meets my gaze over Ruby's head, an approving expression on her face. The plan is working. Anya moves now, efficiently around the gurney, and retrieves the pulse oximeter from a nearby stand. She attaches the small clip to Ruby's index finger, the red light glows as it begins measuring oxygen saturation and pulse rate. Ruby continues breathing through her nose, and doesn’t react in any way as Anya connects her. I know she’s started to disassociate, probably seeing funny colors and fuzz instead of the room.

"Oxygen saturation good, pulse 65," Anya reports after a moment, her voice clinical. "Looks like your plan is working, Doctor." She’s not concerned about talking in front of Ruby anymore.

“Ruby, we’re just going to take your blood pressure now,” Anya tells our patient. Only then do Ruby’s eyes track towards Anya, and they’re unfocused, detached. To the extent there’s any expression on Ruby’s face, it’s a smile now. Anya wraps the automated blood pressure cuff around Ruby's upper arm. The cuff inflates with a mechanical whirr, then releases with a hissing sound as the digital display presents the reading.

"110/72," Anya reports. "Good."

"Ruby, can you tell me where you are?" I ask, testing her level of sedation. “Ruby?” I have to prompt her twice.

"Dentist…" she mumbles, the word barely audible beneath the hiss of the mask. "Waiting for… Dr… Mathews…"

"Excellent," I reply, more to Anya than to her. Her confusion confirms she's reached the desired state of disassociation. This is about as sedated we can make her with nitrous; she’s swimming under waves of fuzzy colors. Anything really stimulating will draw her attention, but reasoning, thinking, and perception is all suppressed. We could perform a painless root canal now, if we had any idea how to perform one. Instead, Anya retrieves one of the trays from the side counter. I see her pulling on her pink gloves, and then she takes the other tray, the one with the IV kit.

I watch my assistant work. Anya tears open an alcohol prep pad, the sharp scent of isopropyl cutting through the room's filtered air. Ruby doesn’t react at all as Anya gently holds her wrist, turns her arm over, and carefully ties the flat blue elastic tourniquet around her upper arm. “Good veins,” Anya comments.

Only as Anya speaks up do Ruby's eyes drift toward the activity, a flicker of awareness penetrating the nitrous oxide haze. "What's… that for?" she asks, but her tone is unconcerned.

"It's just a precaution," I provide only the empty platitude. For a moment, some instinctual self-preservation surfaces through the chemical fog. Her arm shifts away from Anya, a clumsy attempt at resistance.

I could move to the side of the gurney, grab Ruby’s wrists, hold her down. We can restrain her, if we need to. But that’s inelegant, brutal, exactly the sort of thing my plan is setup to avoid. Anya would never let me forget the failure. Instead, I reach forward, place my gloved hand directly over her mouth. I apply gentle pressure, ensuring she can only breathe through her nose, making sure I’m also holding the nasal mask sealed. With my other hand, I squeeze the reservoir bag again, hard this time, delivering positive pressure with each compression.

"Just breathe deeply, Ruby," I instruct, as my firm squeezes push even more nitrous into her lungs, bloodstream, and brain. Her eyes widen briefly; she must be seeing the room distort or spin as the additional pressure increases the gas’s effects. "We’ll take good care of you," I lie.

Within moments, her resistance subsides. Her arm goes limp. If she even comprehended what Anya was doing, she’s either forgotten it, forgotten it’s not supposed to be happening, or simply accepted it. The trap she’s in is quickly closing now.

"Better," Anya comments. She repositions Ruby's arm. She extends it slightly, and I see her pink-gloved finger run along the blue veins now standing out against Ruby's pale skin. For a moment, I’m struck by how gentle she’s being while we’re doing something most people would find monstrous. “We’ll go right in the AC, I think,” she reports casually.

I release my hold on Ruby’s mouth, and check her eyes. They’re still open, but completely unfocused, tracking nothing. There’s only a slight smile on her face now. She’s perfectly content as Anya swabs the inside of her elbow with the alcohol pad, making little concentric circles. If we’d tried this a few minutes ago, Ruby would have screamed and fought and tried to run away. Now, she’s happy.

Anya turns back to the tray, and removes the protective cap from her needle, holding it precisely. "Just a small pinch," Anya warns, a habit born from more traditional patients. Ruby doesn’t seem to care. To make sure, I massage the reservoir bag again.

Anya positions the needle right above Ruby’s arm, pulling her skin taught. Without waiting, she presses the needle through the skin and into the vein. It’s all a single smooth motion. A flash of dark red blood appears in the catheter, and it’s only now I realize that Anya’s chosen a 20 gauge needle, the size signaled by a pink hub. It’s not an inappropriate size, but… another pink color choice. I roll my eyes, but don’t say anything.

Ruby winces slightly at the poke, but the nitrous oxide has dulled her pain perception significantly. "Feels… weird. Where’s Doctor Mathew’s?" she mumbles distantly, as though this all is happening to someone else. I don’t answer. She doesn’t protest again. I don’t think she even realizes what we’ve done, and once the needle is in, there’s no more pain. Anya slides the catheter forwards and withdraws the needle.

"Well, Doctor Grace, I have to admit that went… smoothly," Anya removes the tourniquet with a quick snap. She attaches the extension tubing to the catheter, then flushes the line with a prefilled saline syringe. The liquid flows into Ruby’s vein smoothly; the IV is placed right and working. A transparent dressing follows, securing the IV catheter in place.

I hadn’t realized I’d been holding tension, but it releases as I watch the IV work. Ruby breathes in more gas as she looks up at the dental light, totally unaware that my trap has closed on her. She’s waiting, happily, for a dentist that’s not here to start a procedure she’s not getting. She’s still awake, but just elsewhere in her mind.

I hand Anya the large syringe of propofol. Anya seems relaxed now, too, She quickly twists the propofol syringe onto a port leading into Ruby’s IV.

"I have to admit," Anya says again, her voice carrying a hint of reluctant respect, "this worked better than I expected. She's completely compliant." She begins to inject the propofol. This is a critical moment, the white drug snaking down the IV tubing into Ruby’s arm, sealing her fate.

But Anya is casual about it. "I could probably run this setup for months before anyone caught on,” she muses. “Advertise cheap fillings or cleanings, and whisk the profitable patients away…” I frown. That sort of indiscriminate fishing expedition is not how the organization does things. Every patient Anglerfish Pharmaceuticals has sent us after has been very specifically identified, even if we don’t know exactly how or why. I turn my attention away.

The propofol is starting to flow into Ruby’s arm. Anya continues her casual, slow, steady push as she muses. I watch our patient, and after a moment, Ruby's eyes begin to focus again. Propofol has a common side effect of administration pain; she’s feeling a burning sensation as the propofol travels up the small veins in her arm. The sustained discomfort provokes at least a little more coherence. "Something's… happening," she slurs. "Getting dizzy…"

"Everything is proceeding normally," I assure her, confidently. It’s technically true; things are proceeding exactly as I’ve planned. There’s nothing Ruby can do, now. Anya finishes pushing the anesthetic. In seconds, Ruby’s eyes lose focus, and then they close completely. Unlike the gradual onset of nitrous oxide, propofol takes effect quickly, and is absolutely overwhelming. I see her whole body relax.

“Lights out,” Anya jokes. And indeed, for Ruby, the whole world has stopped, replaced by nothing but timeless, dark, oblivion.

But Anya and I still have things to do. The first thing is do is turn down the nitrous. We don’t need it anymore, and I want to make sure Ruby keeps breathing in oxygen for a minute. I’ve dosed the propofol low; we shouldn’t get any apneic period, where Ruby stops breathing, but without placing an artificial airway, I want to wait a few seconds to make sure. A few more breaths, and I’m sure I got it right.

"Vitals?" I ask, digging the restraint straps out from under the gurney’s pads. I was right that a little nitrous and some lies was plenty for controlling Ruby up until now. But I want the restraints for transport; merely making sure she doesn’t fall off the gurney, or get dropped. Protocol is that we’ll keep her sedated for her entire trip, but there’s no harm being cautious. I secure a restraint across Ruby's waist, cinching it firmly but not excessively tight. Additional straps at her wrists and ankles complete the immobilization process.

"Oxygen saturation 96%, pulse 60, blood pressure 100/65," Anya reports, checking the monitors. "Looks like sedation is right on target."

I turn off the nitrous machine entirely and remove the nitrous oxide mask; it’s no longer necessary. Ruby's breathing remains deep and regular; I was very, very careful with the dose we gave her, and it paid off.

Anya uncoils and connects a nasal cannula, attached to a backup oxygen tank secured to the gurney. A few seconds is all it takes."We’re all good," Anya says, pulling her gloves off. I do the same. "Merchandise secured and stable for transport."

I let the comment go again, performing a final assessment of our unconscious captive. Ruby Thompson lies completely still, her breathing deep and regular, vital signs stable. The anesthetic we’ve injected her with will keep her out only for 20 or 30 minutes… but there’s more sedatives setup in an infusion pump in her very near future. I have a clipboard with her paperwork; I quickly record the time, the doses, a comment about how the “procedure” has gone.

Anya reaches into her pocket and removes a folded pink sleep mask; a peculiar signature touch she insists on for every acquisition we’ve done together. I again keep my comments to myself. She carefully positions it over Ruby's closed eyes, securing the elastic band around her head. The bright pink fabric stands out against Ruby's pale skin and red hair. I think that this, like all the pink, is some sort of phycological dominance game to Anya. I pretend not to see.

"Sweet dreams, Ruby," Anya murmurs, smoothing a strand of hair away from the sleeping woman's face. "You're going on a very long trip."

I let her have her moment of victory, strange as it is. If I’m honest, I feel satisfied, too. My deception worked, and that’s a great feeling. That feeling, and the giant paycheck, long ago dissuaded me from thinking too hard about what Anglerfish Pharmaceuticals might be doing with the people we rendition. I don’t think they’re “parting them out”, as Ruby so coarsely put it; the process is too complicated, too targeted, too expensive. But they’ve never explained, and I long ago stopped asking.

I check my watch, again. "Let’s get rolling,” I tell my assistant.

And we do. We roll Ruby's gurney out of the dental room, and into the hallway. We don’t head out the front of the office, but towards a rear door. Anya pushes from behind while I guide from the front, maintaining the pretense of a medical transport in case we encounter anyone. I check the cameras on my phone again; everything looks empty. The building remains deserted, as I expected.

We exit the office, and reach the service elevator; a larger car designed for equipment transport, ideal for accommodating a gurney. The doors slide open with a metallic groan. I guide the gurney inside, positioning it carefully as Anya follows. I press the button for the basement level.

The doors close, and the elevator descends smoothly. I take the opportunity to check Ruby's vital signs again. Ruby’s pulse is unchanged, her oxygen saturation up to 99%, her breathing still looks steady. Everything looks good.

"How long to the airfield this time?" I ask Anya.

"Kelly said three hours by ground transport," she replies, checking her watch. "No idea how long a flight she’ll be taking, of course." She fingers the pink stethoscope around her neck. None of us know exactly where Anglerfish’s lab is located, or if it’s even just one place. I like to think they treat the people we send there well, but none of the patients we’ve abducted have returned to tell us.

The elevator shudders to a stop, announcing our arrival. The doors slide open to reveal the concrete of the building's loading dock. Sunlight streams in from the open bay door. It’s a nice day, and Ruby’s just sleeping through it. Backed into the loading zone waits our vehicle: a large, white ambulance with very generic, and very fake, red markings.

A woman stands beside the open rear doors; Kelly Johnson, the new addition to our team. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. She wears a navy-blue paramedic's uniform. It’s different than our dental scrubs, but the perfect costume for transporting an unconscious person without raising suspicion.

"Right on schedule," Kelly calls as we approach, her cold eyes immediately assessing Ruby's condition. "Status?"

"Deep sedation with propofol, as planned," I report clinically, as we maneuver the gurney toward the ambulance. "Breathing spontaneously. Patient is stable and ready for transport."

Kelly nods approvingly. Anya steps closer to Kelly, their familiar body language stands out to me; Kelly is new, but apparently the two women are getting along already. "How did Grace’s dental practice ruse work?" Kelly asks, her voice lowered slightly. I pretend not to hear.

"Actually, quite well. We should do it again," Anya responds. She glances toward me with an expression I can't quite interpret. "And the other arrangement?"

Kelly's smile widens fractionally. "All set. The facility is prepared. I think our little side-venture is going to work out quite well."

I feel a flicker of confusion at this exchange. I’ll have to ask about this later. But, as long as our organization’s business proceeds smoothly, their side arrangements remain their business.

"Let's complete the transfer," I direct, refocusing their attention on our unconscious subject.

Kelly steps back, allowing us to approach the ambulance's rear compartment. The interior isn’t that of an emergency response vehicle, but instead is meticulously outfitted for long-distance medical transport. Monitoring equipment occupies the forward bulkhead, alongside redundant ventilation and airway equipment should respiratory support be desired. One wall is all racks; the various pumps, hoses and disposables we might need hang there securely. The other is lined with medication storage compartments, containing numerous sedatives and paralytic agents for keeping patients safe but very much asleep during long journeys.

The floor includes two gurney mounting points, running parallel to each other. The left one is empty, and I aim Ruby’s bed towards where I know it will fit.

As I do so, I notice the second gurney already positioned inside the ambulance. It's identical to the one bearing Ruby; the same blue restraint straps, the same monitoring equipment connected, wired up and powered on, an IV bag of normal saline hangs nearby, already spiked and ready to be connected. A pink sleep mask lies at its head, neatly placed on the pillow, waiting for its intended wearer.

"Is there a second pickup scheduled?" I ask. "The manifest only listed one subject for today's transport."

Kelly and Anya share another glance. I believe I understand the situation. They were skeptical that Ruby would fall for my trap, and thought they’d need to intervene. They were wrong.

"Just being prepared," Kelly responds smoothly. "Let's get this one loaded." I shake my head, but I’m secretly pleased that I’ve proven my method to these doubters.

Together, Kelly, Anya and I maneuver the gurney off the concrete dock, and into ambulance. Ruby remains utterly limp, the propofol we’ve given her won’t wear off for some time yet. Anya squeezes by me, moving awkwardly within the confined space, readying the locking mechanisms that will secure the gurney during transport. Even with experience, the space in back is cramped, and to my annoyance, several times we are in each other’s way as we maneuver Ruby's gurney into position.

Finally, we get the wheels to slide into the mounting tracks, which lock with an audible click. I step back, allowing Kelly access to connect Ruby's IV to a saline drip, and then to a series of computerized syringe pumps. We won’t use a propofol infusion unless we’re mechanically ventilating, but a cocktail of benzos and narcotics will prevent any awareness during the three hour ride. For Ruby, hours, days, maybe longer will pass in an instant.

As I turn towards one of the nearby seats, I bump into Anya again. A small pinch registers at my hip, my scrub fabric catching on sometime sharp.

"Careful," I murmur, assuming the metal frame had caught me as we maneuvered in the tight space.

"Sorry about that," Anya replies, her tone oddly satisfied. I glance at her, noting an unusual smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

I get comfortable in the seat, turning my attention to completing Ruby's transfer paperwork. I once again log her vital parameters and write a comment about the sedation protocol Kelly is administering.

My handwriting falters mid-word, the pen dragging unexpectedly across the page. I try to write again, but it’s illegible. I stare at my hand, watching with a strange detachment at my uncoordinated hand. Simultaneously, a peculiar lightness fills my head.

"What…" I begin, but the word comes out slurred. I look up from the paperwork, the interior of the ambulance seeming to pulse slightly at the edges of my vision.

Kelly and Anya are both watching me. I stand and reach for the ambulance wall to steady myself as vertigo washes over me in intensifying waves. “Help…” I slur out. Something is happening to me. Am I having a stroke? A heart attack? The pen I’ve been writing with falls out of my fingers.

My gaze follows my pen to the floor, where a small orange object lies discarded near Anya's feet. The orange cap to a ketamine autoinjector.

“A poke, a little confusion, then lights out.” Anya’s comment from the dentist’s office echos in my mind. Understanding crashes through my increasingly distant thoughts.

"You…" I manage, struggling to form words as the ketamine floods my brain. "Why?"

"Partially, I’m just tired of you and your complex plans, Grace," Anya explains, stepping forward to grasp my arm as my balance deteriorates rapidly. "And, the money. I’m providing a necessary service to the market, as you said."

Kelly moves to my other side, both women now supporting my increasingly uncooperative body. Another second, and my legs give way entirely, buckling beneath me. They were clearly both expecting this. Anya and Kelly work together, guiding my collapse toward the empty gurney. I attempt to resist, but the ketamine has severed the connection between my intentions and my body taking any action. My limbs don’t respond at all, as they position me on the white-sheeted surface.

The dissociative drug Anya’s given me creates a strange mental state; my mind is aware, somewhat, of what’s going on, but I’m increasingly detached from both my body and the danger of my situation. It’s not unlike the high dose of nitrous I was administering to Ruby just a few minutes ago, but more intense. I watch with oddly muted concern as my own wrists and ankles are secured to the gurney, the blue padded Velcro the same as I used on the sleeping patient next to me. The events register as though the procedure is happening to someone else entirely. As I try to follow the two women, the ambulance's interior seems to recede in some directions while expanding in others, and my perception of time is becoming fundamentally unreliable. I realize I have a blood pressure cuff squeezing my arm, and no memory of it being attached. Kelly slips a pulse oximeter on to one of my fingers. An instant later, there’s a nasal canula giving me oxygen.

"I don't understand," I manage to slur out, my voice sounding distant and unfamiliar to my own ears. "Anglerfish wouldn’t do this to me…"

"Anglerfish?" Anya repeats, genuine amusement in her tone. "Ruby’s going to take that plane ride, off to find out whatever sci-fi our shadowy employer has in mind. But you’re not. Kelly has a much more profitable arrangement directly with… the retail market."

"Maybe you’ll be a tissue match for someone in need. If not, even the least skilled student in the worst medical school needs practice patients," Kelly explains, nonchalantly, laying out an IV start tray identical to the one we used on Ruby. "and you’d be surprised how much they’ll pay for them. I have my own little black market clinic, just a ways north of here. We'll make a stop on the way, settle you into an ICU bed for later, and then Ruby will board her flight with time to spare."

It takes me a minute to process that entire statement. The dissociative effect of ketamine creates a bizarre emotional detachment. Even with my mind fuzzy I eventually recognize the mortal danger of my situation, yet I feel curiously calm about it. I just… let it happen. The ketamine just lets it happen.

I’m seeing myself just lying there, unconcerned. Anya and Kelly are chatting as they setup pumps and draw up drugs; I vaguely understand they’re discussing keeping my fake dental clinic open for a while, bringing in more patients, then telling them they need sedation. It’s hard to feel anything about their future plans, in my current state.

The next time I focus, Anya is wrapping a tourniquet around my upper arm, the blue elastic tight against my short blue scrub sleeve. "Good veins," she comments, echoing the words she spoke hooking Ruby earlier. I feel her running a finger along my arm. I notice she’s wearing her pink gloves again.

"I’ll go right in the AC for you, too," Anya adds, swabbing the inside of my elbow with an alcohol pad. The cool sensation registers only distantly. “Just a little pinch,” she warns. I intend to pull away, but my arm doesn’t move. My body isn’t responding. I watch with a strange detachment as Anya slides a pink 20 gauge needle in and places the IV, all executed with professional competence.

I try to focus on what I can do to get out of this situation, but I can’t think of anything. My mind wanders. Some part of me is amused by the profound reversal; just a few minutes ago, I was doing this to Ruby. Do I deserve this? If I hadn’t long-ago decided to cross a line,I wouldn’t be here. Is this karma? None of these thoughts help me escape. I look over at Ruby, restrained and sedated just inches away. She’s headed to an uncertain fate, but my fate seems far more certain. Can I switch gurneys? No. I can’t do anything.

Kelly hands Anya a large syringe, its milky white contents indicating exactly what it is. The syringe is an oncoming train; I should jump out of the way, but I can’t even be scared. I don’t even pull against the restraints; I just can’t figure out how.

"Let’s get her deep and intubate,” the Kelly says. She snaps open a laryngoscope and starts turning on machines above my head. “We’ll keep her out and on the vent from now on.”

I watch Anya connect the propofol to my IV. I watch it quickly turn the IV tubing white as she presses the plunger. The medication enters my vein, the characteristic burning sensation starting quickly, then traveling quickly up my arm. There’s nothing I can do. I’m too detached from the ketamine, and now it’s too late. Most of the syringe is gone before I can even process it.

"Sweet dreams, Doctor," Anya murmurs down at me. I feel her touching my face. "You're going on a very long trip. Well, at least a short one." She laughs, casually.

The last thing I register is Anya lifting the pink sleep mask and sliding it over my face. Darkness descends as it covers my eyes. I feel dizzy, just for a second, and then a moment of profound confusion, and then…

Lights out.