It's a simple arrangement we have at the AB Lab Complex.

        Those who have heard of us know of this arrangement. It simply goes like this - you don't notice us, and we won't notice you.

        They've heard the horror stories, I think. I know I had, although I had a bit of an inside view, with my father working at this lab before I came. They've heard about all the Projects gone wrong; the first who escaped, Delta, causing the spark of the rebellion to follow; the final, Zulu, who actually lit the old lab on fire before escaping. They know of the war the Projects caused, I know, although we addressed the opposite forces simply as 'supernaturals' and assured the public that the situation was entirely in control and to not worry. To not worry. To not worry. You have to remember to always tell the public to not worry. Of course, we had no bit of the situation in control at all, but I have a feeling nobody admits a lack of control to another.

        I think the public also knows about Adrienne Bonhomme, a particular rebel to the public for whom the lab was named. Her deceased fiance was an analyst for us, but he, along with her, apparently did not approve of the system. One of my supposed bosses, Colonel Langley, has been on a desperate hunt for her ever since he met her personally.

        And me? I'm a simple scientist, a pawn at this new lab, just as terrified as everybody else. No interesting backstory, no particular reason to be fascinated with me - oh no, I'm a smiler. We smile to the people in the lab as we poke the needles into their arms and murmur sweet words of false encouragement as their eyes roll into the backs of their quivering heads until our voices are overpowered by their screams. It's torture, but the alternative is execution by the United States Army due to 'lack of cooperation' and 'failure to execute orders'.

        So I suppose my story starts with the burning of the lab that I mentioned earlier. A good chunk of my coworkers and friends hadn't made it out in time, either being burnt by the fire, suffocated by the smoke, or directly murdered by Project Zulu. I barely made it out myself, a wicked burn having licked straight up the length of my right leg. Although I can walk again, it still pains me, the burn scarred with blisters and scabs.

       Work in the new lab was the same as it had been before, smiling and screaming. That is, until we were introduced personally to the namesake of Lab Complex AB. Adrienne Bonhomme came, hair partially shaven, body littered with scars, and with a terrified, scratchy voice in all her glory.

        As expected, Langley is positively beaming in his spot and looking at her like she's a goddess. For a brief moment, I almost pity her before I remember that I'm not allowed to. She is the enemy, and I am required to treat her as such.

        She is taken away, and I step over to a coworker. I do not talk to him, but his friends in high places can be rather informative. I clear my throat to retrieve his attention.

        "So they finally found her," I muse. He bows his head. "Any idea how?" 

        "Don't want to talk about it." His words are hurried as he shuffles off. 

        Probably not a good sign.

        Then, I notice a window: hers. It's a brand new one-way window. I walk over, drawn to the image with a childlike curiosity. There are a few others in the cell, sleeping, and it takes a while before I find her sitting on the floor, her face streaked with tears. There's a pillow in her white-knuckled hands, her eyes wide as saucers, pupils mere pinpoints. Every so often, she wipes the tears away with the corner of her pillow.

        An indescribable feeling sparks within me. It's not a need to run up and help her, but a gentle tugging ache in the pit of my stomach to apologize. Half of me wishes to have her see me, hear my apology, but then I see the way her body shivers, the tears that scar her face. The way she's positioned, the way she acts, is the way in which only a person who has seen the horrors here personally would react. There is no hope for 'being let free', and she knows it. I know nothing I say can help her.

        I'm despicable. We're all despicable. We're the smilers with grins dancing on our faces, humming a melody of sorrow as we bound down the halls, hands streaming with blood.

        "No," I whisper to myself, tearing my eyes away from her bunk. I'm a smiler. I have to forget the emotions and focus on the goal that is ingrained into all the smilers' memories. I murmur it quickly, my autonomous steps carrying me to my bunk.

        "The overall purpose of the AB Lab and all other military-associated labs in the United States is to create a better generation of Americans to thrive and establish higher government, healthcare, and protection of the people!" I whisper the revered words to myself over and over as my head falls to the pillow. My fingers mechanically reach up to the bun on the back of my head, and with a tug, my hair falls around my eyes, shielding me from it all. I keep repeating the phrase, drowning out the image. Yet her face still burns in front of my eyes, warping, screaming as an inexplicable man whips and whips. Then the hands come toward her, and the robe around her shoulders starts to waver. She thrashes violently, and I can hear her screams as the cloth settles on the floor in front of the man - no, Langley, who eyes her with hungry eyes that burn into my brain-

        "No!" I hear myself scream out. I see a few confused glances in the darkness - the other smilers. I swallow up the visions. "Long day," I murmur to them, pressing my bright, grinning face to the pillow and forcing myself to sleep. Eventually, I do.

        After all, I'm not allowed to fight. I'm ashamed in myself; in what I've become, but I'm a smiler.

        And my job, even if it's not me inside, even if it's the monster within forcing it, is to smile.