Chapter 3: Underestimated

*** Liberty's POV ***

I'm escorted across the White House lawns, flanked by the two agents, the late summer breeze cool against my skin. It’s odd how Washington D.C. feels so much chillier than New York, when it’s just ninety minutes away by chopper. Butterflies dance in my stomach; the White House was a distant memory from a school trip in my early teens, under a different president. It’s been more than a decade since I last stepped foot in this place. I could never have imagined I’d be back here years later, summoned here for god knows what.

As we walk into the building, the grandeur of the White House envelops me. Majestic columns frame the entrance, and the polished marble floors gleam under the soft overhead lighting. Crowds of tourists led by neatly dressed tour guides mill around, glimpsing into the public rooms, but we're heading deeper, past velvet ropes and security checkpoints. The air smells faintly of lemon polish and old paper, a blend of history and power.

The corridors are bustling with people—staff in crisp suits, military personnel, and a few political aides. Portraits of past presidents and significant historical events adorn the walls, giving the place an air of gravitas. The decor is a mix of classical elegance and modern functionality, with heavy drapes, polished wood, and strategic bursts of contemporary art. My footsteps echo, mingling with the murmur of hushed conversations and the occasional click of heels on the marble floors.

My nerves are on edge, and I can’t help but feel a sense of awe and apprehension. This place is a living piece of history, and here I am, Liberty Lockwood, about to be involved in... what exactly? I don't even know yet.

Maybe they got the wrong person. Maybe they made a mistake… I mean, what on earth could the government want with me?

After what feels like an eternity, we arrive at a large, imposing door. One of the agents opens it, and I step into a room that's a stark contrast to the opulent corridors. The meeting room is functional, almost sterile, with grey walls and a long conference table. Seated around it are two older men in grey suits, a younger man who looks like he just stepped out of a fashion magazine, and a middle-aged woman with a severe black bun and piercing blue-grey eyes.

The older men have an air of authority, their faces lined with years of experience. The younger man, probably in his twenties, has a clean-cut appearance and a chiseled jawline that makes him look like he belongs in a superhero movie rather than a government office. The woman’s smile is thin, her eyes sharp and appraising.

"Jones," one of the older men says gruffly, addressing one of the agents who escorted me, "you brought us the wrong person. We're supposed to be meeting with a Professor Lockwood."

“I am Professor Lockwood,” I say, my voice tinged with irritation. The agents remain expressionless as they leave, closing the door behind them.

“Nonsense, you’re young enough to be my daughter—my granddaughter, even,” the other old man says, incredulity in his voice. “How old are you anyway? Twelve?”

“Twenty-three,” I reply coldly, trying to keep my irritation in check. “I guess you didn’t come across that in your research into me, assuming you did any at all. I skipped a few grades and graduated from NYU with my doctorate in criminal psychology at the age of 21. I’ve been lecturing for the past two years. I’ve published seven papers in the past year, three of which were featured in leading scientific journals and received accolades for groundbreaking insights into criminal behavior.”

The sharp-faced woman, who had been silent until now, leans back in her chair, a smile playing at her lips. “A prodigy indeed,” she says, clearly impressed. “Don’t mind these old farts, Professor Lockwood—they can’t believe that a woman, especially such a pretty young woman, could achieve so much in so few years.”

“You can hardly blame me; she’s hardly what springs to mind when you say ‘professor,’” one of the older men grumbles. “That’s actually a compliment, by the way,” he continues, smiling apologetically at me.

“Well, regardless of all that, I apologise for our rudeness, Professor Lockwood,” the other old man says, his voice gravelly. “We haven’t even introduced ourselves. I’m General Harrison. This is Director Coleman,” he gestures to the other older man, “Assistant Special Agent Thomas,” indicating the young man, “and Dr. Emily Reed,” he finishes, nodding to the woman. A stack of manila files lies on the table, their contents a mystery.

“Please, sit, Professor,” Dr. Reed says, gesturing to an open seat.

“I’d rather not,” I say firmly, crossing my arms. “Not until you tell me what this is all about.”

The room falls silent for a moment, the air thick with tension. Dr. Reed’s smile fades, replaced by a more serious expression. “Very well, Professor Lockwood. We’ve brought you here because your expertise is needed in a matter of national security. We’re dealing with a situation that requires your unique insights into deviant behavior and criminal psychology.”

My mind races, trying to piece together what they could possibly need me for. “What kind of situation?” I ask, my voice steady.

Dr. Reed leans forward, her eyes serious. “As you likely know from your research, rates of violence—especially sexual violence—in American prisons have been rising. It's reaching crisis levels. There was a massive riot in a maximum-security prison in Texas back in April where more than five prison guards were killed, and a dozen more were injured. We managed to keep it out of the media, but things are reaching a boiling point. Unrest and violence can spread like a virus, through underground networks on the outside. This unrest could spread and multiply, it could - it will - overwhelm us, at its current rate. It's an epidemic that needs to be nipped in the bud. Order must be maintained, structure upheld. At any given time, there are approximately 2.3 million prisoners in the American prison system, 30 percent of whom are violent and dangerous individuals. All that pent up rage, anger, frustration... we are inadvertently creating an army of psychopaths, totally out of control, ready to storm the fort—and we need to bring order."

I nod, my mind racing to process the information. The implications of such violence spreading unchecked through the prison system would be staggering.

Director Coleman picks up the thread. “We were very interested in your Ph.D. thesis, ‘Strategies for Reducing Inmate Violence and Improving Rehabilitation Outcomes through Blended Prison Populations: An Analytical Approach to Mixed-Sex Environments and Behavioral Incentives.’ Particularly the part about the potential benefits of allowing for blended-sex prisons, where women who choose to serve their time alongside male prisoners would be incentivized with reduced sentences, and the positive impacts of mixed-sex environments.”

“Where exactly are you going with this, Director?” I ask, my curiosity piqued, but it’s General Harrison who answers.

“We want you to head up a top-secret experiment. As lead researcher, with Dr. Reed here as second in command. Basically, we’re going to give you a chance to test the hypothesis of your experiment in real life, with some minor tweaks, of course.”

“Tweaks?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, now we’re getting into details. This is the point that we can go no further unless you agree to sign an NDA,” Director Coleman says. He gestures for Assistant Special Agent Thomas to bring a document and a pen. He lays it on the table before me, the words “Non-Disclosure Agreement” in bold black ink at the top. While I skim through it, Director Coleman continues speaking.

“This is where the crossroads are, Professor Lockwood. The decision you make now—to sign your name on that dotted line or not—will change the course of your life. You can get up and walk away, or you can put your theories to the test. What will it be?”

I feel like Neo in that scene from The Matrix, when Morpheus offers him the red pill or the blue pill. Do I want to wake up and forget, or go further down the rabbit hole?

I guess I choose the rabbit hole, I think to myself, as I pick up the pen and sign.

The tension in the room shifts as I set the pen down. Dr. Reed’s lips curl into a smile, not quite warm but approving. General Harrison nods, and Director Coleman looks relieved.

“Welcome to the team, Professor Lockwood,” Dr. Reed says. “Now, let’s get into the details.”