The room. Urgent red lights and sparse walls. The breathing of the creature outside. The cloying warmth of gestation. Martin Peters is tied to his chair. Flora inhales. Feels her mandibles twitch. There is no one else in here, no one else allowed but errant child and loving mother. The oldest dance in the history of law enforcement. Wet, sticky breath. Peters is naked, Flora is not. She has checked his orgone levels. He's doing marginally better. But: “Mr. Peters.” Slow and steady he raises his head. “Do you remember me?” He nods. “Why did you stab Will  Benson?”
“He cheated on me.”
“He did what?”
“He cheated.”
She leans forward. “What did he do?”
“He.” Peters pauses. There's sweat all over him. His chest moves desperately, the muscles undulating, skin all a-quiver. “You know what it means! You know what I'm talking about! He slept with another man!”
“Is that a crime?”
“No! It isn't. I was wrong to stab him. I was angry. But you know what cheating is. Don't, don't treat me like some kind of-”
Flora turns on her best bureaucrat's frown. “Mr. Peters. Your positive orgone levels are extremely low. You were found by the police to have a continually increasing level of negative orgones in your system. This means you are by definition an orgonic polluter.” She makes a show of placing her gloved hand, her favourite hand, upon the table. Traces teasing circles in it with one finger. “You are not registered as a polluter in our system. So now, as well as murder, that makes you guilty of endangering public health. That can be a very serious offence.”
“I didn't! Look, this orgone stuff. It's stupid. It doesn't make-”
“It allowed me to catch you, didn't it?” She leans in further. Licks her lips. “With help, you can live a long and fruitful life. Even as a polluter. Don't you want to be healthy, Mr. Peters?”
He writhes. His Adam's apple swells for a second. Veins on his neck. “I am healthy. Will and me, we were, we were in love, alright?”
Her eyes are lidded, staring at him. Detached. His are desperate black holes. “Of course.” she says  “A crime of passion.”
“He slept with other people. He kept doing it!”
“And that's normal, Mr. Peters. That's healthy.”
“No it isn't! It's sick!”
“Your high negative orgone count is what's making you think that. You're very ill.”
“I'm not, alright?”
She extends her gloved hand, finds his struggling, sweaty, unhappy head, and strokes it. Runs her fingers through his hair. “Exactly. You're not alright. There are facilities that can help you. Places that can make you healthy again. But those places aren't where political criminals go. Do you understand, Mr. Peters? If you're going to tell me how you avoided registering, I can tell the police you are sick. If not, I'll have to tell them you're a political person. That you have a problem with the way society functions.” She touches his face with her glove, caressing his cheek. “You won't get to feel good ever again if that happens. You'll be locked away with your problems, left to rot alone. I don't want that. I want you to feel good, Mr. Peters.”
He jerks his head away. “Don't touch me! You, you slut.”
Again she frowns. Walks over to the door. “My name is Flora.” she says. “Martin. I'll give you some time to think. Some time for the accumulator to help your orgone levels equalize a little. I'll come back later, and we can talk.” He says nothing. Flora leaves, closing the door behind her. She sighs, wipes the sweat off of her forehead. At once she sends Emily a message. Yes, it confirms. Rock hard.