Snippet #1628668

Vivienne peers out the blacked-out windows of the police van; as she'd expected, newspaper photographers and journalists are waiting by the gates of Murder Therapy, clamouring to take her photograph. The van slows, and she can hear the driver yelling at the press to move out of the way so they can pass through.'Black Widow Trapped!', or 'Femme Fatale Faces Fate' will surely be headlines in tomorrow's newspapers. Moments later, once the van has come to a shuddering halt and the engine has stopped, a man in a bulletproof vest slides open the back doors and signals for her come out - backwards, and with her hands in plain view, of course. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see camera flashes; she'd wave to them, if her hands weren't bound.

She'd killed dozens of men; that's more than most eighteen year olds can boast. When she'd been caught - covered in still-warm blood which is not her own and wearing nothing but lingerie - she'd let them wrap her in tinfoil blankets to preserve whatever sembelence of dignity she had left and lead her into the waiting arms of the law without protest. Her lawyers had built their case around her gender - how could someone of the weaker, fairer sex, someone so young and fresh-faced and so very, very pretty possibly kill a full-grown man unprovoked? - and it had swayed the jury...they didn't sentence her to prison, anyway, but instead recommended intensive therapy.

Inside the clinic, she's handed over to a woman in scrubs and led through seemingly endless clinical white corridors with squeaky floors until they reach a waiting room.