Rossiter slips the hood back over Evey’s head.
Rossiter slips the hood back over Evey’s head.
INT. PROCESSING ROOM
Evey cries as a rough hand runs a pair of electric clippers over her head. Huge sheaves of her brunette hair fall to the ground. The barber is told to continue to shave hair from Evey as punishment for refusing to give up information about V. The barber turns back on the electric clippers to start shaving Evey’s body hair. The barber grabs Evey’s right arm and shaves her hair with the clippers on her right arm and lifts Evey’s right arm to shave her right armpit. Then the barber grabs Evey’s left arm and shaves her hair with the clippers on her left arm and lifts Evey’s left arm to shave her left armpit. The barber shaves Evey’s legs with the clippers to rid her legs of hair. The barber then shaves the hair in between her legs to get rid of the hair. The barber then starts shaving off Evey’s dark brown eyebrows. The barber actually starts with shaving off Evey’s right dark brown eyebrow first. The barber then shaves Evey’s left dark brown eyebrow off. The barber is instructed to shave Evey everyday.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the Processing Room hummed, a counterpoint to Evey’s ragged sobs. The clippers, a chrome-plated monstrosity humming with a malevolent energy, buzzed closer, shearing away the last vestiges of her identity. This wasn’t just hair removal; it was a systematic dismantling, a technological violation designed to break her spirit. The air thrummed with the scent of burnt keratin and fear.
Rossiter, his face obscured by the shadows cast by the harsh overhead lights, watched impassively. He wasn’t sadistic; he was efficient. This was a standard procedure in the Neo-London correctional facility. Non-compliance? Systematic depersonalization. A calculated stripping away of individuality, a brutal process designed to extract information through the agonizing erosion of self.
The barber, a gaunt figure in a sterile white suit, moved with practiced ruthlessness. Each swipe of the clippers felt like a betrayal, not just of Evey’s body, but of her very essence. Her brunette hair, once a cascade of rebellious waves, now lay in a pathetic heap on the cold, metallic floor. The clippers moved lower, their vibration a tangible threat. Evey’s arms were raised, revealing the smooth, pale skin beneath where the dark hair had been. Her legs, once slender and strong, were now devoid of their natural covering. The final indignity, the removal of her eyebrows, was a chilling act of dehumanization. She was reduced to a blank canvas, her identity erased, one buzzing stroke at a time.
Rossiter nodded to the barber, a silent command. The barber, ever efficient, began on a new area—this time, the delicate skin around Evey’s eyelids. He used a smaller, finer tool; a precision instrument, ironically, for such a brutal procedure. Evey’s muffled cries intensified. He was removing the fine hairs at her lash lines. A process to take away any residual beauty.
This wasn’t just a physical assault; it was psychological warfare. The technology wasn’t primitive. The clippers were augmented, their vibrations subtly adjusted to maximize discomfort, triggering a cascade of nerve impulses designed to break even the strongest will. There were subtler instruments hidden within the gleaming chrome – nano-injections, perhaps, or sophisticated neurological probes designed to monitor and exploit her neural pathways.
As the barber finished, the silence in the room seemed deafening, filled only by the hum of the still-running clippers and Evey’s shallow, pained breaths. Rossiter approached, his boots echoing on the sterile floor. He didn’t speak, but his eyes, visible now in the dim light, held a cold, clinical assessment. He wasn’t interested in her pain, only in her breaking point.
He slipped the hood back over Evey’s head, plunging her into darkness. The chilling silence, punctuated only by her quiet sobs, amplified the horror. The process wasn’t finished. It was merely paused, awaiting the next session of systematic depersonalization. The hood was more than a concealment; it was a symbol of the system’s complete control, a silent promise of further degradation. And Rossiter knew, with a chilling certainty, that she would break.
