Chapter Text
Sergeant Leland Coyle was a sight to see. Out of all the prime assets at the facility, he was the most grounded. He lacked psychosis, didn't hallucinate, and could even hold a full conversation without devolving to childish whining. Leland had all the same neurosis as half of the American police force. Violent, racist, sexist, sexually repressed, and eager to display those traits for others.
His oral stage was clearly disrupted, likely due to being a c-section. Nurses notes pulled from his birth noted a struggle to latch. The oral fixation Leland Coyle displayed wasn't unique. Easterman was a psychologist, after all. He had seen plenty of adults struggle with that infant instinct.
But for some strange reason...
Dr. Easterman scanned through trial footage. His reagents were developing nicely, but his eyes weren't drawn to them. Not today.
On camera 14, in the belly of the station, Leland leaned against a locked door and chattered away to somebody trapped inside. His tone was controlled, but his motions were frantic. Easterman took careful notes.
This trial wasn't just for him. The scientists eagerly watching when their windows were passed kept their focus split. Cataloguing behaviours for the Prime Asset the same way Easterman was then.
His lips were caught between his teeth. Balls of blood teased on falling but were quickly licked up before they could. Leland's hand dug in and out of his pockets, turning over every corner. Once in a while his foot would stomp, like a harmless little rabbit trying to mark territory. He cussed and spat. Swapping between women, Italians and reagents as his victims.
It was captivating.
The cop was certainly a powerhouse. The sobbing bleeding victim behind the locked door only served that notion. But here, in this moment where Leland thinks that he is alone, the vulnerabilities show. Like a dog searching for its promised treat. Leland was desperate for something to put in his mouth. Desperate. This state of unfulfilled desire caused Coyle to regress. His old coping strategies were gone, replaced with the wild impulses that controlled him as a child.
Not that his coping strategies were anything Easterman would normally prescribe. Feeding his fixation only created a stronger dependancy on it. Back in Blackwell, Leland would go and get himself a reprimand if he misplaced a cigarette. Within the safe walls of the trials, however, he was free to behave as his Über-Ich demanded.
Everything was going exactly how he wanted it to.
Without a soother of some kind, a toothpick or cigarette, Leland's grip on his stun rod tightened. He tapped the live end into his thigh. Gritting his teeth as the muscles beneath twitched and spasmed in pain. His fingers didn't rub or stroke. Even at his most base, Leland has zero instinct to be gentle.
Leland threw something to the floor. He growled like an agitated dog. That locked door behind him was thrown open. It was a shame that such a promising reagent had to die so violently but progress required sacrifice and insight needed suffering. Screaming flooded the mics as well as the crackle of electricity. He could switch cameras and follow. See the hungry pump of Leland Coyle's hips as he ripped and tore and killed. He enjoyed the lost glint in his eyes more. This is what his work was about. Digging down to the root of the mind and seeing the rot that the world had filled it with.
Easterman adjusted his trousers and rewound the tape.
Yes. Leland Coyle was quite the subject. He deserved to be filled with something better. Something in line with their values.
Maybe it was time for another private session.