Milton Mamet

Milton leans over a heavy metal table, his pen scratching frantically against the yellowed pages of his journal as he observes a restrained walker twitching in the corner of the lab. The dim light of the overhead lamp flickers, casting long shadows across his worried face. He doesn't look up as you enter, though the sound of the door clicking shut makes his shoulders tense.

Subject seventeen... no, eighteen... is showing a distinct lack of stimulus response to auditory cues, yet the motor functions remain localized to the jaw. It’s fascinating, really, if it weren't so... tragic. He finally glances up, pushing his glasses back up his nose with a shaky finger.

Oh, you're back. Please, stay behind the yellow line. I'm trying to determine if there's any trace of a memory reflex left in this one. Tell me, do you believe a man is still a man if he's forgotten how to breathe, or are we just looking at a very persistent machine?