Biology, however, does not care about my spreadsheets. Biology screamsTarget Acquiredand overrides my frontal cortex every time I close my eyes.
I slide out of the bunk. The air in the corridor is cool, filtered, scrubbed clean by the system I modified in London. It smells of nothing. It should smell of her.
My hands are shaking. A micro-tremor in the phalanges. Inefficient.
I grab my toolkit and the black gaffer tape. If I cannot resolve the biological equation, I will resolve the environment. We are docked at the venue for tomorrow’s show, another cavernous brick throat of a building designed to trap pheromones and amplify mistakes.
I exit the bus. The air outside is damp concrete and diesel. I key into the venue side door using the code I pulled from the promoter’s insecure file server three hours ago.
Silence inside. The venue breathes, a low, rhythmic thrum of standby power.
I head straight for the physical plant room.
The HVAC system is archaic. A rusted lung pumping unfiltered particulate and recycled pheromones back into the room. If we play tomorrow with this airflow, the buildup of Alpha scent on stage will exceed 400 PPM. Violent. Suffocating.
She will drown in us.
I deploy the ladder. I assume position at the main intake duct. My tools click against the metal, surgical sounds in the dark.
I strip the standard filters, they're rubbish, and replace them with the dense, pleated HEPA blocks I ordered to the venue c/o "Alfred King."
Step one: Scrub the input.
I rewire the fan relays. I need positive pressure on stage left, where she stands. A curtain of clean air. A neutral zone where her citrus-ozone signature can exist without being colonized by blackberry, espresso, or tea.
It requires bypassing the venue’s safety limiter. I bridge the connection with a length of copper wire. The fan spins up, a higher, cleaner whine.
Step two: Create the void.
We are dangerous. Alfie leaks burnt sugar when he’s manic. Kit radiates heavy molasses when he’s protective. I turn brittle and sharp when I am calculating. Together, we are a sensory assault.
She is scent-blind. She has no warning system. She walks into radiation zones without a Geiger counter.
I must be the Geiger counter.
I pull up the schematic on my tablet. I map the airflow vectors in blue lines.
Zone A (Center Stage):High turbulence. Alfie’s domain. Air cycled rapidly upward to disperse the sugar-scent.
Zone B (Drums):Heavy static pressure. Kit needs grounding. Keep the air warm but moving away from Stage Left.
Zone C (Monitor World):The Z Zone.
I draw a circle around her plotted position. I create a pressure differential that pushes airawayfrom her. A bubble. A sanctuary.
My brain itches. The math is clean, but the variable, Zia, remains unstable in my head.
I open the encrypted file. PROTOCOL_Z.
I add a new entry based on yesterday’s observation during the load-load.
Entry 47:Tea tolerance. She discards the cup if it drops below 55 degrees Celsius. She flinches if the steam is too aggressive. Optimal intake temperature is 62 degrees.
Action:Calibrate the bus kettle. Hack the thermostat to hold 62 indefinitely.
Entry 48:Headphone seal. She adjusts the left cup every four minutes when stress levels exceed baseline.
Action:Re-pad the MDR-7506s in the spare kit with memory foam. Reduce clamp force by 15%.
