His files didn’t capture any of that. On my tablet’s screen, he’s a high-risk, high-resilience subject with a history of having been biochemically conditioned into classified combat, among other rather unfortunate tasks. Though, Damon claims he’s snapped out of it since. His files also list his birthdate as June 20th, height at six-foot-four, weight around two-twenty, and an elaborate family tree. But nothing in his files could describe how he fills a corridor.
He’s broader than his ID photo suggested. He has more muscle mass than the notes indicated. He has a build that suggests he might be dealing with feelings by lifting heavy things until they stop feeling heavy. But I can appreciate the ways humans escape emotions, so I understand the need to do so. By any means necessary.
Stanley’s also louder than any clinical file can convey. His steps have a bounce. His breathing carries a faint rasp from exertion, or perhaps, hyperactivity. His eyes move constantly, gathering stimuli swiftly.
We have that in common. I observe a lot as well. It’s the only way to understand one’s environment. In this case, I’m trying tounderstand Stanley better. He’s one of my experiment’s subjects now. Not only that, he’s one of Idris’ newest recruits, and Stanley also happens to be related to our major investors.
The thought weighs my shoulders down.
Shaking my head, I spare a glance up from my tablet. Stanley’s smirking with his brow raised at me while we walk. I add another mental note, how his short dark hair is unruly yet stylish.
His features don’t fully reflect his genetic intersection. Japanese-American father, Korean-American mother. Stanley seems to take more after his father, down to the gray eyes, though the rest of him is larger. Only his hair breaks the pattern. Where his father has gray hair, Stanley has dark strands, inherited from his mother.
But his files are still missing some details. His big personality doesn’t translate through data points. There isn’t a checkbox for people who default to a smirk as if it were a reflex.
While the other subjects seemed unnerved when I led them to their respective quarters, Stanley walks like he owns every space he goes through. I suppose the Song-Smiths are one of our generous patrons, so in a way, Stanley might deem this ship partially his.
The weight on my shoulders return, tensing my neck. I take a deep breath and file away the tension as “temporary stress due to social pressure.” It’ll buy me some time and get me through this moment.
Watching Stanley, I eye the way he walks, while we step down the main corridor of Deck Two, where living quarters line both sides. Most doors are closed, sealed with palm-print readers. A few doors are left open while the new passengers unpack.
For the most part, there’s one passenger per room. Controlled environment, fewer variables. More comfortable subjects. Much more predictable outcomes.
This experiment needs to be a success. I’ve ensured all possibilities to at least lead us to some favorable results.
That’s why I’ve thought through every potential scenario this ship could face. It’s also why we’re steering it toward the Red Sea, where the rules blur, and options multiply, even the illegal sort.
I’d do whatever it takes to see this experiment through, because the outcome is of the utmost importance. The world doesn’t need a worse drug. It needs a harmless iteration of one of the most widely used ones: Kysergic Synesthesine, more commonly known as Kys, ironically pronounced kiss, sounding harmless for the damage it’s done.
By my side, Stanley hastens his pace to catch up to me. “This place is giving medical horror vibes,” he says. “You gonna strap me down and poke me with needles, doc?”
“Not yet.”
He grins. “I knew you had a sense of humor.”
“That wasn’t humor.”
“Sure it wasn’t.”
The corridor carries the faint saline tang that permeates the ship. The engines drone beneath the floor in a calming oscillation. It means we’ll depart the dock soon.
This is finally happening. My life’s work will begin.
“There’s also this scary Frankenstein energy,” Stanley says, disrupting my thought process. “I’m expecting a jump scare from a sexy nurse.”
“I’m the closest thing you’ll get to that,” I reply.
“Is that you flirting or threatening me? Because I’m into both.”
I don’t respond to that. It’s inefficient to validate obvious bait. During our investor meetings, I watched Kayla bait Damon often, and it was quite entertaining being the observer. But as the recipient, I can’t say I’m interested in playing along with one of my subjects. It would be highly inappropriate.
Still, I listen while Stanley talks, until we stop at a door. “This isQuarters Four,” I say, pressing my palm on the reader. “You’ll stay here.”
The lock releases with a click. The door whirrs and hisses, sliding open. Inside is standard issue, but it contains two bunks, some storage space, and an attached half-bath. Compact and efficient. Fair for paired subjects.
Stanley peeks in. “Home sweet psych ward.”
He steps inside, eyes sweeping the minimal layout, as he drops his duffel bag.
