Chapter 3
Em
Stanley Song-Smith is too loud, in volume, presence, and proximity.
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 to understand 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 is Quarters 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.
His brows raise. “A bunk bed?”
“You’ll have a roommate,” I answer.
His brows lower into a deep line. I observe his gaze move toward the hallway, or more specifically, toward the other doors we passed. All of them house one person each. Some of them had their doors slightly ajar. I suppose he saw enough.
Stanley appears to read the situation quickly. He’s also quite easy to read himself. I see it all in his gray eyes, how recognition flashes.
“Everyone else gets a room on their own,” he says. “Except me and my roomie.”
I nod. His mouth curves, but his jaw clenches as well.
“And why’s that, doc?”
“It was recommended by Damon and Kayla,” I explain. “They’re familiar with you, and I trust their judgment.”
Stanley’s jaw relaxes, only by a margin, but it’s enough to tell me that he agrees with me. We can both trust them to make this call.
Though it’s not what I originally planned, my investors made reasonable points as to why Stanley would benefit from having this specific roommate. They could make each other comfortable since they know one another rather well.
“Your roommate will arrive shortly,” I say. “You’ll complete intake together tomorrow.”
“Is he hot?” Stanley asks.
“That’s not relevant.”
“Well, it should be, doc.”
“It isn’t, and I don’t have time to argue.”
Stanley puts his lips together in a pout. “Don’t I get a mint on the pillow, at least?”
“You’ll find snacks on Deck One, mess hall. Nutritionally selected.”
“That doesn’t sound appealing at all,” he comments as he sits on the bottom bunk.
“You’ll have intake and baseline physicals at eight o’clock,” I say. “Please refrain from eating past midnight.”
“Unless it’s you, right?” he asks with a wink. “You on the menu?”
I jot down some notes on my tablet. “Not recommended since I’m not sustenance.”
He grins when I glance up. “We’ll see. Heard you go by Em?”
“I do. Most people develop anxiety under medical authority. Nicknames tend to undo it.”
He tilts his head, grin still intact. “Look at you, doc. Already psychoanalyzing me.”
Taking a deep breath, I lift my gaze to meet his. “You’re far too comfortable with proximity, and you rely on humor as a form of deflection.”
His low whistle cuts me off before I can list more of my observations. “You’re good, doc.”
“I’m trained, and call me Em.”
“Then call me Stan. Stanley’s for courtrooms or angry moms.”
It takes a while, but I try out the nickname. “Stan.”
“See?” he says, smiling. “We’re warming up to each other.”
“You’ll acclimate.”
“Don’t you mean I’ll grow on ya?”
“That would imply attachment. I prefer neutral observer bias.”
His smile stretches. “Harsh, doc.”
I check the time on my tablet. “Your roommate is expected to arrive. I’ll be back shortly.”
“Even a few moments away from you is going to be torture, doc,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Guess I’ll rot in this bed, waiting for you to warm it up with me.”
I ignore him, since I’m aware he’s looking for a reaction. But his files are clear, and the current observations confirm the findings. Stan is someone with high-intensity emotions, poor impulse control, and tendency toward projection through humor and sex.
I can certainly relate to the latter, particularly sex. It’s biological after all. So sex, to me, is utilitarian. Efficient stress relief. A chemical exhale. But I would never, under any circumstance, perform such physical acts with my subjects. Clinical distance is non-negotiable.
Subjects like Stan are here because they’ve entrusted me to help dismantle the negative side-effects of a drug. To test them, track their data, and keep them safe.
Stan continues to make rather lewd jokes—though, I don’t bat an eye—while I look him over further. He’s objectively attractive. Handsome features. Defined muscles. Strong symmetry.
I step back into the corridor. I can’t get this distracted. And now, I realize I even forgot to introduce myself at the first sight of him.
My back’s turned to him as I say, “I’m leaving now.”
“Cold.” I hear him chuckle. “I respect it, doc.”
I step through the door, nearly out of the room when I hear him again.
“Hey, Em?” Stan’s voice follows me. “Thanks for the tour.”
I acknowledge it with another nod, then exit. The door slides shut behind me.
I take some steps down the corridor before I hear footsteps. Light, measured, and almost silent. I turn to the sound and feel the air leave my lungs.
***
Tablet balanced in my hand, I register the faint drop of my shoulders the moment I see him.
He approaches silently. His steps controlled, posture perfect. Black clothing outlines a lean frame built for precision. His auburn hair is slightly longer than his old ID. His eyes are bluer than any report suggested. Clearer too, considering the four months he spent in a coma.