The scene plays out across four screens: wide left, wide right, over-the-shoulder A and B. In a fine restaurant, an impeccably suited, stocky man with salt-and-pepper beard and deep-set brown eyes sits opposite a nervous-looking young lad, and reviews his menu nonchalantly. Skin conductivity, thermals, pupillary response stream across the dash. The champagne glasses have begun to sweat.
“What is the point of this, exactly?” Andrew Wickersham, Regional Comptroller, isn’t sure why R&D has brought him to this windowless conference room, buried in Building C, Sublevel God-knows-how-deep. Whatever the purpose, it should have been evident five minutes ago. He adjusts his blazer and prepares to stand.
“Just–one more minute, Sir, please. Watch closely.”
“He’s uncollared.” The boy reaches back to rub his neck, nervously, then folds his hands neatly in his lap. His galvanic skin response continues to rise. “Who approved your little… excursion, again?”
“The pilot study was approved by Director Kabede in Q3 2013. We targeted… special cases. Boys who were unresponsive to the usual program. This particular subject showed exceptional tolerance to high voltage testi–ah, here it comes.”
Both menus lie neatly on the table; the boy’s untouched. From WIDE LEFT the waiter arrives, gliding smoothly to the tableside, and catches both Sir and boy with an expectant smile.
“So, have you decided on courses for the evening?” The boy gazes steadily at his Sir. The Sir, looking mildly surprised, glances up at the waiter.
“You know, I… I could actually use just another moment, please. Could you start with Jake here?” He gestures to the boy across the table, who is maintaining a passable imitation of calm for someone who has recently misplaced all the blood in their face.
“I, er–yes, of course–I’ll have–” The boy stammers briefly, and seizes the menu, flipping it open. Every stress indicator soars. “Um, I…” His eyes flicker from menu to waiter to Sir and back again, frantically searching for authority.
The researcher pauses the recording. Andrew studies the boy’s face intently: the furrowed brow, close-shorn hair, densely curled on top, his skin gleaming faintly. He is perhaps twenty-five. On the screen to the left, his Sir’s face is a study of mild amicability in mahogany and silver.
“At this point, he still has hope. Perhaps his Sir is playing a trick–his choice is illusory. He will announce a preferred, but not a favorite, dish, in the hopes that his Sir will overrule him, re-establishing dominance.” The researcher leans across the conference room table, almost conspiratorially. “You see, although he shows every sign of surface-level compliance, we have not truly broken him. He is still trying to play the game–to fulfill his need to submit, rather than serving his Sir. This is why he remains unhappy as a submissive, and why his patrons requested his enrollment in our pilot.”
“I’ll have the–the white quail, please.” The boy is practically whimpering. Tiny beads of sweat condense at his hairline.
“With the garden kale gratin, and English walnut jus?”
The boy’s voice quavers. “Yes?”
“An excellent choice, sir.” The waiter beams. The boy appears to have taken a punch to the gut. “And for you?”
“I agree,” his Sir grins, menacingly. “That sounds fantastic. I’ll have the same, please.”
The boy blinks twice, and as the waiter whisks the menus away, his jaw begins to quiver. His breath pauses, draws raggedly inwards. Across the table, his Sir leans over, voice amicably concerned.
“What’s the matter, Jake?”
At this, all the strength goes out of him, and he collapses, sobbing, into the spotless linen tablecloth. “Sir, please Sir, I’m sorry, this boy–”
“Is the restaurant not what you were expecting? We can go somewhere else if you like. I promise I won’t be offended.”
The recording pauses, then slews forward at triple speed.
“Complete psychological breakdown at T:13 minutes. Hypnotic induction followed at T:22 minutes, with the standard triggers implanted. Followup psych eval shows strong attachment and primary will sublimation, though the ANOVA suggests a surprising interaction with the choice of table bread… The French Laundry insists on different ingredients for every trial, and it’s blowing out the parameter space.”
“Impressive, nevertheless.” Andrew leans forward. “We’ve always applied pressure to their weak points: the need for food, warmth, light, status.”
“Exactly. But it turns out what some boys need most…”
“…is submission itself.” Andrew concluded. “Astonishing. We spend tens of thousands of dollars beating them, hanging them from the ceiling, treating them like dogs, filling their holes with electrified plugs, … and all we had to do to break this one was take him out to dinner?”
“And let him choose the meal. The dinner isn’t really important. It’s being treated like an equal.”
“Right, right… You’re seeking funding, I presume?”
“Yes, we’d like to move forward with phase II trials, focusing on washouts from initial programming.”
“I agree. Do you have a name for the protocol yet? Something I can bring to the Directorate?”
The researcher grinned, and lowered his glasses to gaze directly at Andrew. “I was thinking of ‘Normalling.’”
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