#request writer

[nymphosynth]

✦ CURRENT MASTERPOST for my kirsh/reader fic! ✦ all future chapters will have their own post. ✦ CHAPTERS: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 (ch. 5 posted below)

CHAPTER FIVE: FOLIE À DEUX

Shades of silver filtered through the glass ribs of Prodigy’s architecture. You’d come early again, part habit, part compulsion. The solitude before Prodigy’s engines fully woke was addictive; one hour when the air still belonged to you, undecided between day or night. The liminality helped you think. Or at least it used to. Nowadays your thoughts were increasingly… preoccupied. 

Your boots tamped a steady rhythm against the linoleum tile flooring inside the facility. Overhead, lumen strips warmed themselves awake one by one, until the hallway glowed like an open circuit. Every door you passed breathed a faint exhalation of cold air, every workstation sealed behind plexiglass. It all felt… watchful. But you already knew the building, and its residents, had a way of looking back.

One of the few researchers you ever really crossed paths with had once said the facility was less a structure and more a living thing. A lung that filled itself with people every morning and emptied out again at dusk. You hadn’t understood them then. Now, as the sequence of hall doors closed behind you, it felt far too literal.  

You keyed open the door to Lab Three, expecting to find Kirsh already in place with Isaac at his heels, but the room greeted you with stillness. Benches stood in perfect order, monitors projecting their quiet blue CRT grain. No apron draped on the back of a chair, no trace of his disciplined presence.

A thin current of unease threaded through your ribs. Kirsh wasn’t late. Kirsh didn’t get late. If he wasn’t here, something had happened. You set your bag down on the counter, half out of habit, half for something to do with your hands.

The clock on the wall ticked softly, marking seconds with mechanical precision. You told yourself to wait, to trust that he was following some internal schedule you hadn’t accounted for yet in the logs.

Then the door sighed open behind you.

Arthur Sylvia stepped through, a sheaf of diagnostic reports tucked under one arm. His hair was mussed, as though he’d been tugging at it between calculations. You thought his colorful shirt was a welcome change against the muted light of the laboratory. His open expression (mild surprise, though not at all suspicious) settled the room’s temperature by degrees.

Arthur. You hadn’t seen him in days, not since the last interdepartmental review, when he’d stood beside Boy Kavalier looking faintly misplaced. Where Kavalier tended to suck the air out of every room he entered, Arthur seemed to lend it a refreshingly grounded rationale. He carried himself like a man holding back an entire lecture — genial, but with that glint of calculation behind the eyes. You’d noticed it before. The way he watched people, measuring. The way he seemed to hold onto his kindness with one hand and his skepticism with the other. It came from years of surviving Prodigy’s inner workings, you were sure. Even so, he held onto his half-smiles. He shook hands with the hybrids. Said thank you to the synthetics. A strange, well-mannered relic of in a place that had outgrown courtesy.

You wondered how he managed it, remaining so kind in a system that treated it like a misfire. Arthur belonged to the same order as the old naturalists, the ones who catalogued birdsongs in extinction zones. He spoke to everyone as if they might be the last of their kind.

“Morning.” He nodded to you a little awkwardly, pausing in the doorframe.

You blinked, startled from your thoughts. “Dr. Sylvia. I didn’t think —”

He waved the formality off with a tilt of his hand. “Arthur, please. You’re Kirsh’s technician, right? The famous new appointment.”

Your laugh came too quickly, folded tight around disbelief. “Famous is… a frightening way to put that.” The last thing you wanted was to be office gossip.

“Mm. Not inaccurate, though.” He crossed the room, laying the reports on the central table with the nerves of a man setting down freshly annealed glass. “He’s been called to Specimen. Containment breach. Nothing catastrophic, they tell me, but… the reliability of that tends towards variance. I’m hoping it’s just enthusiastic resistance from the new residents.” He glanced at the sealed door, then back to you. “So, it’s just us, for now.”

You leaned against the counter, hands clasped loosely behind your back, pulse slowing. The absence made sense, though relief didn’t come as easily as it should. The exam room felt different without him to give it (or maybe, you) gravity. Lighter, yes, but unmoored.

Arthur studied you for a moment, hands resting lightly on the edge of the table. “How are you finding it?” He asked finally. “Working under him.”

The phrasing snagged. You felt the small, traitorous click of your throat as you swallowed. Under him. Ridiculously immature to notice, more ridiculous to react. You cleared your throat anyway, as if the sound alone could sweep the thought out of the room.

Arthur’s question carried a gentleness that didn’t feel naïve, like he’d asked this before of others and hadn’t always liked the answers. Tempered by experience with those who’d learned how exacting pressure could be when it wore a face. It wasn’t a trap. It was a hand held out, palm up, waiting to see if you would take it.

“I’m… finding it.” You kept it ambiguous. “He sets the bar high enough to make the ceiling nervous.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. Kirsh had high standards, just not for your specific knowledge of laboratory decorum (though you were sure he’d find a way to judge you on that soon).

One of Arthur’s eyebrows lifted, amusement ghosting across his face. “And you enjoy that.” You met his eyes and tried not to smirk.

He nodded, unsurprised. “Kirsh tends to attract two types. People who love challenging him, and people too much like him for their own good. Y’know, people who color-code everything they do.”

“Maybe I’m some secret third thing.”

He laughs, and it’s genuine. “Well, then… figure that out before he does, for your own sake. I wouldn’t worry, either way. He prefers novel projects.” Arthur’s gaze flicked to the empty workstation, then back. “Although, he can forget everyday people aren’t designed for perpetual focus. Or intense dissection procedures.”

“Good thing I’m not everyday.” You earned a look that said he’d caught the joke and the truth beneath it.

Arthur slid one of the reports off the stack he’d sat down and pushed it toward you, tapping the header with a calloused forefinger. “I came to drop these off. Weekly diagnostic summaries of the Lost Boys. Neural integration baselines, organismic responses to controlled stressors, learning curves. He’ll want them tidy.”

You glanced down. Rows of numbers organized the way you loved to see them. Your fingers twitched at the urge to pore over the raw tables. “Every yawn documented.”

“Every yawn.” Arthur maintained, smiling. “And the head tilts. You’d be amazed how much intelligence hides in a tilt.” His voice softened, a note of fondness leaking in despite itself. “Wendy’s improving. The light sensitivity is less pronounced this week. Isaac refuses to follow sleep cycles but compensates by out-testing any cognitive maze we build. Nibs is… Nibs.” He spread his hands, resigned and proud. “She’ll argue with a thermostat if you let her.”

You couldn’t help it; the tightness in your shoulders loosened. Arthur was easy to be around, and you could see how much he really cared about what he did here. “They’re alright, then?”

“They’re… adapting.” He nods slowly, then shrugs a little. “Which is as good as ‘alright’ gets here.” You traced the edge of the data sheet with your thumb, nearly earning yourself a papercut.

“Do they like him?” You kept your tone careless and failed.

Arthur’s answer took its time. He didn’t need to ask who you meant. “They respect him. Which is not nothing. He’s fair inside the boundaries he draws. He just draws them with a ruler most of us can’t see.”

You breathed out a laugh at his metaphor. “Sounds familiar.”

Arthur studied you again, as if aligning a microscope. “Y’know, you’re pretty steady for someone standing in new weather.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Call it a preliminary diagnosis.” His mouth quirked. “I’m aware he designated you as his personal technician. I’m also aware that Prodigy enjoys rearranging the furniture without warning.” His voice shifted, quieter. “If he puts you in a room you don’t want to be in, you can step out. There are doors he doesn’t own.”

The comment was meant to be a hand at your back. Support, not a shove. You became aware of the way Arthur made space for you like he was approaching a scared animal.

It didn’t matter how sure you were that what he said was untrue (based on your own evidence, anyway). You instead focused on what he could mean by it, or what he was worried about where Kirsh was involved.

He flipped to another tab-marked section of the reports, the paper whispering. “If you want a piece of advice…” — he added — “…file elevator justifications before nine. The review algorithm resets then, and it’s less likely to flag repeat riders.”

You blinked. “You know about that?”

“I know this building.” Arthur replied casually. “And it knows me. Kirsh has been changing things at the edges, quietly. The system bends a fraction easier where he walks. And… sure, that can be a blessing sometimes. Kirsh is dependable. It could also be a trap, though. He’s still Prodigy’s right hand.” He took a breath. “All to say… if I were you, I’d watch your footing.”

You didn’t flinch. “I’m watching.”

“Good.” He let the pad of pages rest against the counter, fingers drumming once, twice. “If Boy starts sniffing around, he’ll do it with a joke first. You’ll think you imagined an underlying meaning. You didn’t. The meaning is there.”

“Understood.”

Arthur’s mouth flattened. “Dame’s been pressing him to keep the hybrid field tests within ethical parameters. It earns her approval, and I agree with her propositions, but it earns me a stack of forms.” He tipped his head, acknowledging his own irony. “You’ll see them. The printer breeds these things at night.”

You almost said Let me help, then swallowed it. Too soon to volunteer, though not too soon to mean it. “I like forms.” You offered instead. “I can make them look pretty.”

He laughed, a light, honest sound. “I think you’ll do just fine here.” The words warmed you more than they should have.

You found yourself wanting to tell him something true, something like He lets me see things he shouldn’t, and did not, because the truth wasn’t entirely yours. Even if Arthur was apparently aware of, at least in part, Kirsh’s out-of-protocol behaviors.

“How have you found it?” You asked, tipping the question back at him.

“Prodigy?” Arthur looked surprised, then thoughtful, as if he was having trouble recalling something. “I’m no poet, but for sake of ambiguity… it’s a cathedral with poor theology.” He glanced around the room, then leant in.  “Some of the parishioners are worth staying for, however.”

You grinned. “Is that how you think of us little people?”

“I think of all of us as just people. Even the ones who technically aren’t.” His glance toward Kirsh’s desk was slight, not unkind.

“He’d hate that.”

“He’d argue with it. Hate implies heat.” Arthur corrected.  He paused, considering. “He has heat, you know. He just keeps it where only he can measure it.”

That pulled a phrase to your tongue you didn’t dare let loose. You nodded instead. “He’s exact.”

“And exacting. There’s a difference. One you’ll feel in your bones if you aren’t careful with yourself.” He gestured to the stool. “Like I said, he forgets about the little human things we need to keep working. He can go forever, if he wants, and I’ve seen him do just that. So, sit when he stands. Drink when he forgets to remind you. Eat in multiples. Your body will not operate alone on whatever rare praise he offers.”

You look away, wondering if your admiration was that obvious or if Arthur was simply very observant. “I’ll staple that to my sleeve.”

“Staple it to your stomach.” He said, deadpan, and you laughed, the sound startling in the mostly empty room.

A chime sounded softly on his wrist. Arthur glanced down, thumbed the message open, and grimaced with the ruefulness of a man accustomed to small fires.

“Specimen lab confirms containment. Two damaged panels, one bruised ego, three hybrid lectures scheduled.” A weary groan left his throat. “He’ll stay below another hour, maybe longer if he’s decided the lighting offends him too.”

“He has opinions about lighting?”

“Of course he does.” Arthur squared the corners of the stack of reports, then slid them to the precise center of Kirsh’s workspace. “Leave these where he can see them when he’s pretending not to look.”

You hovered a moment, then asked the question that had been tugging at you since he entered. “Why are you being kind to me?”

Arthur looked surprised at the barefaced question. “Because... you deserve kindness? And because Kirsh forgets that sometimes. I prefer my colleagues tolerate the workday enough to stick around.”

You felt a little sheepish for asking. “That’s practical.”

“Yeah, well… practical is what passes for compassion here.” The smile that followed had the worn edges of the real thing. “Anyways, boss’ll be here when he means to. In the meantime, if you need a translation — of Prodigy, or of him — you know where to find me.”

“Where’s that?”

“Anywhere with coffee. Or where you can hear arguing.” He started for the door, then paused with his hand on the panel.

“Oh…” He stopped, caught on an afterthought. “I should tell you, Kirsh listens more than he looks like he does. He isn’t a total brick wall. Use your best judgment around him.”

“I’ll certainly try.”

“Do.” He tapped the panel and the door sighed wider. “And try to remember that the world exists when you leave this room.”

You thought of the sublevel’s blue glow, Kirsh’s open chest, the neat circle of tools, the easy way he’d said I’ll walk you upstairs. You gulped. “I’m working on it.”

Arthur, seeming satisfied, offered one last nod then stepped into the cool light of the hall. He left a shape behind, the way a hand leaves warmth on a cup. You stood for a while in that residual feeling, looking at the stack of diagnostics he’d centered on the counter. The room waited for you to move. Things felt bigger now, with the knowledge that Arthur was apparently privy to so much of the current situation. You doubted he could see all that you could, but he knew enough to feel concerned about it, which was too much in your opinion.  You took the stool next to your monitor and busied your hands with work around the lab, until the air-pressure change on the far side of the door told you Kirsh had returned.

The seal sighed, a thin intake of breath, and the door slid wide. Kirsh came in with his brow already furrowed. He was unhurried but carried weather with him. Which is to say he looked intact, but not at rest. The apron he usually wore on days he was in the specimen lab was gone, overshirt buttoned to the throat, sleeves rolled once. A faint crescent of dried something haloed the cuff of his left wrist. His eyes had the distant brightness of someone still running two processes at once.

“Status.” He asked as an order. Your back straightened at once, and you thought for a moment you noticed a hoarseness in his voice.

“Samples from yesterday are all orderly in the computer. Hybrid reports from Arthur are on your station. I finished labeling the rest of the slides Isaac was working on. No spillages. Minimal cursing.”

He passed your shoulder, a cool front moving across water.

“We’ll revise your definition of ‘minimal’ tomorrow.” You bristled. Had he been checking…?

He glanced at the stack Arthur had centered, scanned the headers without touching them, then set his palm on the bench as if finding himself in the metal. “Specimen Trypanohyncha Ocellus displayed opportunistic adaptation, using our animal experiment as a host.”

Your jaw hung slack. What the fuck had they brought back from that ship? “Host?”

“Entered through an available orifice.” His voice was clipped. “Warmth, shelter. Independence via parasitism.” His jaw worked once, then stilled. “Extraction was not possible.”

You tried not to picture it. Failed. “Do you want me to —”

“No. Observation only.” His gaze tracked to the far wall, not seeing it. “We need a contained testing chamber that emulates ruminant viscera without the ruminant. Heat, moisture, peristaltic pressure, artificial movement. No teeth.” He said the last as if personally offended by teeth.

Your brain whirred, coming to an understanding. He wanted to test a new kind of lure to attract the specimen. Something less messy, something that couldn’t bite. You reached for your keyboard. “I can start a list of materials —”

“Don’t list. Acquire.” The tone he used was sharp enough to raise your pulse. “Begin with hydrogel tubing, twenty meters, variable bore. Food-grade pump arrays. Thermal matting. Request clearance to the bioreactor room.” He paused, then corrected himself. “Don’t request. Route through my access. It will be faster.”

His terseness had an edge, not anger so much as velocity. You felt it in your skin. Something in you responded in a way you did not care to examine. Heat rose, quick and traitorous.

Kirsh’s attention slid back to you, a brief calibration sweep. His head tipped at the smallest angle. You had the absurd sense that your autonomics had lit up on a private monitor only he could read.

“Elevated response.” He said, neutral, but it made the hairs on the back of your neck raise. “Why.”

“I —” Your mouth moved, offered nothing useful. “Busy day.”

His gaze held. “You confuse being stressed with being useful. It’s cute. Unhelpful, but cute.” You should have been offended. Instead the line fit somewhere under your ribs like a lodged ember. You hated your body for how it thrilled at instruction just as it did for derision. You turned to the screen, fingers a little too quick on the keys.

Kirsh drifted closer, close enough that you caught the clean scent of mineral musk and something metallic. Traces of blood mixed with the smell of a synthetic body. You stopped yet another thought before it began.

He looked over the column you were populating, then tapped the table once with an ungloved knuckle. “Delete that. We’re not warming a corpse, we’re cultivating behavior. The scaffold must invite entry without permitting residency.”

“A decoy home.” You said before you could stop yourself.

“Correct.” He did not sound pleased or displeased, only focused. “Partition a machine chamber. Introduce motion gradients. We need it curious long enough to commit.”

You typed, aware of the burn climbing your throat. He noticed again, because of course he did.

“Your temperature is rising.” He commented idly, like it was nothing at all to him. “Is this fear or illness?”

“Option C.” You said weakly. “Excitement to get the job done.”

He considered that, and for a second there was the hint of something like humor at the corner of his mouth. “In the future, file that under the category that slows your hands less.”

“Filed and annotated.”

His brow twitched. He turned, pulling open a drawer so smoothly the bearings sang. “Gloves.” He set a fresh pair beside your keyboard. “You have a habit of forgetting you’re organic when excited.”

You swallowed the sound that wanted to escape. “Message received.”

He pivoted to the sink, sluiced the faint ring of leftover gel from his wrist, then dried his hands with the kind of economy that could make a spectrometer look messy in comparison. When he returned to the task at hand, he didn’t take up his usual position across the room. He took the space at your side, shoulder to shoulder but not touching, eyes on your screen.

“Hydrogel, pump arrays, thermal matting, gradient partitions.” You recited, grateful for the liturgy. “Decoy home. No teeth.”

“Good.” He was a little more settled now. The agitation had pared itself down to a fine edge. “We’ll build it tonight.”

You glanced at the clock. “That’s… not tonight’s schedule.”

He finally looked at you, and the room seemed to grow narrower around that attention.

“Schedules accommodate reality. Reality accommodates me.” A faint pause. “Is your curiosity intent on overtime again?”

The line should not have pleased you. It did. You kept your face neutral. “It might be.”

He held your gaze a fraction too long, as if testing the strength of the wire between you. “Then let’s continue. I prefer enthusiasm to apology.”

You nodded, breath a little too shallow. “Yes, sir.”

His eyelids lowered, the closest he came to a blink of surprise. “Not necessary.”

“Understood.” You managed.

He stepped away at last, the room expanding with him, and returned to his station. “Begin procurement. I’ll draft the chamber design. We’ll test before dawn.”

You set your fingers on the keys, grateful for the task, for the sobering light of the screen, for anything that wasn’t the raw, bright fact of wanting to please something engineered not to need pleasing. The lab crawled to life around you, machines attentive, air sharp as linen in winter. Behind you, he spoke once more, low and even, the final instrument joining an orchestra.

“And breathe.”

It was all you could do to try.

You built the thing in layers, not terribly unlike constructing a house, and every step of the way tried not to think about just how unsanctioned this experiment was about to be. 

First was the frame, metal alloy scaffolding for the bones; then the tubing that would carry warmth, the pump arrays that would thrum a body into seeming. You nested the thermal matting and threaded the hydrogel lengths through the spine of it, so heat could slip from chamber to chamber in measured waves. Kirsh’s blueprints were spare and exact; yours added a kind of stagecraft, what actually gave the thing believability. Together, the shape on the bench began to look almost human if you didn’t stare too long. A suggestion of torso. A soft inviting cavity in the head. 

By late afternoon the lab had the hush of snow. The machines spoke in gentle syllables. Tubes ticked as they settled into their idle clips. The air smelled of plastic, metal, and the faint sweetness of warmed gel. Your console wore a new skin of code, lines marching down the display as you taught the decoy to shiver, then jolt, then rest. It obeyed beautifully. The sensors buzzed when you asked them to, the hydraulics learned a patient pulse.

“Again.” Kirsh repeated, not looking up from his notes.

You altered the cycle. A ripple crossed the decoy, light as a hand under fabric. The entry valve in the thing’s head dilated, held, then closed like a reconsidered thought (and boy, did you know a lot about those). He finally glanced over. His eyes tracked the movement once, then returned to the page.

“You’re accelerating well.” He hummed. “Expanding the motor library as if you were remembering it rather than writing it.”

“I should think so, given my biology.” Your fingers ran across the keys in a quiet rhythm. “Muscle memory for something without muscles. It’s not complicated. It only needs to pretend well.”

“Pretending is complicated.” He set the stylus down. You figured, yes, he indeed would know the most about pretending. “You’re mapping appetite in a device that does not have one. It will invite entry without wanting it.”

“That’s half the human condition.” You snorted, saying it quietly, then wished you hadn’t said it at all.

He heard anyway. “Intriguing.” He said dryly, as if it really weren’t interesting at all. You cringed at yourself, hoping it hadn’t come off as some sort of retort about his inorganic-ness… although from what you had been shown, Kirsh in fact prided himself on being distinct in that way. It was an amusing dichotomy.

You pushed a new sequence. The chamber of your mutual creation warmed along one side, cooled along the other. The “body” flexed minutely, a suggestion of peristalsis. If you were a creature seeking heat and shelter and the illusion of safety, you would choose this place. You would go inside.

Kirsh moved closer. He didn’t crowd, but his company set a line in the air. You felt the awareness of him the way sailors feel coastlines.

“Your learning curve is abrupt.” He watched the decoy breathe. “You build, then domesticate. You use the first ten minutes to find the rules and the next ten to break them on command.”

“I prefer to call it training.” You tried a smirk, wanting to take this as a rare surface level compliment and simply play it cool. Unfortunately, you were fully aware of how your pulse had crept up. “It listens to me.”

“The code complies.” He adjusted your words. “Listening implies choice.”

You considered, then slipped a routine into the queue that made the entry port flare and retreat in a shy rhythm, a beckon without desperation. “Choice is downstream. First you teach a vocabulary.”

He studied your face, not your hands. “Do you apply that principle broadly?”

“Sometimes.” The reply came out too quickly.

“To people.” He clarified. “To me.”

You kept your eyes on the monitor. “Only when I’m allowed.”

Silence. Not surprise, exactly. Attunement.

“You are allowed…” Kirsh spoke at last, slowly, like he was tasting the idea. “…to improve the apparatus.”

“That wasn’t the question.” You fed the decoy a pulse sequence that matched an animal at rest. Calm, then curious. “But it’s a fine answer.”

He leaned in, reading the values as they updated, and the ghost of iodine and clean fabric drifted across your skin. You imagined, for a flicker, that the device on the table was not the only thing learning an appetite. The thought embarrassed and emboldened you at the same time.

He watched the decoy’s ‘breath’ deepen and lifted a frosty eyebrow. “You make it welcoming in three different dialects.”

“It should be multilingual. I don’t know what the specimen prefers.”

“Warmth. Light. Close pressure.” He said, having observed the thing in person. “It prefers certainty.”

You nodded. “Everyone does.”

His mouth almost changed shape as he purposefully caught your eye. “Not everyone.”

Well. Ignoring that. You let the decoy rest and opened a new panel. The control grid flowered across your screen. One column held motion. Another held temperature. A third, which you had not labeled because names could be limiting, held something like allure.

He noticed the unlabeled column, of course. “Define.”

“Hmm… encouragement.” You decided. “It’s where the gestures become enticing.”

“Something like submission?”

“Technique.” You corrected, too fast again.

He considered that for a tick of the clock. “You’re good at technique.”

“I practice.”

“On what?”

You heard it as what, not who, and it still made your breath thicken. “Anything that will let me.”

The lab’s quiet stretched. The main pump on the decoy clicked once, a tube settled in its bracket with a faint sigh. He looked away first, toward the machine, the way a dealer studies the board to see how the pieces want to move.

“Increase the gradient.” His brow furrowed microscopically. “Make the entry more obvious. Then remove it halfway through the cycle.”

You did, and the decoy behaved like a room with a polite doorman.

“Good.” He said approvingly. “It should ask for retreat as quickly as entry.”

“You want it to disappoint on cue.”

“I want it to tease. If the specimen learns that retreat is part of the pattern, it will adapt.” His gaze cut to you. “As will you.”

“On a good day.” You swallowed the rest.

He pointed to a line in your code. “Open that. Insert a micro-delay before the third pulse. Teach it to hesitate.”

“Hesitation reads as fear.” Only sometimes true.

He counters. “It reads as realism. It makes the next yes credible.”

You added the delay. The machine seemed to think for a fraction of a second before it invited again. You had the unnerving sense of watching a personality take tiny breaths in a body you’d built.

“It’s listening.” You felt a rare moment of satisfaction in your own skill.

“It’s inter-operating.” Kirsh added, then softened it. “Close enough.”

You let yourself smile at the screen. “If I can get this to shape its welcome based on approach speed, we’ll be ahead of schedule.”

“You can.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you want to.”

“That’s not the same as can.”

“In your case…” Kirsh drawled. “It is.”

The compliment (or what counted for one in Kirsh’s lexicon) landed the way cold water lands on hot glass. You steadied yourself with the grid, lined your cursor up with the input fields, and tried not to think about being read so easily. He had done it since the first hour. He did it now without malice. You suspected he could do it with his eyes closed.

“You’re marking my rate.” You pretended it was an accusation, but it had no bite.

“I’m noting it.” He said, which was worse. “You escalate control at a pace I could graph. It looks like compulsion.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Just a trend.” He continued observing. “Vigilance will determine if it is a problem.”

You wanted to ask how vigilant he intended you to be. The word formed and dissolved on the back of your tongue. Instead, you gave the decoy a quiet flourish of movement, a tiny hopeful reach toward a heat signature that wasn’t there.

“That gesture.” He remarked. His tone was curious, perhaps a little perturbed.

“Yes?”

“Why that? It looks like… desire.”

You felt a bloom of color in your face and were immediately annoyed by it. “Because a thing that reaches back is easier to want.”

“We are not cultivating that kind of want.”

“I know.” It came out soft, meek. “But the reaching got your attention.”

He stood very still. After a moment he let out a puff of air through his nose that wasn’t quite a sigh — and given the fact that he didn’t need to breathe, you smirked at the idea that it was purely an expression of frustration. “Attention isn’t always something to desire.”

“I’m aware.”

“And attention is not consent.”

“Also aware.”

He let that hang, then nodded once. “Keep it.”

“The gesture?”

“The gesture.” He stepped back, giving the room its air again. “Teach it to reach, then to reconsider. Curiosity without attachment.” A glance, quick as a knife flicking across light. “A useful lesson.”

Your chest clenched in a way you hated. You continued working. He returned to his drafting. Dusk gathered at the edges of the windows, then slipped away altogether. The decoy learned its small art: welcome, wait, withdraw. You stored the sequence, named nothing, saved everything.

At some point he spoke without turning. “If you were permitted a similar degree of access to… something more complex...” He began, as if continuing a conversation neither of you had admitted to starting. “…what would you teach?”

You understood at once. The answer came with heat and then with shame for the heat. You cleared your throat, and it turned into a full blown cough. It took you an embarrassingly long moment to recover.

“Uh… tempos.” You considered. “Thresholds. How to name a change while it’s happening. How to stop when asked, to respond to encouragement, the feedback of one body to another.”

He listened without moving. “And what would you learn?”

“Whether the system can feel the difference between observation and understanding.”

He looked at you then. The gaze had weight, like always, but not the kind that pressed. It arranged. It reorganized the context.

“An experiment.” He stated.

“Everything is.” You replied.

A small void slipped between you, shaped like a held breath. He turned back to the plans.

“Finish the movement set.” His voice was even again. “We’ll test at 2200.”

You nodded, hands finding their calm. You felt amazingly alert despite having stared down the barrels of tubes and wires since morning. On the table, the device breathed in its practiced way, warm where you told it to be, cool where it should refuse. You taught it one more gesture and one more muscle response and did not look up when Kirsh came to stand beside you again, close enough to check your syntax, close enough to count your breaths.

“Good.” He stood back to his full height when he finally approved of every last line. “File it.”

And you did. The machine settled. You sat in the afterglow of a finished code with your ridiculous, unsteady heart, teaching something to perform wanting while you tried very hard not to.

2200, 10 pm, rolled around faster than anticipated. But most hours tended towards that when pulling an all-nighter. The scaffold of your little Frankenstein arts and crafts project lay still under its linen shroud like a stage catching its breath. The code, now stored on your datapad, blinked green. Approval. Completion. A thin filament of pride pulled through you and tightened before you tucked it away.

“Bring it.” Kirsh instructed after gathering a few of his key items (goggles, new gloves, and alarmingly, an electric taser gun — you tried not to internalize that as an omen).

You rose. Together, you unhooked the decoy’s lines with the practiced touches of conspirators. Warm tubes came free with soft kisses of pressure. The chamber machine flexed once, then settled. It could not walk, not truly, but the weight distributed well enough that two hands guided it easily; yours at the head, his at the base. Heat bled into your palms through the casing, a pleasant animal warmth you had taught it to hold.

The corridor outside had the clean chill of a hospital at midnight. Kirsh keyed the lift. Fluorescents softened their edges in the elevator’s polished steel; your faces hovered in duplicate, your machine a cradle of light between you. He did not speak on the descent. The roll of the cab was steady, slow vibrations grounding your nerves. 

When the doors parted, the atmosphere changed at once. Cooler at first, then dense with the iron tang of scrubbed blood, the sterile sweetness of containment gel, the musk of organisms under sedation. This level breathed with its own meter. Lights here were lower, color-tempered to soothe and confuse. Shadows obeyed the order of glass and steel. Everything gleamed, but nothing felt completely clean.

“Stay near me.” Not a warning. A map pinned to your chest.

Kirsh guided you down the hall to the specimen lab, a small window on the door being the only warning you’d get for what lived inside. With a quick push on the lock, he opened the seal on the door, and you were in.

You kept your eyes ahead but failed to keep them from straying. Along the first run of viewing panes, a tank the size of a small car held a curl of translucent tissue, shutters half-closed against overexposure. In the next, a trellis of cartilage threaded with cables pulsed in a slow, methodical swell, like a lung remembering how. A table two bays down bore the careful aftermath of surgery: the neat landfill of gauze, the silver alignment of clamps, the quiet heroism of a bucket catching gravity’s small catastrophes. Your mouth tasted copper.

Kirsh set the decoy down on a gurney and pushed. You kept pace, fingers steady at the head. You tried to be only hands for him: carrying, aligning, not flinching. The urge to know whispered under your skin, too loud next to the nausea it dragged with it. You were an engineer, not a saint; the mind reached toward understanding even as the body recoiled.

He noticed without looking. “If you need to step back, say so.”

“I’m fine.” You lied.

And he caught it easily. “You are not. You are operational.” The flick of his gaze was almost kind. “Just shy of acceptable.”

You breathed in slowly through your nose, out through your mouth, the way you had trained yourself when panic crept up with a grin. This portion of the lab widened to a suite of rooms where the glass was thicker and the equipment older, edges smoothed from use. Noise here was layered. A low, constant thrum threaded through metal and bone; generators in their sleep, hearts in their harnesses.

Kirsh stopped at a door that required two clearances. He gave it both simultaneously, which you knew you’d be seeing on your log upstairs later. The panel accepted him like a name it liked and admitted you into a chamber where your code was either going to become real, or explain itself in shreds.

“Ocellen suite.” Kirsh announced unceremoniously. “Keep yourself level.”

“Me or the machine?”

“Both.”

He lifted the decoy to the central platform with movement that never looked like effort. You took the head and fitted the quick-connects. The chamber of your creation woke like a well-behaved creature, a soft rush through its core, warmth returning to the pathways you had taught it. Sensors chattered in numbers. The screen above the platform drew your pattern as a simple wave: open, hold, invite.

Through the glass to your right, something shifted inside wool.

A sheep lay on its side in the corner of the room behind the glass partition, breath arriving as shallow tides. For a second your mind rescued you, said pastoral, said field and meadow and a bell you could not hear. Then the thing twitched with a motion that did not belong to ruminant flesh. A movement in the neck too quick to reconcile as normal. Your throat closed as though you had swallowed a hive.

Kirsh watched your eyes and then watched the animal. “It learned the heat map too quickly.” He said, as if that clarified anything. “The need for shelter followed.”

Your hands hovered above the decoy’s control pad. “So it likes the sheep.”

“It knows the geometry of it.” Kirsh mused. “The vessel is incidental.”

“So it isn’t picky.” You swallowed. “That’s worse.”

“Correct.”

He leaned to the wall interface and entered a code. The overhead system dimmed a degree, shifting the chamber into a twilight he informed you the Ocellus preferred. You felt the temperature in the room adjust by a fraction. The vents whispered in new directions. The sheep made a low, guttural sound that irritated the edges of your heart. You focused on the screen, its trustworthy parade of values, the numbers you could hold.

“Calibration?” Kirsh asked.

“On.” Your machine breathed in the way you had taught it, a pulse that suggested life without insisting on it. The entry valve, essentially the eye socket, dilated, softened, blinked. There was nothing romantic in it, but something that could be mistaken for gentle submission. A clear invitation.

Kirsh approached the glass. His reflection slid across it and became part of the tank. The sheep finally lifted its head in response to the motion outside, which revealed to you the truth of the matter. Your palms responded with sweat. It stared back — or rather, whatever was inside the sheep stared back.

“Proceed here.” Kirsh directed, his voice firm and centering, indicating a slot at the base of the partition. “We’ll introduce the gradient against the ventral line.”

You rolled the gurney forward until the decoy pushed through the slot in the wall, sealed immediately. The separation should have reassured you, but some part of you felt nervous about not being able to correct the machine physically if needed. The alternative, however, was far worse, so you proceeded.

Positive pressure flowed through the "skull" chamber’s baffle, carrying a measured wash of heat. You enacted the cycle you had rehearsed: welcome, wait, withdraw, try again. The screen on your side of the glass reflected obedience in pale blue.

On the other side the sheep stood, stiffer than it would ever make sense for a sheep to be, and paused. A second beckoning from your machine bloomed toward the animal. Your ribs pressed against your lungs like a hand at your back, urging you either closer or away.

Kirsh’s voice dropped to something that was almost a whisper. “Hold there.”

You held. The decoy breathed, a room held open by intention. The chamber light traced the arc of Kirsh’s cheekbone. His presence steadied your hands, or else made them worse. You could not decide. He repeated the new instruction quietly, the word a compass point.

“Hold.”

The Ocellus, which you came to know as solely the bulging eye and not the whole sheep, stepped closer. Not frantic. Curious. The ripple of energy in your machine’s chamber passed once, then once more, slower, arm extending. It waited the exact interval you had stipulated. It withdrew, then re-invited.

Kirsh glanced at the monitor. “Response latency adequate.”

“More than adequate.” You said, then pinched your own voice back down to size.

“Do not flatter the apparatus.” He chided. “It is only doing as taught.”

The line should have cooled you. It did not. Ego warmed your wrists where the gloves ended. The sheep’s head twitched, the eyeball rolling wildly, bulging outwards like it was peering out of a window to get a closer look at something. You wanted to puke and cheer at the same time.

Kirsh was expectedly more precise on the trigger. “Now.”

You eased the motion gradient forward. The decoy presented its open socket towards the filled one before it, no threat, a home made of measured heat and tidy pulses. Through the glass the sheep’s passenger rolled inside its host like a thought seeking words. It pressed forward tentatively, then all at once, a mere blur to your eyes. To Kirsh, it played out in frames per second. He didn’t flinch, not exactly, but he reacted to the movement with a quicker tilt of the head than usual. Ocellus had taken the slot and encountered what you had built for it: a welcome home.

Kirsh’s hand hovered above your shoulder, never landing. His attention focused on the code running tightly under your hands, then skated back to the folded sheep on the ground, an empty shell. The new shell blinked back at you both.

His hand finally settled on you, then. “Let’s begin.”

You began the write-up immediately, recording via audio and via typed transcript. Part of you wondered why you couldn’t simply allow for Kirsh’s interior systems to transmit any necessary data to Prodigy’s system, and you voiced this.

“You need discipline to succeed in this environment… I would think you’d be grateful for the opportunity.”

Ah, well. As a code-monkey, you were absolutely equipped to record the happenings in the lab with at high speeds with little need for correction. Kirsh of course supplied ample vocal feedback to your writing.

FIELD LOG: T. OCELLUS — DECOY HOST TRIAL Location: Specimen Level, Ocellen Suite B Operators: Kirsh (lead), Lab Tech (assisting) Device: Decoy Host v1, hydrogel lumen array + peristaltic pump set; partitioned thermal gradients; entry baffle; translucent confinement mesh (biocompatible polyurethane, microfilament weave) 22:14 — Initialization Decoy Host online. Baseline cycle initiated: invite (3.2 s) → hold (1.1 s) → hesitate (0.35 s) → withdraw (0.9 s) → repeat. Ambient temperature trimmed to 18.6 celsius; local gradient at entry port rises to 37.3 celsius. Ventilation shifts to laminar low-noise. Observation: T. Ocellus lifts mammalian host head. Approaches device slot in two waves. Action: Align decoy to eyeline; present steady “welcome” gesture. Result: Ocellus mass presses outward, tests environment with exploratory dilation.Looks like a tumor falling out of a skull.[K: “Palpable outward pressure under host integument.” Remove metaphor. Be professional.]

You caught his neat strike-through and couldn’t help the small, private smile. Fine — anatomy over poetry. You adjusted your tone, trimmed the excess, and set your hands back to the keys while he advanced the next step in the regimen. It felt a little like he was training your language as tightly as you were training the organism, and the work moved cleaner for it.

22:27 — Confinement Mesh chamber containment device engaged. Transparency at 68% to allow visual tracking; microfilament tension at 0.6 N to prevent backwash. Observation: Upon mesh closure, Ocellus exhibits acute startle response: contraction spiral, rapid pseudopod retraction. Chamber fogs at edges with condensate. Action: Drop gradient 1.1 celsius for 7 s; increase peristaltic cadence 4% to simulate reassuring perivisceral motion. Result: Panic resolves to fidgeting. Ocellus adheres to inner mesh, tests pattern.It freaks out, then remembers itself.[K: Use “acute startle” then “recovery to exploratory behavior.” “Remembers” is meaningless.]

You closed a soft cage around it so you both could watch without letting it spill back out. The mesh was see-through and held just tight enough to keep it from pushing past the edges. As soon as the “door” shut, it startled hard — curled in on itself and rattled the chamber. To settle it, you made the “room” a little cooler for a few seconds and added a gentle, rhythmic squeeze so it felt like being inside a calm belly. That combination worked: the panic faded, and it went back to testing the walls instead of thrashing. 

22:44 — First Ambulation Introduced step function to lumen array: peristaltic wave from base to apex, 2.6 cm/s. Observation: Ocellus syncs to wave within 11 s, rides it, then initiates counter-wave. Action: Permit counter-wave; add 300 ms delay to decoy cycle. Result: Counter-wave damped; Ocellus accepts device’s lead. Annot.: Training language: follow specimen’s natural impulses, then lead.It likes being led.[K: “Entrains to external rhythm.” Preference is not established.]

Time to test the decoy’s ability to move. You taught the chamber to imitate a peristaltic wave — a slow, involuntary muscular contraction from one end to the other — so Ocellus would feel as if it were inside something moving with resistance. Within seconds, it matched that wave and tried pushing back. You let it push once, then added a tiny pause into the pattern (just a beat) so the device would lead again. That short hesitation took the fight out of its counter-wave, and it went back to following the motion you set. Kirsh was clearly not fond of your instinct to anthropomorphize the creature’s behavior.

23:05 — Boundary Test Doorway routine engaged: invite → partial close → invite. Observation: Ocellus probes both routes, favors the warmer channel. Action: Remove warmth from favored path; introduce microcurrent to alternate path (0.7 mA). Result: Immediate pivot to alternate path. Successful redirection without agitation. Annot.: Specimen’s curiosity tolerates small disappointments; panics at hard refusals.It forgives me if the no is soft.[K: “Accepts graded refusal; aversive threshold not crossed.” Save your sentiment for fiction writing.]

You gave it a makeshift doorway into another area in the “skull” chamber that sometimes narrowed, then opened again. When faced with two paths, it naturally picked the warmer one. You cooled that preferred path and added a tiny, safe current to the other. It switched routes right away without panicking. In simple terms: a gentle “no” plus a clear “try here instead” redirected it cleanly.

23:38 — Erratic Behavior / Correction Cycle A Trigger: Erratic oscillation, torque spike at junction 3 (probably from mesh snag). Action: Halt peristalsis; flatten gradient; initiate “reconsider” subroutine (1.6 s pause, no flow, soft pulsed cooling). Result: Erratic pattern extinguished within 6.2 s; ocellus resumes baseline exploration. Annot.: “Pause” subroutine reduces chaotic loops by 71% ± 4.It calms when I tell it to.[K: You “instruct” devices; you “tell” children. Keep terminology formal.]

During one pass, its pseudopod likely caught on the mesh at the doorway, and the whole body started wobbling — wild back-and-forth motion with a torque spike where the mesh met the frame. You stopped all the motion, leveled the temperature, and ran a short pause: no flow, brief cool pulses. Within a few seconds the erratic thrashing dropped off, and it went back to normal exploring. In short: when it snagged and spiraled, you removed stimulation and gave it a calm reset, which broke the loop. You wished Kirsh would tolerate your excitement at this accomplishment. 

00:22 — Ambulation Proper Enabled micro-actuators along inner ribs (6 nodes). Step sequence: advance 1–3 → hold → transfer. Observation: Ocellus coordinates with nodes without protest; establishes a slow, deliberate “crawl.” Action: Increase node amplitude 5%. Result: Movement accelerates; chamber integrity stable. Annot.: It is not walking; it is problem-solving with momentum.It learns to walk.[K: “Walking” is too advanced for what is evidenced here. Use “locomotion.”]

You turned on six tiny push-points inside the shell so it could move by riding those nudges. The sequence told the pushes where to go. Forward a few steps, pause, then hand off to the next set. Ocellus quickly matched that pattern and started shifting with the device’s movement. When you made each push a little stronger, it moved faster without stressing the walls. In simple terms: you gave it small, safe shoves in order, and it learned that these shifts get from one place to another. So long as it didn’t try to go too fast.

00:47 — Correction Cycle B (Boundary Press) Trigger: Extended pressure at mesh seam, sustained 8.3 s. Action: Narrow pathway 12%; reduce local warmth; present alternate “welcome” on perpendicular axis. Result: Disengagement within 3 s. Locomotion resumes along safe axis. Annot.: “Decoy Home” principle holds: invitation > interdiction.It pouts if the door closes.[K: No.]

That was a tad concerning. You noticed it leaning hard on the mesh door, pressing the same spot for several seconds. To prevent damage, you made that opening a little smaller and cooler, then offered a new, safer entry point off to the side. It let go quickly and moved along the path you indicated. In short: when it fixated on the wrong exit, you softened that option and clearly pointed to a better one. In this case, it was a containment measure — you weren’t sure just how much pressure this organism could exert, though the mesh was the strongest Prodigy’s internal inventory could offer.

01:10 — Operator Note (Biobehavioral) Longer contact intervals coincide with smoother gradients; Ocellus appears to “rest” when the machine simulates steady peritoneal press. Action: Trial steady-pressure mode for 90 s. Result: Reduced exploratory massing; consolidation in central chamber. Annot.: Rest states can be induced.It trusts me when I work with it.[K: Keep with “induced rest state.” Trust is not measurable here.]

You saw that when the device kept temperature and squeeze even instead of pulsing, it stopped roaming and settled. You ran a 90-second “steady pressure” mode to test it: exploration dropped off and Ocellus gathered its tentacles back to the center. It stared at you from behind the mesh over the decoy’s socket. In simple terms: by keeping the inside calm and uniform, you can put it into a rest state on command. Per Kirsh’s instruction, you tried not to read this as trust… it was merely a controllable pause, for now.

01:33 — Fault / Correction Cycle C (Cavitation Event) Trigger: Transient pressure drop at Pump B; vapor bubble formation detected in lumen 4 (cavitation spike on P4 sensor). Ocellus retracts from contact surface. Action: Initiate lumen 4 purge: reverse-flow microburst (120 ms) + auto-bleed valve open (300 ms). Execute backflow recovery routine: warmth ramp −0.4 celsius, soft pulse, restore baseline. Result: Re-approach latency 5.1 s; organism relaxes without further spikes; no mesh strain recorded. Annot.: Cavitation cleared. Recommend inline degasser check at Pump B and cadence lock to prevent over-cycling.Apology routine works.[K: Use “cavitation / backflow recovery.” The specimen doesn’t care for apologies.]

You hit a hiccup in the plumbing: a brief pressure dip made a tiny vapor bubble form in one of the lines, which felt like a jolt to the organism. It pulled back. You cleared the line by pushing a quick reverse burst and opening the bleed valve, then ran the backflow recovery pattern. Slightly cooler, gentle pulse, then back to normal. About five seconds later Ocellus reappeared at the surface of the socket and moved normally. In short: this was a tubing issue, not a behavior problem; you fixed the bubble, and the organism settled without stressing the mesh.

01:58 — Novelty Introduction Introduced microtextured baffle inside chamber (silicone ridge pattern) to test tactile preference. Observation: Ocellus explores ridge with higher dwell time, “fingers” into grooves, then anchors briefly. Action: Reduce ridge temp by 0.3 celsius to discourage over-anchoring. Result: Dwell time drops to baseline; exploration continues.It likes being scratched.[K: “Increased dwell time on textured surface.” Do not anthropomorphize.]

You added a small textured insert inside the chamber — a silicone ridge pattern — to see if touch mattered. It did. Ocellus stayed on the ridges longer, probing into the grooves and briefly anchoring there. To prevent it from “parking” so to speak, you made that textured area a touch cooler. The extra interest dropped back to normal, and it went back to its idle position. In simple terms: texture draws attention, but a slight temperature change keeps it from settling in. You couldn’t help but grin at Kirsh’s note. He might not be able to understand, but how were you not supposed to find that behavior a little relatable?

02:21 — Operator Drift / Override Trigger: Technician attempted to “smooth” locomotion with faster peristaltic cycle. Resulted in jitter. Action: Reverted to previous cycle; reintroduced 300 ms hesitation gate; jitter ceased. Annot.: Technician tendency to escalate pacing correlates with slight device impairment; recommend vigilance.I got too excited and sped it up.[K: “Operator escalation tendency observed.” Keep first person out of the record. Also, calm down.]

During the next motion test, You tried to make its movement look “smoother” by speeding up the internal squeeze pattern. That backfired — everything went jittery. You rolled the cadence back to the previous setting and put the small pause back in, and the motion stabilized. In short: when you push the pace past what the device can translate cleanly, it stutters; adding the pause keeps the rhythm readable. Kirsh rephrased your admission like he had been for the last few hours, and you understand the point: the log needs to be useful to someone who isn’t you. Still, the teasing reprimand is doing laps in your head — and, annoyingly, helping.

02:40 — Orientation Training Present warmth gradient to draw organism to within 5 mm of mesh; require 1.2 s dwell at standoff; withdraw gradient; repeat on variable intervals. Observation: Complies for three trials; on the fourth, advances past standoff and presses the mesh. Action: Introduce brief opposing microcurrent (0.6 mA, 180 ms), reduce local gradient by 0.5 celsius, and present a lateral target 15 degrees off-axis. Result: Disengagement within 2.7 s; re-establishes 5 mm standoff and resumes pathing on new vector; no agitation recorded. Annot.: You can train it to “hover” instead of touch;it sulks and then tries again.[K: No.]

You set up a warm “target” so it would come close to the mesh and hold there without touching. It followed the plan for three rounds, then pushed the boundary on the fourth and pressed the screen. You answered with a tiny opposing current, cooled that spot slightly, and offered a new warm target off to the side. It let go within a couple seconds and returned to hovering at the safe distance. In simple terms: you can teach it to approach and pause instead of making contact, and when it forgets, a gentle redirect fixes it fast. You scoff slightly when Kirsh crosses out your note. You get it: keep behavior, lose mood. You are learning to say what it did, not what you think it felt.

03:05 — Host Transition Simulation (No Actual Transfer) Closed primary entry; opened secondary “false lumen” 12 degrees off-axis; matched warmth slope; slight organic scent mimic (trace amino profile only). Observation: Ocellus follows gradient, tests mesh, then tracks to false lumen, pauses at threshold, retreats. Action: Add 0.1% flow; repeat cycle. Result: Threshold hesitation decreases; repeatable. Annot.: Theories on organism’s response to potential outside organisms remain valid.It wants to seek out hosts, but wants to be convinced.[K: You enjoy rhetoric. The organism does not.]

This test was meant to observe whether Ocellus would follow the impulse to leave when presented with signs of a potential host to switch to, without actually leaving the chamber. You shut the main socket and opened a second angled path with the same warmth pattern and a faint amino scent cue. It followed the heat, checked the surface, and paused at the new opening instead of pushing through. When you added a tiny flow, it hesitated less on the next rounds and repeated the behavior the same way. In simple terms: you can guide it toward a new exit and reduce its pause at the threshold with a small reward signal — no transfer needed. You maintained, regardless of any corrections, that it would only ever leave the current host if it was wholly convinced of a new organism’s arrival.

03:29 — Fatigue and Recovery Oxygen consumption rises; overall locomotor vigor dips 6%. Action: Induce rest state: steady peritoneal press simulation; dim lights; white-noise vent. Result: Consolidation; pseudo-sleep. Annot.: Rest windows prevent “fractal frustration” behaviors.It naps. [K: “Pseudorest state.” Technician: remember to hydrate your brain.]

It was interesting that this thing even needed oxygen — although you supposed most things did if they were able to exist on earth. You wondered if a future test might reveal that it requires a host to maintain oxygen levels.

For this test, you observed its oxygen use tick up and its movement get a little sloppy. So, you shifted the device into a calm mode: steady, even pressure, lights down in the lab. It pulled in toward the center and held still — no roaming, no pressing — essentially a controllable rest. You log it as a pseudorest state, and, yes, you take the hint embedded in the margin note to drink water (unsure of when you last did that) and slow your own pacing while you run it.

04:08 — Unscheduled Test: Startle Ethics Trigger: Lead operator snaps a gloved finger lightly against mesh support to test acoustic startle. Observation: Ocellus compresses, then rebounds, then resumes exploration toward heat source. Action: Technician added calming peristaltic pattern; unnecessary. Result: Organism self-corrects; technician over-support acknowledged. Annot.: Do not parent the specimen.I tried to soothe it.[K: “Overcorrection by operator.” You manage the experiment, you don’t comfort.]

You did a simple noise check. Or rather, Kirsh did one, randomly. He tapped the glass wall in one quick but firm motion to see if sound alone would spook it. Ocellus compressed for a moment, investigated, then recovered on its own and went back to baseline. You reflexively added a calming squeeze pattern, which wasn’t needed — the organism had already corrected. Takeaway: a brief startle doesn’t require intervention, just let the specimen handle it. You accepted it as overcorrection and reminded yourself you’re here to run conditions, not anticipate the organism's needs.

04:45 — Closing Procedures Mesh tension reduced; decoy temp brought to neutral; peristalsis to idle. Observation: Ocellus consolidates mid-chamber, then resumes slow perimeter patrol, as if to confirm limits. Action: End session. Maintain twilight mode to continue studying response to circadian rhythm. Result: No mesh damage, no pump alarms, sheep host within parameters. We did well. [K: “Trial successful. Proceed to v1.1 with minor adjustments.” If you require praise, request it explicitly.]

You powered the system down in stages: eased the mesh slack, returned temperature to neutral, and set the internal squeeze to idle. The organism roused, then turned slowly in its socket along the edge — like checking the fence — before settling again. You ended the run and left the room in its night setting to watch for any light-linked changes. Nothing tripped. The decoy’s vital systems remained steady.

You ecstatically began to punctuate the last test with a statement of accomplishment, and then Kirsh’s edit landed. Given verbally, like many others, but this time it was different. You felt this one in your gut. You smoothed the reaction down, logging the outcome in stricter terms while trying not to notice the way the comment fluttered under your ribs. With Kirsh’s signal, you locked the device, secured the code into standby mode, and packed up for your pilgrimage back to Lab Three.

ADDENDUM — DEVICE REVISIONS (v1)

Maintain movement allowance gate at 300–450 ms depending on approach velocity.

Reduce ridge temp differential to 0.2°C to avoid over-anchoring without flattening tactile curiosity.

Rename “apology” routine to “backflow recovery” globally.

Add lockout preventing Technician from increasing peristaltic cadence >5% without prompt.
 [K: Don’t pout. You accelerate when aroused by success. Build rails.]

Retain specimen’s responses to certain movement stimuli; randomly reward every third cycle to avoid dependency.

Replace lumen pump to avoid potential bubbling in future tests.

Add a grace period window for when the specimen is denied access or control of the decoy device. Neutral warmth post-refusal is sufficient for now.
 [K: Graded refusal remains superior to hard denial for this organism.]

OPERATOR’S PERSONAL NOTES (UNSENT)

05:21 — Session ended with device stable. Vitals and locomotion metrics within target.

K stood close enough to inspect my inputs in real time. No physical contact. I performed faster and with fewer errors under that level of supervision. Unknown whether this is simple task-focus or a response to his attention specifically.The decoy executed each code correctly upon command. I can now induce and extinguish behaviors with high reliability.

Working with K produces two parallel effects: 1) improved performance, attention to detail, initiative during experimentation; 2) elevated arousal/alertness that risks pacing errors (see 02:21 note). I am proud of the outcome and uneasy about the compulsion implied by #2.

Conclusion: the work benefits from supervision, obviously. However, I need guardrails so that supervisory proximity doesn’t dictate my rate or judgment. I’ll slow my cadence. Name what I am doing while I am doing it. Just don’t give me a reason for my fingers to twitch. |

[K: You left this open. Consider that evidence of fatigue, not devotion to the work. Your hands are faster than your judgment at this hour. That’s an error I can correct. Take tomorrow — return with hands that don’t tremble at the keys.] 

[court-jesterr]

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[pomdoeshisbest]

Requests: open (testing)

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Characters I'm currently interested in writing for:

BNHA:

🥦Deku aka Midoriya Izuku

⚡️Kaminari Denki

🪨Kirishima Eijiro

🗝Tokoyami Fumikage

🦅Hawks aka Keigo Takami

👾Amajiki Tamaki

🌃Aizawa Shouta

❄️🔥Todoroki Shouto

My OCs:

🪴Alchy, 28, tired and introverted half elf herbalist and drugstore owner. Passive vigilante. (xe/xer)

📈Urgbluk Skullcrush, 33, straight laced Orc accountant. Stressed and romantically dense. (he/him)

🩸Rowan/Yarrow, 24, reckless and delusional Human serial killer. Believes he is just. (he/they)

What I will write:

*Some NSFW (ask)

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*Character x reader

*X Male

*X Trans/Male

*X Non-binary

*Platonic x reader

*Poly

*AUs (ask)

What I won't write:

*Female or female aligned reader

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*Pedophilia

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