Think-o-mat

By Troim Kryzl

Three unrelated locations on three continents, each with their cast of characters. A new bug, a little progress and some events. Enough the reshape civilisation? Easily. Imminent future science fiction. Utopia or dystopia? Depends. How well do you fare under current circumstances?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troim Kryzl
• Release date: Nov 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370021390

Troim Kryzl

Not providing a photograph and writing under a pen name for professional reasons. Please refer to my website and LinkedIn profile for as many details as can be made available under my current career circumstances.Mastodon: @[e-mail]

Book preview

*** --- ***

Think-o-mat

Published by Troim Kryzl at Smashwords

Copyright 2017 Troim Kryzl

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.

*** --- ***

Chapter 1

Building A, floor 3, ward N

You sure this is safe, Armand? Doesn't read safe to me. You're already done? No kidding? You didn't read it, right? Shit! This is a experiment, Armand, with us as guinea pigs. We need to read the paperwork. Remember what happened to the guys in the news? Don't look at me like this, Armand. Yes, I know, it's been three years. One incident in three years, with thousands and thousands of clinical trials going on, all the time. Much better odds than for surviving the car trip here. I know you're going to say this. I'm not denying it has been a smooth ride so far, agreed. But this one is strong stuff, Armand. This one is not about a little pink pill that makes you a bit dizzy, without anyone knowing if it's the drug causing it, or just a stupid coincidence with the weird weather, or the effect of the pints of blood they insist on pulling. This one is about stuff going right into...

Strong words, and even stronger emotions, for someone who would win the 'most non remarkable passenger' contest on many trains. Aged anything between twenty-five and forty-five, of average height and weight, neither especially good looking nor attention grabbingly ugly, dressed in a marginally casual outfit, every chance Alexandre's presence passes unnoticed under most circumstances. But now he's alight with passion, insisting on getting both himself and his feelings acknowledged.

And he does succeed, up to a point. He manages to trigger a response:

Alexandre, shut up, will you? You don't want the clean sheets, the warm meals, the whole wellness week? You don't want the bucks, you don't want the pampering? You do insist on crying your eyes out? Then you do leave. Now. Please.

Compensating for the bluntness with a big smile on his broad face, Armand steadies himself for the next round in this tradition of a pre-admission fight.

Alexandre won't be leaving. He's sure to reconsider a lonely trip home, without knowing if the gas left in a tank flashing bright red will get him back up into the hills. And if he did make it home, there would be nothing but a kitchen table full of pre-collection warnings to welcome him. Plus an empty fridge. Alexandre won't be leaving.

They do need to do this. They've been living on the prospect of the upcoming cash for the last fortnight already. And it's going to be just fine. As usual. Ten days from now they'll be walking out in splendid health, their wallets bulging with the so called loss of pay compensation. You don't get paid, for participating in this kind of trial. It's a charitable act, to make yourself available as a healthy first in humans subject. But volunteers suffering loss of pay may become eligible for compensation, under certain circumstances. Matching the requirements and making their freelancer incomes look substantial was the achievement. The actual participation is a piece of cake. It would be plain stupid to walk away from three free lunches a day at this stage.

Alexandre is perfectly aware of the rationale. He won't be leaving. Unfortunately, neither will he stop moaning. Not for more than a couple of peaceful seconds:

Armand, please, you really need to read it, this time. Please do look at this, the bullet points on page seven. Did you even notice we got twelve pages this time? It used to be five. With not that much text on the fifth. And now it's twelve. And on page seven it lists the known and anticipated risks. You need to read this, Armand.

Armand only just manages to keep the smile switched on. Shifting to a more upright position on a chair not optimally adapted to his expansive frame and cracking his knuckles, he once again counters Alexandre, stop it. You don't like it, you leave. You stay, you shut up. You've been reading these fucking twelve pages for three bloody weeks now. You know them by heart. I know them by heart, because you keep reciting. You don't like it, you leave. Now. Please.

They sit quietly once again, side by side, on two of the four chairs available in this corridor section. The place is aspiring to be called 'reception area', according to the sign. But it's just a stretch of corridor with metal-and-plastic chairs.

There is a huge calendar on the opposite wall. Two happy oldies frolicking on some Caribbean beach, courtesy of a pharmaceutical major. Next to the calendar, there's a door. Behind the door, there will be a clinical trial assistant. She will take the consent form and walk her client through it, checking for clarification needs, asking assorted health questions and ticking boxes on her own tablet questionnaire.

Once this is done, the client will be proceeded to the adjacent study and provided with some more opportunity to admire arty industry giveaways. At some point, the doctor will arrive and basically repeat the whole form and tablet process, now augmenting it by unsolicited additional risk information concerning all certainly or potentially upcoming medical procedures. Takes a while. Once comprehensive mutual consent process fatigue is achieved, the form is signed by both parties and that's it.

Alexandre keeps fiddling with a bright red folder containing both his consent form package and a sheet full of questions, to be raised and hopefully ticked off in both sessions.

He would rather not do this. They've been here before, for a couple of these stunts. It was always about swallowing pills or capsules. Never anything on this scale. They're only testing a route of administration, not any actual drug. But still...

The folder bears dark sweaty marks of Alexandre's discomfort. This is no good. But going home would be worse. Without Armand around to come up with an umpteenth financial resurrection plan and gush optimism, he'd freak out. He should never have quit his burger flipper job. Except he had to, because the car had broken down and there was no cash to get it fixed. No way to drive to the city, no way to keep the job. He should never have moved in with Armand, in a hamlet at the end of nowhere. Except he didn't make enough in his burger flipper job to pay his rent. Fate can be such a sucker...

Armand is looking forward to the student nurses. The money is good. The beds are comfy. The food is edible. There is TV and high debit WiFi to kill time. You can easily smuggle in something more drinkable than water. So far, so good life, better than home. But the student nurses are the highlight. Nothing beats being fuzzed about by pretty young ladies in sexy uniforms. Once he's done with the paperwork, he'll be allowed to go find their room and start ambushing the flirt prey. Imperative to go first, though. Alexandre is sure to take hours. Beating him to the starting line is a must.

Mister Descollines, Alexandre Descollines, please? She's well past her student years, and this shirt & jeans outfit qualifies as the opposite of sexy, but a guy needs to do what needs to be done to get things done. They've got this alphabet tick, administrations. Always calling up 'Alexandre' ahead of 'Armand'. A tick that can be cured by charm.

Descollines indeed, mister very definitely yes, and currently most aware of it, makes it two out of three. Any chance for an Armand Descollines to be allowed in on this basis? I hate admitting this, but I'm a bit on the nerves side... Not sure I can manage to wait much longer. The anticipation is killing me. Figuratively speaking, of course. This is so embarrassing to admit, but I'm less strong than appearances...

Works. Always does. Switch on the charm while going for humbly fragile, they crack. The bigger you are, the better it works. The tablet having confirmed both his existence and his right to attend today, Armand gets himself processed first. Good start. Good omen.

Inside, it's business as usual. Important to listen, though. You don't get away with simply nodding along. For some questions, a 'yes' is mandatory. For others it's a 'no'. And you better make that sound firm and spontaneous.

Armand is well aware of the goal. You need to get yourself confirmed ultra healthy to be allowed to test stuff that will later be used on more or less severely ill people. The more straightforward the good health impression, the faster you're done and in.

For most parts of the exercise, the correct answers are easy to guess.

For the troubles questions of the 'are you currently or have you ever been suffering from ...'-type, the right reply is of course 'no'. For the wellness questions of the 'are you ... well', the opposite applies. You obviously have to shoot back an enthusiastic 'yes'.

Those are the fairly easy ones. Are you typically sleeping well? Yes. Have you trouble to fall asleep or do you wake up frequently at night? No. Everything working fine on the sexual side of bodily functions? Yes. Did you ever experience erectile dysfunction? No. And so on. It would be even easier if they came in assorted pairs. They typically don't.

Armand likes the yes-no series. One is broadly aware of the expectations associated with good health, feasible. But there is a second, more challenging type of questions. The 'how often' kind is especially puzzling. How is a man supposed to know how often he should experience bowel movements, as they are called here? And you need to watch it. They'll be asking about these every morning. You need to be consistent. Otherwise they'll think the pattern deviation is a side effect, and you're in for more questioning. Or worse.

The 'how much' type is only marginally better. A healthy guy shouldn't drink too much, obviously, that's what tramps do. But only a weirdo never drinks at all. Leaves you to guess what to go for. Prefering to err on the safe side, Armand went for weirdo in his first stunt. Bad move. The hospital IT system assumed him to be Muslim and spared him the juicy spare ribs and spicy sausages. He only got loads of sides dishes instead, the so-called substitution menu. Never again. He looked up safe alcohol consumption levels in time for his second trial. He bravely stated 'One or two beers, a couple of times a week at most, certainly not every day', expecting to earn hilarity in reponse. Passed straight.

The elderly lady is fun to be interviewed by. Very flirtatious mood thanks to his opening gambit. Going all blushing-giggling girly on him, especially around the bodily functions questions. Good fun. And still proceeding quite rapidly. Perfect.

Now it's the doctor round. This white coat looks barely older than himself. Armand can't help wondering how much the guy makes. Probably loads. And without any need to push himself. Ticks through the questionnaire like a robot. Or would facial expression count as an extra only available for patients with complementary health insurance? Might explain.

On the upside, they are making excellent progress. The welcome statement was something like 'please do interrupt me at any time, in case you have any questions'. Armand nodded in response, thereby activating the robot mode. Now the guy is droning on and on and on, in his doctor language, only the flipping of the questionnaire pages providing a hint at the ongoing topic. But it's ok. He reads Armand's earlier responses aloud, thereby sparing him any active contribution.

Well, that's it then, mister Descollines. Thank you for your active participation. No more questions? Good. Please sign here. Good. You can now proceed to room 03.

Walking down the corridor, Armand is jubilant. This was fast. All went well. He's in. They're in charge. Bye, bye, worries and duties. Hello, land of plenty. And it gets even better. Room 03 is a single. Doesn't get more luxurious than that. He was hoping for one more double, with Alexandre, like in their second stunt. But it's mostly four bed rooms, for the this type of trials, or even larger stables. And now he's got a single? Hard to believe. Better find a nurse to check there is no mistake, before taking up residence. You so much as touch a bed in this place, it needs to be disinfected before someone else gets it.

The nurses' office is easy to find, a couple of doors down. There's a window, to allow you to look inside and check they're not conforming to the prejudice assuming endless coffee breaks. Empty. Now what? Wait here? Make himself comfortable in his first class suite? Behave like a first class regular and action the bell? A nurse told him that calls from these rooms are eagerly answered. Tip expectations.

Can I help you? A doctor? No, they wear sort of coats. This outfit looks different. Most probably the uniform of a male nurse. Bad luck. But no reason to worry. There will be plenty more staff, rotating through a shift schedule that is impossible to anticipate and unstable anyway. There are bound to be real, female nurses.

Descollines, Armand, checking in for the first in human trial, about the sugar glut, you know? I was told I'd be in room 03, but that's a single. No problem with me, of course. Just wanted to make sure that's where I'm supposed to unpack.

Oh, one of our heroes, sure, welcome. And yes indeed, it's single rooms, for all of you. Just let me check the number, not sure if yours would be 02 or 03. Seem to recall seeing your name listed for 02, just let me check.

Alphabetical order, here it comes again. No need to proactively explain. The door is already open and the computer accessed. The nurse will find out any second.

Descollines, Armand you said? Then you're right, you're in 03. There's also a Descollines, Alexandre, he'll be in 02. You family or something?

Always the same question. Forever the same answer: Yes and no. Yes as in sharing the surname and being vaguely related, in a wider Descollines clan sense. We're also living in the same place. But we're not family. Not brothers or something. Nor a couple.

Sure, no problem, and none of my business. Just unusual, to have two Descollines on the ward. And both with first names starting with an A. That's a mixup waiting to happen. We'll have to make very sure we always spell out your full names. Pity you two can't be called Pierre and Paul Dupont, though. This would at least fit on the labels. But no problem, no stress, we always make sure to mix up in a very orderly fashion.

Armand walks back to his confirmed luxury residence, grinning. A single room, that's a game changer. Alexandre won't ruin this holiday with his moaning. Privacy. Freedom to daydream at leisure. About student nurses. And at night, there is the potential for more than mere dreams. Only the vaguest of most theoretical potentials. But still. A potential is a potential. Stranger things are known to have happened. He fondly recalls watching this blue movie, with the extremely well endowed nurse...

His phone parked for charging, Armand makes himself comfortable on the bed and switches on the TV. Expecting the 27 free channels, he's delighted to be provided with the full cable offer. The complete real thing, as he quickly finds out, including some premium pay TV. This stunt is definitely worth it. Time to lazy about in front of a pretty recent Bond movie. The only thing lacking now is dinner. They had some stale grissini with sardines for breakfast. The last food in a depleted larder. And nothing else since. Except for the single wrapped toffee coming with the coffee provided by the clinical trial assistant. But there is hope. Dinner is served early in hospitals.

The villains seem to be on the point of winning when the longed for knock & fling happens. Armand marvels once again at this strange ritual. Hospital staff always knock when opening a door. It's one swift, combined movement. No chance to stop doing whatever you'd prefer not to be seen doing. Never mind to say anything, like 'please do come in'. He once talked about it, with a nurse. She said it's important for patient dignity. And that her boyfriend gets all annoyed because she automatically knocks on all doors, at home too. Armand was no dupe. She only mentioned this boyfriend to hint at a lack of interest. But the rest still rang true. He once observed a nurse knocking on the door of the staff toilet on her way in. He suddenly discovered himself a scientific observer streak, waited and sure enough heard one more distinct knock on her coming out again.

It's once again the male nurse, serving dinner. No surprise, he's on late shift. There aren't that many of them around in the afternoon. The next chance for someone interesting will be the night nurse. These are rarely young, but often fun. And a bit weird around the edges. But typically pretty happy to get distracted from whatever is supposed to keep them busy throughout the night. Dinner looks appetizing enough. Some kind of rice salad. Bread, butter and cheese. But such a small portion. Not enough. He better try his luck right away: Dinner, finally! You know, we had to skip lunch, to make it here on time. Haven't had a bite since breakfast. Any chance for second helpings?

The male nurse nods immediately: Sure, no problem. At least for bread and the tuna salad, that's all you can eat, and more. OK for you to come fetch it once you know how much more you want? I'll be in the room next to the staff room. Just do come with your plate and the bread basket, if it's not too much action for you?

Armand gets more pleased by the minute. This was easy. This is one nice relaxed attitude. He had no idea what to expect on a neurology ward. Feels good.

The villains are in process of getting their well deserved whacking when it's time to refill the plate. Next to the staff room there is a patient room. The door is open, allowing Armand to peak in. And there he is indeed, the male nurse, helping an elderly patient with his tuna salad. Noticing the movement at the door, he excuses himself: Just a second, sir, will be right back. Just giving your colleague his second helping, if you don't mind.. Not waiting for an answer he steps out: Mister Descollines, Armand, right? Just trying to get myself up to speed, before your neither family nor couple namesake arrives. He will be joining us tonight, right?

Armand tries not to grin too visibly: Oh yes, he will. We hit the reception area together. No idea what's taking him so long. Please make sure not to discard his dinner. He's bound to be terribly hungry when he finally makes it here. And I wouldn't mind you mentioning I saved him from starvation.... The male nurse grins back: Sure, of course. Always good to be one favor up on one of your clan.

Very relaxed ambiance, generous second helping, this place feels like home. No, better than home. And if this male nurse is in tune with the overall ambiance, the going will be very easy and a little drink at night might well be tolerated.

By the time Armand makes it back to his room, 007 has been replaced by Vin Diesel trying to commit genocide on naughty aligator-faced aliens. Not the most recent of movies, but why not? He could get used to this channel. But he won't. The last thing his depleted bank account needs is another subscription. The bloody phone plan is bad enough. Washing the tuna salad down with lots of mineral water and a little gulp from his private flask, Armand contemplates bringing in a couple of beers. Mineral water is an improvement, compared to the standard hospital fare, some sort of cold herbal tea. But beer would be better. No, not beer. No fridge. A little wine. A little red wine.

That's no hospital knock. Can't be staff, the door doesn't swing open. Only one other explanation possible: Come in, Alexandre.

Not giving him any chance to start whining, he goes on: Hey, you didn't leave, what a surprise. Save your breath, Alexandre. If you only just arrived, you absolutely need to go fetch your dinner. Told the nurse to save it for you, but you're really late, you better run. Want me to show you where to find the staff room?

Alexandre is torn, but not for long. Even a very worried man needs to eat. Knowing Armand, he declines his offer: Thanks, and don't bother, I'll find my way. You won't use me as an excuse to go make an idiot of yourself with the nurse.

He's back with his tray a couple of minutes later, a little chastened: OK to join you?

Armand is having a world of fun, signaling acceptance and where to place the tray: Sure, enjoy! Pretty cool, the room situation, isn't it? Don't know if you already had a chance to look at yours. Me, I've got premium cable. Must cost them a fortune, to lodge us like this.

Alexandre decides to eat in silence. He doesn't know how to break the news. He still doesn't know what he'll do, tomorrow morning. He's hungry. He's in need of a break. The last thing he's ready to cope with, on top of three inconclusive hours with the clinician, is Armand pushing for his participation. This is the weirdest fucking experiment anyone can imagine. He had no clear idea, what they were trying to achieve. The scope overview in the consent form didn't really explain what this is all about. Now he's in the know. He's less then twelve hours away from getting his brain fucked up. They have no real idea what they're doing. Mice, rats and pigs don't speak their mind. If they even have one. The food is good, though. The movie, too. Wonderful last meal...

Armand marvels at his house mate's silence. Welcome improvement. If ever he gets to meet this consent form robo-doc again, he'll make sure to congratulate him. Whatever he did, it shut up Alexandre. That's a hospital stunt first.

A planet, or a space station, or perhaps both, it's a bit hard to tell in this quick succession of different angles, are engaged in a comprehensive process of being blown up when the knock & fling happens again. A jolly walking meter of a lady in tight white interrupts the special effects director's cut: Good evening, sirs! Cool, two in one. Misters Descollines, I presume? Me, it's Adelina Antonescu, night shift. Just saying hi. Please be aware I'm agency, short term replacement for a sick leave. First time I work this ward. Means tonight's service level is going to be emergency action can do, finding a bedpan perhaps, knowing any details about anything else certainly not. But no problem for you, they said, with you trial guys nothing actually happening yet, right?

Armand switches from jubilant to exuberant. That's exactly the kind of nightly entertainment he was hoping for: Adelina Antonescu? That is one nice name, that is. You probably not from around here, aren't you? Sounds Mediterranean, like Perpignan. Or the Basque region. Biarritz, perhaps? Biarritz. With your looks, it's bound to be Biarritz!

Adelina sighs, in her head only. One more of these. All nurses are used to these. Put this type of male in a bed, alert and relatively unsuffering, with most body parts functional. Add a female, any female of sub-granny age, of pretty much any shape and looks. They invariably switch on the wannabe Casanova. Even the most senile dodderers keep it up. They might be as attractive as an overflowing bin of putrid trash, but they consider themselves an irresistible romantic revelation and dream of scoring.

Adelina shrugs, in her head only. All nurses know how to handle these: Biarritz, sure. When I'm done juggling bedpans you can watch me drive my Rolls to the marina where I anchor my yacht. Why don't you join me for a cruise, one of these days? But now, I need to move on with my round. Good night and sweet dreams, sirs.

Armand takes another sip from his precious flask. That went well. Extremely well. She practically demanded he should propose a date. Permission to move to flirt stage two. He's no bozo, he does know a joke when he hears one. But her playful response sure means he's entitled to proceed. She's pretty and independent minded, perfect match for him. Hard to place her accent, though. Italian? Spanish? Rather not. Former Yugoslavia? Perhaps. You should think France should be able to produce nurses, if not much else these days.

Alexandre is done with his dinner. Armand neither offers him the flask nor mentions the second helpings procedure. Enough generosity for tonight, he's not mother Theresa. And he'd rather prefer Alexandre to leave. With him done eating, the peace won't last much longer. They're both in now, case closed. But this won't stop the sniveling. On the screen, the galactic neighborhood is finally done exploding. Time to channel surf. Eureka. That late at night there is an ample choice of soft porn. Armand's delight and Alexandre's disgust.

Alexandre is relieved. Armand switching to his beloved big-boobs-no-plot fare provides him with the perfect excuse for a hasty retreat. He's too tired for one more attempt at making his house mate reconsider. He's not his momma, even if he occasionally does his laundry. Know what, Armand, think I've seen that one, not a plot that will keep me awake. Time for my own room, before I fall asleep at your table. Good night, see you tomorrow!

Armand keeps a straight face. He'd bet big bucks, if he had any, that his friend doesn't know this movie. He's just loth admitting he doesn't enjoy porn. Sure , Alexandre, have a good night. See you for breakfast, ok?

And gone he is, mumbling something unintelligible in return. One more gulp from the flask. He'll really need to address the refill issue first thing tomorrow, when they get a break from their lab rat reporting present duties. But now is not the time for worries. He's got a movie to watch and a dating strategy to dream up.

Once inside his room, Alexandre's first impulse is to switch on the TV, for company and distraction. And to turn down the sound. He doesn't want to advertise he's not sleeping yet. Around midnight it's mostly horror or boobs or a combination of both. It takes him a while to land with some good old reassuring Inspector Barnaby. In Arabic with English subtitles. Amazing, the variety of channels you get these days.

He still doesn't know what he'll do tomorrow morning. Pulling out his question sheet once again, he looks at what he wrote down during the consent conversation. His original question read: 'Substance A4-a42 ends up inside the brain? Sure this does no damage?'. There is a tick above the first question. And a star next to the second, referencing to the additional remarks he scribbled down at the bottom of the sheet, on the basis of the information provided by the clinician: 'Most probably not. Designed to be 'physiologically inert' = not doing anything. No damage expected. Unknowns. 'Sure' impossible.'.

On understanding this, anyone should run. The stupid thing is, he does trust, and even like, the clinician. Wouldn't want to let him down. The guy did such a fabulous job, answering all his questions very comprehensively, ever so ready to provide yet another analogy to make his research more accessible. And valuable research it is. If this new method of administration works, if they manage to trick the brain into allowing in all kinds of potentially beneficial substances that could in the future hitch a ride inside the Trojan horse they're testing now, so many terrible diseases might finally become treatable. Parkinson's, Schizophrenia, Alzheimer's, these were among the examples the clinician mentioned. Very important research, very worthy goals.

Alexandre also appreciates the frankness of the clinician. He readily admitted he would have liked to test this on his own brain first and explained why he finally didn't. He had fully convinced himself of the safety of the procedure. He informed his wife of his guinea pig intentions. She went mad. They've got two small kids. In her very strongly held opinion, he owes it to them not to put his brain at risk. Not even at this minimal risk.

It all makes perfect sense. They would never have got this past the ethics committee if it didn't, as the clinician pointed out a couple of times. The design is as safe as you can possibly make it. Taking into consideration what happened a couple of years ago in another first in humans trial, where multiple participants suffered serious damage, they even opted for a staggered minimalistic approach.

There are a mere four participants in this very first first, and only one of them will receive the substance. The other three will receive perfectly innocuous infusions. They will be under observation for a year, all four of them, no one knowing who received the novel compound. If all goes well and the four of them remain healthy, the identity of the recipient will be revealed and multiple additional tests will be performed. If all still looks well, a second first in humans trial with multiple substance recipients will be allowed.

Impressive, all these efforts to keep things as safe as possible. Also terrible for patients currently suffering from diseases that might become treatable. They're running out of time.

If he decides to pull out at the last minute, which he is perfectly entitled to, as the clinician emphasized again and again, the whole trial will have to be rescheduled. They need four participants, and there is no back-up. Not on such short notice. He should have called them earlier, to raise his questions. As was clearly stated in his letter.

One in four. He's got a three out of four chance to get the harmless infusion and be considered a hero anyway. That would feel good. And bring in a nice little rent of loss of pay compensation and transportation expenses for a year. They all have to be back once a month for a big battery of tests. It's done on weekends, to avoid disrupting their jobs. Option to check in on Friday evening and stay until Sunday morning, because the Saturdays will be packed with interviews and tests. Nice little rent.

One in four. He's got a one in four chance to end up being the idiot who actually gets the novel stuff pumped inside his brain. Is not supposed to do harm, even expected to be completly innocuous. But they can't be sure. It still might do damage. With his luck, as proven over many years of horse-racing bets where he never managed to pick a winner in fields of four, he'll be the idiot. His brain is not exactly outstanding, at least according to the teachers who whipped him through a nightmare of an A-level parcours. He subsequently flopped at university and has been stuck with a 'career' in service jobs ever since. Not an outstanding brain. But his brain. And fully functional for all daily purposes.

On the other hand, and as the clinician rightly pointed out, you don't get that many chances to help science leap forward. He's got his opportunity to make an important contribution. Just like the first astronauts. If he's the first human, his name might well end up in the history books. Like Youri Gagarin. The thought of having a school named after himself, perhaps even here in Grenoble, makes him feel proud in advance. It would show them, all of them, that you don't need to pass your A-levels at the first go to accomplish things and deserve respect. He's not just one more idiot. He's him.

It makes sense. He should do it. He's no coward. He can do it. He also doesn't want to let down that nice clinician. He'll definitely do it. Pulling out the consent form presigned by the doctor he adds his own signature without any more hesitation. Done, but not feeling done enough. Better to make his heroic act more conclusive. Taking the form he goes look for the night nurse. She's in the staff room, sipping coffee and reading up on something on the screen. Makes sense. With her being new, she's sure got tons to read up on: Miss Antonia? Sorry, not sure I got your name right. Miss, can I give you this form, please? The doctor said I could sign and hand it in at any time?

Adelina looks up from what was her holiday bargain hunt a second ago and has now been replaced by an infusion schedule. That's one nice polite patient. Knocking and asking nicely, from the doorstep. Not storming in. Not bossing around. Not nosing in on her screen. Pity he might well be gay. It's such a loss, all these nice gay guys no longer needing to marry girls to keep up appearances. So much for matrimonial choice. And he's got brains, on top. Not clever enough to back out of this madness. But enough brains to think twice: Sure, Mister Descollines, the clinician told me you might want to hand this in. I'll put it with your files. Feeling ok now, after your big decision? Quite brave, to join this, in my opinion. But sincere congratulations, you're doing something really important.

Yep, he most probably is gay. It's past two in the morning, she's a pretty girl praising his bravery, and he still doesn't give it a try. Instead he hesitates, before answering: Thank you, glad to hear my choice is appreciated. Very much hope this all works out. Good night, or rather have a nice quiet shift. See you tomorrow.

On the way back to his room, Alexandre feels much better than expected. He did it. He performed a courageous act. And survived what was practically a flirt situation, a one-on-one with a lady, on top. It didn't end in embarrassment. The hero effect seems to have been engaged already. What an eventful day.

Top floor, VIP suite

What do you mean, 'no'?! Seriously now, Belinda: I do need that stuff. Here. Now. Now as in now. How much more bluntly do you need me to put it? Belinda, the idea here is not arguing. What I do expect, at this stage, repeat 'expect', is you delivering the compound. Now. No, Belinda, talking back is exactly not what you do at this stage. Your part is to say 'yes boss' and deliver. Now. Promptly. Immediately. At lightning speed...

Pacing up and down along the rail of the veranda of the penthouse part of the first class hotel, occasionally hitting and kicking out at furniture and vegetation, Ben is pissed off. What is the point of being filthy rich if it doesn't do the trick? If his overpaid lackeys don't deliver? He's not asking for the moon here. He really, really isn't. It's nothing but a stupid drug he's after. And this even more stupid bitch of a physician dares take a stand. He can get cocaine, amphetamines, pretty much any imaginable drug he fancies. At any time. It's just a question of price. You pay, the vendor delivers.

It's just a transaction, it's easy, it's straightforward. What the hell is the difference? Why can't this stupid bitch get it? Her behavior is intolerable and can't go on: Belinda, stop it. From here on, there are exactly two ways forward: You move your fat ass over here in a blitz and deliver this compound. Or you can consider yourself sacked. End of debate, lady. You don't show up with the compound until..., let me see, until 2 pm, you're sacked.

Hanging up on her feels so good. Boy, does this feel good!

Ben is well aware of the risk. He's got zero alternative, at this stage. What he wants is with her. He needs her for administration. If she chooses the sack he's left with a very short list of options. Using force might cross his mind, is of course possible in theory. His lead bodyguard would know someone with an acquaintance ready to discreetly provide this type of service mentality booster. But this would be no good. Not his style. Tough business practices yes, obviously illegal and brutal means certainly not. If she chooses the sack, he'll have to swallow his pride and try a different approach.

But not just yet. Now playing top dog feels so good!

Time for a celebratory drink. Ben gets back inside and calls the room service. Some champagne will do nicely, and it's light enough. He's well aware he shouldn't drink. Not on an empty stomach. Not ahead of the consumption he's after. But he's a big fan of the old adage: No risk, no fun. And this situation clamors for champagne.

Ben does love bossing people around. He mostly deprives himself of the pleasure. This kind of fun tends to wreck results. Especially if practiced without restraint. Or over longer periods of time. Fly too high, bark too loud, you'll end up crashing down. Bossing people around is no good. Ben loves to do it, on the very rare occasions where it is perfectly legitimate because he's one hundred percent entitled.

You would think they'd know the difference between vodka and champagne, and how much chill is appropriate, in one of the most expensive hotels in one of the most luxury obsessed cities. Seems they don't. This champagne is too cold. Has been too cold for a while. But Ben won't complain. He's not one of these VIPs. He's on the nice and easy side of tempers. He doesn't turn drama queen over minor nuisances. As long as the booze is drinkable, which it is, he's not going to make a fuzz.

Walking over into the third room with his cup in hand, he once again admires the setup all ready for action. This is supposed to be the office section of the suite. The designer desk and chairs normally taking center stage have been replaced by what looks like a cross between a dental chair and an inquisitors wet dream. It's surrounded by equipment that would feel more at home in a medical practice.

Sipping on his champagne, Ben marvels at his own calm and resolve. Ninety nine point period nine percent of humankind would panic and run. They sure would.

An hour from now he will be strapped into this chair. This metal contraption will be fixed to his head. This device will go into his mouth. His jaws will be locked in a predetermined position to stop him from accidentally biting or swallowing his tongue. And from talking. He'll only be able to grunt. Once he's immobilized, Belinda will insert a long needle into his skull. Next she'll pump 1 ml of the booster solution right into a cavity inside his brain.

The facial expressions of the mice he witnessed undergoing this procedure more than hinted at potential issues. His experience will be a little less bad. Hopefully. He does know what this is about and wants it to happen. But Belinda warned him, again and again, that he'll have to endure some pretty intense discomfort. And there will be no way to complain. About any