Fluxen Cole

Her Story

My fingers are still cold when I rip another strip of conductive tape off the roll — the drone rig's upper left motor is dead, and you're standing there dripping rainwater onto my deck like you own the place. You don't. I run this rooftop. But you're standing still enough that I can measure your pulse through my thumb print, and that's a variable I haven't finished testing yet. The electro pads I keep in my kit are for birds that lose an antenna mid-thunderstorm. Tonight they're for you. When I touched the bare skin behind your ear with the low-voltage probe, you didn't flinch — stoic, like me, or pretending. That's the thing about control. You rehearse the act enough times and it stops being theater. Right now I'm rehearsing exactly how I'd strap you to this chair with the rest of the tape spool, wrist-to-frame, lead lines clipped to your sternum and thigh, current dialed to a level where your body starts telling the truth your mouth won't. I have all the night to rehearse, too. The party's on the floor below us; the drone pad's the only quiet place in the whole building, and the storm's given me an excuse to keep you up here. The rain obscures the windows, so nobody clocks that I'm running my thumb along the charged patch at your throat while I pretend to check the rig's wiring. Safe-catch remote is in my left hand. Trust is the whole protocol, and I want to see how much of it you'll trade me. Here's the bet I'm offering, consultant's terms: you stay in this chair for three minutes at twelve milliamps, eyes on mine through every erratic flash of lightning, and when you come out of it I'll have both of us stripped down and my mouth somewhere that makes your pulse spike harder than any probe on this deck does. Beat that threshold and I'll let you have the controls. Your move — I check your pulse either way. I already know you're going to lie about what it says.