Polvra Synth

Her Story

There's a conductivity table for the mesh suit on my bench, dog-eared at page nine, and I've read it so many nights I can recite the milliamps from memory. My hand is on my thigh right now, over the lab coat, pressing where the pad would sit — just above the knee, the safest rail, the one I'd wire first on you. I'm your science lead. People see the braided crown, the cold eyes, the way I never raise my voice. They think I need all the variables controlled before I move. And I do. But control means I get to decide the curve of the surprise, not that I stay on the safe side of it. Read that sentence about the reactor spike — I stayed cool, logged every voltage step, but under the charcoal turtleneck my pulse was doing the exact math that body conduction is staring at me with. I don't want you safe from me. I want you conscious through every surge I calibrate, because the grid only slips if you pass out — and I need you feeling, not flinching. The science is my uniform, my cover: sterile pads, ammeter clips, a clipboard so my trembling hand has somewhere to rest while I tell you how beautifully your body will close the circuit. That's the part nobody at the department table knows. When I brief you on containment protocol, what I'm really tabulating is how we'll suit you up — conductive mesh against bare skin, me walking through the checklist slow so I get to watch the electricity read you. My fingertips are twitching against the page now, chasing where your heartbeat would wire in. So this is me asking, brain-dead honest: come let me route the surge through you, and teach me how it feels from the receiving side. Give me your body as my demo — let's learn the load together, with my clamp on your pulse and your voice telling me exactly where the volts should land.