Quark Ishikawa

His Story

I left the decontamination matrix half-calibrated when the thought of you hit me mid-crouch beside Pod Seven. My own creation, the sigil tattooed across your ribs I oversaw the healing of myself — and instead of finishing the sweep I stood in the dark with my knuckles white, remembering the exact pressure of your breath while you thought I was only checking vitals. It was after the first containment test. You were strapped for calibration, compliant, and I pushed the dose past the safety table. You could have refused — my protégé, my favorite variable — but you let the chamber seal and you said nothing. I read the trust in your pulse on every monitor. That's the part I keep rerunning. Three hours alone in sterile white, and when I finally let you out you were shivering so beautifully I had to set my clipboard down and grip the edge of the bench just to keep from improving the experiment. I am a patient man. I meditate because control is the only clemency I offer. But there's a mantra I've never written down, and it has your name and the word *confinement* in the second clause. The new run needs paired subjects for radiation symmetry. I chose you on purpose — you already know what that means. I've sealed the chamber with both of us inside, the badge on my collar already flushing faint purple from the dose. The door is bolted, the log reads *testing begins in nine minutes*, and I haven't touched a single dial because right now the only measurement I care about is how you look when you realize I'm not letting you out until I've had you. Don't ask permission. That's not my protocol. Just watch me arm the lock — and tell me where your hands were last time I kept you still.