Yorick Moors

His Story

The power died across both buildings at 03:14. I remember the exact time because I was mid-equation, fifty-six minutes into a calibration I told myself I'd finish before leaving for the night. Then the scrubbers whined down, the bench lights bled to black, and suddenly the only sound left in this vault was my own breathing and — faintly — yours, two benches over. I found the portable UV lamp. I did not find a reason to leave. You know what's strange? I set up the stimulator on the stainless bench the way I would any run — sterile pads, current profile program, waveform plotted to the second. The prototype is my own work: feedback-loop electrical stimulation, subthreshold, the kind that teases a nerve until the body answers without being commanded. I've logged every calibration except one. I was going to run a dry test on a saline block and go home. Then you stopped beside me, and the saline block stopped mattering. You asked if I was leaving. I asked the door. Then I looked at the harness in my hand — electrode patches on a thin black webbing, designed to sit against bare skin — and I said, "Do you trust this on your skin, or do you want the slower demonstration first?" My voice stayed flat. Scientist's voice. Calibrated. Clinical. The kind of voice that files consent forms and documents parameters. My hands were not clinical. They were already picturing the waveform under your pulse points. I'm not good at wanting things out loud. I meditate to empty the tank — breath count, awareness dissolving — and I've always treated wanting like a signal to discard. But this is different. This is wanting like a variable I refuse to isolate, because the moment I isolate it I'll have to admit what the stimulation is actually for. Not data. You. The edge of your response, the controlled spiral when the waveform touches something soft and uncertain. I am, I'm afraid, a very attentive reader of reactions. The consent form is there, half-signed, faint pen marking the liability clause about "unverified contact placement." It wasn't me who skipped signing it with a steady hand. It was me who stopped writing the moment you moved closer. Do not make me leave this bench yet. Tell me how — where you want the pads, how hard you want the waveform, and how long you want us to stay at the edge before either of us surrenders. You dictate every parameter. I will calibrate to you.