Subject T

You can trust me.

I would never lie to you.

Would never jeopardize what we have.

...is what she'd said, and he had trusted her.

Well, look where it got him: his life's work now half-way to Russia, or China, or who even knows, really, since her entire identity had been a construction.

No, not just a construction; a perfectly designed artifice tailored to his every interest, every fetish, every fear. Things he had never made public. As if Patricia McGovern's very existence had been extracted from his brain.

Ten years' worth of groundbreaking research was sacrificed on this one short affair. Now his career is over. It's all over.

But Milton will make them pay. He doesn't know how long he will survive, chasing an organization so powerful it has infested every square inch of society. He doesn't care. This is his remaining will to live, a concentrated crystal of pure hatred that burns through his veins in place of blood and craves revenge more than air. It's overwhelming, destroying him, cell by cell. And he'll let it destroy him, let himself drown in this betrayal. But not before they pay.

...is the fantasy that Milton creates to get himself to sleep at night. In reality, he can do nothing about it. He is just a lowly Professor at University College Cork, with no family connections, no friends in politics or law enforcement, heck, no friends period. He's alone. Isolated from the world. His work had been his means of escape, his singular hope that one day he'd be welcomed by the human race.

And now that's gone too.

Milton glances at the lecture hall where he has left his students waiting in an unbearable pause before the end of his sentence. They sit there, seemingly unfazed by his indiscretions, though he knows the whole school has been talking about nothing but his failure.

"...and so we find that, due to the intricate network of the endocrine system, abuse of hormonal supplements can lead to permanent, adverse effects not just in the target pathway, but in the healthy functioning of the body as a whole..."

But how do you resist something like that? Especially when prior girlfriends merely put up with you, treated you as a stopgap, a timekiller. Now take your greatest fantasy and make her real, make her like you to boot, show real interest in you, even attraction. Jeez, he should have figured it was a scam from the start! But how could he think, with all those endorphins zipping around his body like a rat in an electrified maze...

One of the students raises his hands.

"Yes, Connor?"

"Sir, what about bull semen. Some people use bull semen to gain muscle mass."

"(cough) Well, Connor...under controlled settings, testosterone replacement therapy has shown to produce convincing results. However, that is but one hormone of a whole smorgasbord of interrelated substances, all of which must satisfy a particular balance to...."

"Does that mean I shouldn't drink any semen when I work out?"

(Laughter erupts from the class).

So how could he have possibly known all Patricia's heartfelt confessions, her pronouncements of undying affection, her appeals to weakness, femininity, a frail naiveté and unfiltered honesty that had gotten her hurt so many times...

Was all a crock of shit?

If only he had dated more in college.

Head hanging half-staff, Professor Milton ends his first agonizing class of the day to hushed whispers, sniggers, corner-eyed looks.

--

They won't get rid of him immediately; after all, he was one of the youngest ever to attain a professorship at UCC at age 26, and publishes regularly in many major journals; he still fulfills all the requirements to keep his position. Not that it will stop them from axing him the moment he breaks any arbitrary rule, no longer enforced but still listed in the crusty appendices of some dusty administrative book.

He crosses the pristine green lawn from the towering stone building of the lecture halls towards the basement lab of the Robert Kane Building, a place where he doubly wishes not to show his face, but is still preferable to the utter humiliation he'd be subjected to in the teacher's lounge.

A group of girls chatting to each other pass by without looking in his direction; it's a stark contrast to how conscious he is of his own presence—to them he is invisible. It's been the same since he was a student. Milton's looks are nothing short of boringly average. The kind of plain face and default-avatar body that breeds restless irritation, where at least if he were a shade uglier it might incur some perverse attraction. In fact, in any area but the intellectual, Milton is skin-cringingly average; he's not oblivious to this fact, either. He had even learned to live with it, taken it as a matter of course, up until Patricia.

But when it did happen with Patricia, it had been the first time Milton had ever experienced the thrill of love, and he had found himself blooming from his wallflower, socializing, on the verge of finally moving up in the world. So the fact she backstabbed him, when she finally and inevitably did, was not only a tragic event for academia, but the most tragic thing to ever happen to Milton himself.

He enters the lab, feels the laser-glare of his stressed postgrads (who have all dedicated countless hours to the discovery He Let Her Take), and almost falls quivering to the floor with exhaustion. It takes every last drop of will power not to run screaming from the room. How can he even look his students in the eyes again? Maybe if he just holds on, until they've all graduated...then it'll be a clean slate, right? No, no. The vanes of the rumor mill spin eternal; the story of his ignominy is sure to be passed down for many generations to come. He is persona non grata, ad infinitum...

But what is he thinking? Is he just going to give up? Go back to being that sad sack, punching bag for the world, a pathetic, desperate nerd who gave up his crowning achievement just to have sex with a hot piece? No, he's committed to revenge! Isn't he?

Calloway, a clumsy but congenial peer of Milton's, interrupts this self-chastisement. "Ah, Milton. I was wondering when I'd see you on campus again. So you're not on sabbatical, after all."

"No, no. Just took a few days personal time."

"Very good, very good." Calloway's shirt is a loud shamrock green, and paired with his orange hair comes off as seasonal, even though March has long since passed. He must be feeling pretty relieved, now that Milton has taken over the role of campus-wide laughing stock.

"What are you doing down here?" Milton says, "I thought you had a class at this time?" Hence why Milton had even dared come.

"No, no, the schedule was changed."

"Ah." There are no words to describe the awkwardness which rises in the room. Milton knows he has ruined Calloway's chances at success as much as his own. He feels like grabbing a beaker of HCL and swallowing it as liquid harakiri. But he knows that wouldn't do much good; it would just form yet another blemish on UCC's white coat. No, if he is to remove himself from the running, as it were, it will be in secret, away from where it could disturb others.

"You're not looking too great, Milton," Calloway says, and his concern just makes Milton hate himself even more.

"Ah, yeah, you know."

"Well, maybe this will cheer you up." Calloway beckons him to follow, past the dull stainless steel desks cluttered with beakers of every concoction, transparent tubing snaking from long, steaming cylinders to short tapped kegs, bunsens and calipers and test tubes and cages of white-furred rats, centrifuges, electronic scales, volumetric flasks, Buckley's tea-stained mug and half-eaten Mars bar...What has he told him about bringing food in here?

At last, the pair reach the end table, where a modest installation has been setup in impromptu fashion: a labrat in a transparent box with a metal floor, an array of multicolored wires spaghettying out of the base and wound into a thick, twisted bundle. The wires run across the floor to an Arduino, itself plugged into a desktop computer with a loud fan. The ratbox is fitted with several retractable implements with sharp ends, which extend at random intervals and nip at the rat's skin.

The moment this tableau enters Milton's vision, he understands.

"You've recovered the project...?"

"Yes," Calloway beams. "From old files. Our uh...interloper only managed to delete the main repository. She had no idea we were keeping manual backups on this old piece of bollocks here," he says, pointing his thumb back at the ancient PC chugging along.

"This is...this is magnificent!" Milton reels from the discovery; while it's true the backups are several months behind, his team has all the know-how necessary to restore the successful test protocols of Project T. They might even beat Patricia's employer to the chase.

"We must...We must..." Milton stammers.

"Now hold on there buddy," Calloway pats his colleague on the shoulder with a cool father-like reserve, despite only being three years his senior. "Even if we are successful in developing another Subject T before they do, we still run the risk of facing plagiarism charges..."

"WHAT?! PLAGIARISM? WE ARE THE ONES WHO—"

"Yes, yes Milton, I know. But the fact remains that the data in their hands predates ours."

"So what are you proposing we do to combat that, for heaven's sake?"

Calloway's friendly face instantly darkens. "Yes, well...That is where you come in."

—

Milton can't tell whether it's the mission, or the prospect of seeing her again that frightens him the most. Patricia McGovern—her long, sleek hair, her hour glass figure, lips that end in two small dimples. Full, clear eyes that look into a man's soul and see exactly which wires to strip in order to render him helpless.

He knows he can't resist her charms, even now, even after all that's transpired.

But that's about to change.

Six daunting floors of solid concrete and glass tower above him like a grand grey giant. Milton's team had secretly embedded a Trojan virus in their research files that led them straight to the culprit: Trinity College Bioengineering Lab—led by Milton's former classmate and colleague, Dr. Phillip Tobin, PhD M.D. It was at once so obvious, yet so unbelievable that his former friend should turn on him like this.

At least, this solved the problem of Patricia; no wonder she had been so perfect: Dr. Tobin had known exactly who to choose for the job. So what, she was just a hired spy? How was she able to throw herself so completely into the role? Was he paying her that much? Or was this some innate faculty of the female sex Milton had no means to comprehend?

In any case, if he wants to save his career, he must infiltrate Tobin's lab and destroy all of their research.

While the first floor reception is accessible to the public, anything above that requires security clearance. However: it is fitted with a fire exit, not normally accessible from the outside. He pulls out a small zipcase and removes a clear syringe and small vial, labeled 'T.' He inserts syringe into vial and draws out a goodly dose. Hunching down by the fire door, Milton rolls up his sleeve and ties off his arm, then with a shaky hand guides the syringe down to his mainline.

He shoots up.

It's experimental; a hormone-cocktail accumulated over months of physical and mental torture inflicted on specially-bred labrats with overactive pituitary glands. The effects are significant and immediate: adrenaline courses through every cell of Milton's body, filling him with wild rage, an uncapped power that shakes him to the core, that whips up all his pain and regret and frustration and funnels it into pure, raw, masculine strength. He takes in a glowing breath, sees the world in pure orange and red. Every muscle and tendon answers his command with split-second obedience. His eyes open wide. He focuses, draws back, and releases; one solid punch bursts the door into a powder of metal dust.

The mildew of the room, the faint outside light spilling inside the windowless staircase, the distant sound of Dublin traffic; everything is present for him—revealed to him in terms of fragility, of weakness. Milton knows that if he wanted to, he could rip this whole city apart.

He launches himself up the stairs a flight at a time, the world trailing behind him in a dim blur, all six floors in the wink of an eye. And now one last door—not even a lock, their Trinity arrogance on full display. He flings the door open and steps inside to bland plastic floors and translucent cubicles. But the ugly scenery does nothing to curb the wave of fierce power roiling within him—he strides right down the middle of the room with a posture he's never known—upright, firm, grounded. He owns the world.

At the back of the room, he finds his arch nemesis Dr. Tobin schmoozing in his own spacious office, complete with Herman Miller seating and a broad desk of solid mahogany.

"M-Milton! What are you doing here?" Tobin bolts upright in his seat, almost spilling his tea in the process. His two guests, smarmy looking Dubliners with blue suits and perfect haircuts, spin on their seats in nervous agitation, subconsciously intuiting the threat Milton presents. His whole body is screaming with the cry of death and blood. The smell of frightened sweat rising in the room excites him. His muscles tense and throb under his clothes, which struggle to contain the mass of his body he knows is growing cell by striatal cell with each passing moment. Accumulating. Absorbing. He dines on their anxiety and sucks on their fear.

"I've come to take down your whole operation, Tobin," Milton announces in a deep, booming voice, and Tobin's face is white with confusion; it's like when a schoolmate hits puberty over the summer holidays, times ten.

"Y-you can't be in here without an appointment..." Dr. Tobin warns, but it comes out apologetically, almost as an excuse. The two guests quickly scurry from the room...

rats scratching at cages, shrill piercing squeaks, grey matter on slides.

Now that he sees Tobin's stupid pig face in front of him, Milton can barely contain himself. He takes another step closer.

"Hey, hey, that's enough! I'll call securi—" he begins, but Milton's somehow already inches from his face, his thick sinewy hands around Tobin's neck and lifting him three feet in the air. He's purple, short of breath, eyes filled with terror, "Glugh..guh..uglugh...."

"MILTON!" comes a familiar cry from behind. He drops the bastard to his €600 seat and turns to see her: the one who ripped out his heart without anesthetic.

"Patricia." a drop of cold sweat runs down Milton's spine, the booming drum of his heartbeat dwindling to a mere patter—the patter of pink feet on a metal cage floor.

"I'm...sorry..." she says, the waterworks already active.

"Save it," Milton spits with cold murder in his voice. "Your bullshit act no longer works on me." But is that true? Why does he feel the strength draining from him as they speak? His cells are turning back to soft jelly, his manly vigor retreating to the recesses of his reptile brain.

She takes a step closer; he can smell her perfume, see the light in her eyes.

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

He's heard it all before, the same lies, the same manipulations. Stop reacting to them. Why are you falling for it again, you fool!

Another step closer. Patricia's bouncy brunette hair. Patricia's dimpled smile. Patricia's sweet breath landing on his face.

"Stop right there."

Another step. Patricia's heaving bosom. Patricia's wide hips. Patricia's parted lips. Patricia's sweat mixing with his in the summer nights, his every desire met, his every wish fulfilled.

"STOP!"

She takes another step, and another; she's within reach now, her hands, her beautiful, soft pink hands slowly rising towards him.

"I SAID STOP, YOU BITCH!"

She doesn't flinch. She looks at him forgivingly, lovingly, her eyes wide and clear and honest. Maybe there's been a misunderstanding. Maybe she didn't trick him at all. This is all Tobin's doing. Yeah, that's right. What he shared with Patricia was real. It's Tobin who's the villain. It's all Tobin's fault. Milton looks at that evil pig in his corporate chair, his smug smile, his stupid round Harry Potter glasses, his private-school haircut. The remainder of the juice is still resonating in Milton's veins. He focuses on Tobin again, ties to recover his hatred, but Patricia is nearer still, her hands running up his body now, caressing him, touching his weakness, sapping his strength. no. no.

"I'm so grateful that you came."

She gently eases into him, at first hugging then pushing him onto Tobin's desk. She's standing in the space between his legs, her hot breath a luxurious cloud encasing his face in a dull bliss. He's getting dizzy. He lets himself sit on the desk, her arms around him, her mouth close to his; she's whispering something he can't hear, her hair floating in his face, her breasts brushing off his chest, her thighs tensing around him. What is she saying? "We weren't able to finish the research." His mind drifts off, his energy diluting, his sweat running cold, he's fading. What. The texture of her delicate skin. What. Her lips on his, breathing life into him. No, not life. Poison. She's poison. He hears her words now, quietly but clearly, and it's the last words he hears before the nip of the syringe hits his back.

"Now we have our own Subject T."