Rudy Miller sat in a small, plastic bathtub inside his parents' cramped trailer, playing with his Superman toy as it soared in and out of the foamy bathwater. The harsh clanging of pots and pans and a torrent of profanities from his mother in the nearby kitchen went unnoticed by him. He paid no mind to the pervasive stench of cigarette smoke that clung to every crevice of their shabby, impoverished habitat. Even the fact that the bathwater had grown cold couldn't deter him from creating Superman's heroic adventures within the vast realm of his imagination.

However, all this changed when he heard his father's arrival.

Rudy's troubled gaze shifted away from the caped hero and focused on the flimsy, brown curtain that separated his peaceful sanctuary from the scary world beyond. At the tender age of six, Rudy was acutely aware that other children at school didn't have a troubled family like his. He yearned to live with those kids and their loving parents, the kind of parents he could only dream of. Rudy had many wishes, but none of them ever seemed to materialize.

As the front door creaked open, Rudy desperately wished that he could stay in the bathtub forever.

Chuck Miller, a burly, unkempt man, entered their small home with a beer in one hand and a burnt-out Newport cigarette hanging from his lips. Nonchalantly flicking the cigarette out the door, he forcefully kicked off his mud-caked work boots and slammed the door shut behind him in a fit of anger. Without sparing a glance for his wife, Doris, who was in the kitchen, he discarded his grimy sweater and collapsed into his filthy recliner. He didn't even bother to look at her.

With the remote control in hand, he turned on the TV and promptly downed his beer, carelessly tossing the empty can onto the floor behind him.

Seeing Chuck's arrival, Doris poured eight ounces of vodka into her partially filled glass of orange juice. She took one last drag of her cigarette and then gulped down a substantial mouthful of vodka directly from the bottle. She despised it when Chuck came home from work already drunk because it meant she would have to tiptoe around him all evening to avoid triggering his anger. After nine years of marriage, poor Doris still hadn't entirely grasped how to keep Chuck from getting mad, as the numerous scars and bruises on her skin could attest.

Doris was five years younger than Chuck, but the constant fear and strife had aged her well beyond her 35 years. Her once lustrous blonde hair had lost its vibrancy and now appeared lifeless and matted gray, while her once-youthful skin had turned into a patchy, dry, leather-like canvas. Avoiding mirrors and looking after their son, Rudy, were the only things keeping her from succumbing to despair, along with her solace: vodka.

However, today was different. She had decided to keep her husband happy no matter what because their young son, Rudy, had come home earlier with an excellent report card, proudly displayed on the refrigerator door. Doris fetched a cold beer, opened it, and brought it over to the soiled man she had married.

"About time," he grumbled.

Doris winced and headed back to the kitchen, where she opened the oven to check on the delicious-looking meatloaf she had prepared from scratch, Chuck's favorite. It wasn't quite ready, so she closed the oven and returned to her husband, who was noisily sipping his beer and clearing his throat.

"Rudy brought home a good report card today," she said to him with a smile.

"Where is the little shit?" he asked, finishing his beer and discarding it carelessly.

Doris quickly fetched another beer from the fridge and handed it to him. "I need to get him out of the bath," she replied before making her way to the bathroom.

Rudy looked up and stared at his mother when she entered the bathroom. With a slight grimace, he stood up. Doris removed the plug from the drain and noticed the collection of bruises on her son's legs and back. She knew all too well how they had gotten there but felt too ashamed and scared to broach the subject with her son. She grabbed a towel and gently dried Rudy as he stepped out of the tub.

"Are we going to eat now, Mommy?" Rudy asked.

"Yes, honey. Put on your pajamas and come out to the living room," she instructed before leaving.

Rudy slowly retrieved his unwashed pajamas from the floor and put them on, hesitating as he delayed facing his father. He hoped that Daddy wouldn't get angry and hurt him and Mommy, or destroy things like he often did. After dressing, he picked up his Superman figurine and left the bathroom. He walked a few steps before turning left into his tiny room, placing the figure on the table beside his bed. That's when his father called out to him.

"Rudy!"

Rudy entered the living room and stopped in front of his father's chair, his gaze fixed on his small feet.

"Get up here, boy," his father said, slapping his own thigh.

Rudy clenched his hands together, fidgeting with his feet, but he didn't move forward and avoided meeting his father's eyes.

Chuck finished the last of his beer and flung the empty can at his son, hitting him squarely on the top of his head. Rudy instinctively placed his hand on his head, battling the tears welling up, determined not to cry or fall down.

"You little brat," his father shouted from his chair. "All you had to do was climb onto my lap, and I was gonna say good job. But no, you've got to act like a little coward, don't you?" he yelled.

Doris remained frozen in the kitchen, taking a large swig of her cheap vodka, too frightened to intervene.

Rudy slowly lowered his hands to his sides and involuntarily let out a whimper, succumbing to his pain and despair.

Chuck's ice-blue eyes blazed with fury as he lunged from his chair, forcefully grabbing his son and hoisting him up to eye level, shaking him violently. "Little girl wants to cry? Huh? The little damn baby girl wants to cry? WELL?" he bellowed angrily at his sobbing son's tear-streaked face, jerking it back and forth. "You even smell like a little girl. We should have named you Judy," he taunted, tossing Rudy back to the floor. "Judy, Judy, you crybaby," his father jeered one last time before resuming his seat.

Rudy lay on the soiled rug where his intoxicated father had dropped him, wiping away the pools of hurt from his swollen, teary eyes. He then glanced imploringly at his mother, who stood in the kitchen. Rudy's eyes silently begged for her assistance.

"What are you looking at me for? Why didn't you just sit on his lap, for Christ's sake?" she snapped resentfully, irritated at him for ruining the evening.

Rudy broke down, slumping to the floor and weeping uncontrollably. The coarse sand and dirt in the carpet scraped against his drenched, right cheek.

Chuck sprang up from his chair in pure rage, seized his son by one arm, and lifted him. He stormed into Rudy's tiny room with the child dangling from one arm and flung him onto his bed. He then rushed through the living room and into the kitchen to confront his wife. "You're gonna raise that little shit to be a damn girl?" he demanded.

Doris, caught off guard and too frightened to resist, shook her head emphatically, signifying that she wouldn't. She then turned away from him and opened the fridge door, retrieving another beer for him.

Chuck snatched the beer, swatting her hand out of the way, and opened it himself, downing it in one gulp. He then slammed the fridge door shut, leaving a sizable dent with his foot, and sent Rudy's report card sliding to the floor, where it
vanished completely under the fridge. As he turned to head back to his chair, the smoke detector in the house blared, forcing both parents to halt.

Doris gasped as she realized that the meatloaf had been left in the oven for too long. She hastily donned her oven mitts
and opened the oven door, and a cloud of smoke billowed out, enveloping her and intensifying the wailing of the smoke detector, fraying her nerves further. She retrieved the burnt meatloaf and set it on the stovetop, while Chuck opened the front door and used his crumpled sweater from the floor to fan out the smoke, dispersing it.

Finally, the alarm ceased its screeching, leaving an awkward silence in the home. Chuck shut the door and examined the charred meatloaf before turning his gaze to his wife. He fetched another beer from the fridge, taking a long swig. Doris stood trembling by the sink, paralyzed by fear.

Chuck stared at her with wide, bloodshot eyes, exuding an intense and terrifying anger as he clenched and unclenched both his fists. Doris whimpered and shook her head pitifully, with tears streaming down her face.

Rudy cautiously peeked out of his room, curious about the sudden silence, secretly hoping his parents had magically disappeared. Instead, he saw his mommy and daddy facing each other in the kitchen. Daddy was glaring at Mommy, and Mommy looked scared. Then Daddy grabbed Mommy by the neck, choking her until her face turned red, and slammed her head into the cabinet. Mommy screamed, but Daddy wouldn't stop hurting her.

Rudy leaped into bed, pulling the covers over his head as the sounds of smashing, screaming, and breaking things continued in the kitchen. He clutched his pillow tightly, closing his eyes and pretending it was all just a horrible dream.
An hour later, after the sounds of Mommy's crying had ceased, he fell asleep and became aware that he was sleeping. He wished he could stay there forever and never be bothered by the awful monsters in the other room again.

But unfortunately for Rudy, it only got worse.

Rudy was awakened by the sound of the wind that night. The moonlight streamed through his window, casting the silhouette of his Superman toy on the wall just three feet from his face. He lay there, gripping his pillow, staring at the hero, and for a moment, he felt a glimmer of peace.

Then he heard his father's heavy breathing in the room.

Turning to look at his door, he saw the outline of his father's imposing figure standing there, like a demon in the night. Rudy choked up and sobbed as Daddy rubbed the back of Rudy's legs. He didn't want to go through this again, never wanted to endure it again, but Daddy removed the covers and pulled down his pajama bottoms. He cried even harder, but Daddy told him to be quiet and unfastened his belt.

Daddy said it was all his fault because he smelled nice, the sweet-smelling little boy who made Daddy angry.

Rudy gazed at the smiling Superman doll, pleading for salvation, begging for anything to make Daddy stop.

"Please, Superman, please, please," he whispered desperately.

But no one came to rescue poor little Rudy.

​No one ever would.

Finally, I've got a moment to sit down and write today. It's been a long but pretty decent day so far. I'm here in the lounge area with everyone else, except for Rudy. Most people are engaged in quiet conversations or just zoning out. We had a busy morning with mandatory physical fitness activities. My body is feeling a bit worn out at the moment. Of all the times for the doctors to force exercise on us, it had to be today. Just to remind you, I've been up since 7 am yesterday morning, and now it's 5:37 pm, according to this one-trick-pony of a laptop. I call it that because it only allows one function: writing. No Facebook, no Twitter, and definitely no internet. Kind of a shit situation actually.

First off, I have to say... I read what I wrote last night, and I'm a little baffled. Seriously, baffled, man. How I managed to do the things I did is beyond me right now. That's all I can really say about it at the moment because today proved to be just as crazy for me.

This morning after our dose, everyone ran laps in the courtyard. Rudy opted for a slow and sullen "I hate people" stride since he's not in the best shape, and, well, nobody likes him. It was nice, except for the figurative daggers I could feel in my back from his spiteful stare. I'm pretty sure I messed up his "Let's murder Emily" plans last night, so he totally despises me now. Whatever, bro... come at me and shit.

Thankfully, it's gotten warmer outside, and it must have been around 35 degrees or so. I jogged alongside Jeff, Lynette, and Emily, while Walter and Kyle, who are practically joined at the hip, strolled slowly behind us, just ahead of Rudy. I could hear them bickering the entire time about the 7 seals. I don’t know if that’s bible talk or if they’re planning a getaway to Sea World when this is all done. We were all a bit fixated on the weirdo Ben, who spent the whole time spinning around in the center of the courtyard, meowing at the sky. Sigh Despite my lack of sleep, it did wonders for my morale. The fresh air was invigorating, and I felt completely rejuvenated and energized afterward.

Lynette didn't have much to say, but her overall demeanor seemed better. She expressed her concerns about her kids and hoped the experiment would end soon. I tried to comfort her by mentioning the money we'd earn, and I could tell it helped ease her worries a bit. She even lit up and laughed at a few of my jokes. The observant woman also seemed to notice the growing connection between Emily and me. I guess our affections for each other are becoming a bit obvious. This morning, when Emily woke up, she found me sitting outside her room in a chair. She placed her hand on my shoulder, and I looked up, smiling. She returned the smile, and her eyes seemed to radiate warmth and affection, as if it came straight from her heart. As she walked away towards the bathroom, I felt a surge of passion coursing through my body, a sensation I hadn't felt since my middle school crush, Sarah Summers... oh, how she broke my heart. Regarding Emily, I'm not entirely sure how to interpret it, to be honest.

The Emily we see today is not the same Emily we knew just a week ago, or even two days ago. Beneath all the layers of the facade she had created, there lies a thoughtful and kind-hearted woman. Last night, somehow, we managed to break down that disguise and reveal Emily's true self to the world. Today, we talked about Randy, whom she liked because, initially, he was the only one who treated her kindly. They had that "bitch harmony" thing going on. Emily confessed to me that she's feeling much better since our experience last night. In turn, I promised her that, no matter what, I'll be there to protect and support her in any way I can. When I made that pledge, I could see the hope welling up in her eyes. How did this happen? It's surreal to think that I, Jack McCoy, rescued another human being from their personal hell. I'm not exactly sure how I did it, but it's done, and things are looking up.

All in all, it was a great time in the courtyard today.

After returning from the courtyard, we all took showers, except for Mr. Rudy, who went straight to his room, and it looked like he was trembling from the exertion. Which is weird because all he did was walk for fucks sake. Lunch today held a nice surprise – tuna wraps, potato chips, and chocolate cake. Randy would have been ecstatic about the cake. God, I miss that guy. It seemed like the doctors felt bad for all the hardships we've endured and decided to lift our spirits a bit. There wasn't a single face without a smile as we enjoyed our meal.

The best part was the absence of Rudy's stench since he stayed holed up in his room. Emily and I sat together, discussing the events of last night and what our future holds once we're out of this experiment. I can't stop thinking about her, man... Jeff just gave me this big grin as if to say, "Nice going, dude," the entire time we were eating. He even mentioned that she seemed different now, and he liked the new her.

Dr. Nelson was notably absent during lunch; I suppose he left the lab right after administering this morning's doses, leaving Dr. Waters in charge. The situation felt a bit strange because Dr. Waters and Dr. Roberts never usually engage with us. They cornered me while I was eating my tuna wrap, asking how things were going and if there was anything on my mind. Honestly, I just wanted to enjoy my meal and chat with Emily, but I humored them. I told them I was doing fine and feeling great, but I couldn't help mentioning how upset I still was about Randy's tragic fate. They both nodded somewhat apathetically. I ventured to ask them a few questions of my own, and the conversation went something like this:

"So, how much longer are we going to be here?" I inquired.

"You're eager to leave already?" Dr. Roberts replied.

"Yeah, don't you think it's been a bit too crazy? Not to mention, I need to pay my rent ASAP. When can I do that?" I pressed.

"You'll need to speak with Dr. Nelson," they responded in unison.

"Where is he?"

"He'll be back soon," Dr. Waters said, glancing around the room as if bored.

"Back from where?" I questioned irritably, knowing where this was headed.

"From where he is, Jack," Dr. Waters retorted cryptically.

"Okay... So what are you going to do about Rudy?" I shifted the topic.

"Rudy is part of the trial. Why does he concern you?" Dr. Waters asked, showing a hint of impatience.

"He's dangerous," I cautioned.

"Thank you for your input," Dr. Waters said, this time exchanging a knowing look with Dr. Roberts.

"You should enjoy the rest of your lunch. We'll inform Dr. Nelson of your rent concerns," Dr. Roberts offered.

"If he's been reading my journal, he already knows..." I muttered, suppressing my irritation.

"Enjoy your lunch, Jack," Dr. Roberts said as they both turned away.

They walked out of the common room, and I could hear their faint chuckles as they disappeared. This is the shit I have to put up with in here. We're treated like prisoners, with zero respect. It’s like grade school all over again, only on drugs.

Honestly, I could walk out of this place today, pay my past due rent, and somehow figure out how to settle things with my bookie. Ever since Randy's tragic suicide, Ben's descent into madness, and the constant threat Rudy poses to Emily, my desire to stay here has vanished. It's an incredibly suffocating feeling. If I could just get out of here now, I might have a shot at straightening out my life. Strangely enough, I don't even feel that strong urge to gamble anymore, or to smoke, for that matter. I'm seriously considering quitting smoking altogether. That's pretty damn crazy when I think about it.

I'm really curious about what could happen between Emily and me if we were out in the real world together. I wonder if we could even help her reconcile with her parents. She comes from a wealthy family, and not to sound like a greedy fuck, but that kind of money could open up a whole new life for me, for both of us.

Or perhaps money isn't my main motivator anymore. This newfound sense of optimism and determination inside me makes me believe I could achieve just about anything I set my mind to. Let's not forget, I have these abilities now that give me a unique advantage. Imagine playing poker and being able to "read" the other players' cards by scanning their surface thoughts. I could easily make it to the World Championship of Poker, right? I mean, it's not gambling when you already know everyone's hands, is it? But damn, here I go again, daydreaming about hitting it big. Something that's never quite panned out for me. Now, I'm starting to realize there's no guarantee that I'll be able to maintain these abilities once I'm off the drugs, anyway.

I can feel the effects of Formula 35C quite distinctly. My mind has become like a finely-tuned machine. Problem-solving and creative thinking require minimal effort, and I can visualize things with astonishing clarity, almost like I'm experiencing them in high-definition. What's more, I've stumbled upon what might be psychic abilities. I know it sounds crazy, and I'm still trying to wrap my head around it, but it operates on a profound level I'm not entirely accustomed to yet.

Let me attempt to describe it, even though it might sound utterly fucking insane, and it's possible my imagination is playing tricks on me. The experience is intense and somewhat overwhelming, and I'm still trying to fully grasp it. I've mentioned the bookshelf filled with books in this place, and I've been reading them out of sheer boredom and confusion about the things I've witnessed—things I can't explain. So, I delved into some science books, particularly physics and electronics, and here's what I've come to understand.

According to these books, all matter and energy are composed of atoms, and matter is essentially solidified energy. Everything is in constant motion. Everything. Atoms are like the building blocks of reality, and within them, electrons and protons exhibit their own unique behaviors. Now, consider this: in that seemingly ordinary tuna sandwich I had for lunch, there are an astronomical number of atoms—quintillions upon sextillions, and probably even more. Each of these tiny particles has been journeying through space and time for eons. Consequently, every single thing in the universe has an almost infinite history of motion and interaction.

The physical body I inhabit right now consists of atoms that have traversed the farthest reaches of the cosmos, possibly originating from the deaths of ancient stars that lived for trillions of years. Even within that single tuna wrap, the atomic history is mind-boggling. Some atoms might have been part of meteors, mountains, and even dinosaurs. Others could have formed the weapons that pierced the hearts of Roman slaves, or the backbones of the bacteria responsible for the Black Plague.

And more recently, these atoms have journeyed through endless miles of ocean before becoming part of the tuna fish caught by a fisherman's net just a few weeks ago. Now, they find themselves in my hands, shaping the structure of this wrap, and eventually entering my body, where some will stay with me, and others will pass through.

I'm telling you that in an instant, I can vaguely comprehend the nature and history encapsulated within my lunch today through a rapid succession of mental imagery and a newfound sixth sense. Have you ever heard of those psychics who assist the police by touching objects and gaining glimpses into their past? It's somewhat like that for me now. If I concentrate on an object, I can gain insights into its history and possibly everything that came before it.

This experience is both fascinating and terrifying for me.

I can't predict how much stronger my newfound abilities will become, but I'm gradually starting to comprehend what Frank was trying to convey with his last words, "We're all blind. It's all lies." He was clearly perceiving or experiencing something that had his mind delving much deeper into reality than usual. That’s very clear to me now. Hold on a second... where is Frank? It just hit me that I haven't seen him all day. How did I not notice, and why hasn't anyone else mentioned it? After I finish here, I need to check his room to make sure he's okay. Perhaps he can shed some light on what's happening.

Doctor Nelson, I hope you'll be willing to discuss this with me. I need to determine whether what I'm experiencing is real or just my imagination running wild.

Oh, damn, I can hear Ben shouting in that adolescent-challenged voice of his, desperately vying for everyone's attention.
Hang on a sec.

He's gearing up to perform a stand-up routine for us, and to my surprise, this is the most coherent he's been in a week.

Fuck, I sense Rudy's distinct scent as he casually thuds into the chair beside me on the couch. I had hoped he might stay in his room tonight after the morning workout, but, of course, that's not my luck.

Emily just settled down beside me, her hand resting on my leg, while the rest of the room focuses on Ben. He's positioned in front of the door leading into the testing room, waiting for everyone to get comfortable. Damn, I wish my laptop camera would work so I wouldn't have to type all this out. I'll do my best; I just hope to God he doesn't turn this into another Randy or Michael incident.

Now he's staring at us, wearing an oddly amusing smile, eagerly awaiting our reactions. Seriously, he looks like he's fifteen years old. Okay, here goes; I'll try to keep up.

"Ladies and Gentlemen… and Rudy." Haha, that was a good one. Rudy's not finding it funny, though.

"I had quite the breakfast this morning, something appetizing, and something different, you know... a protein shake." People are chuckling, and it's strange how he's actually funny.

"Anyway, as I was sipping the shake, I was thinking, what should I do today? Read a book, or... just go back to sleep? Because we have so many thrilling options in here, you know?" Lol People are laughing. He's taking a pause.

"I'm glad you're all in a good mood tonight! Have you ever heard of that cat who befriended a garbage man? They had a 'purr-fect' partnership going on. The mangy little cat would sit there, watching the garbage man do his thing day in and day out.

One day, the garbage man says, 'Hey, I see you out here every morning. You must think I'm pretty cool, huh?'

The cat looks up and replies, 'Well, to be honest, I'm just waiting for you to accidentally toss away a can of tuna!'" Okay, that one was about as funny as eating stale crackers.

"Well then, not so funny, huh? What the hell am I doing here then?" he asks, now looking serious.

"I mean, what kind of person willingly becomes a lab rat? Right?" His voice quivers.

"Maybe we should ask Randy..." Uh-oh, I have no idea where this is going.

"Oh wait… Randy is dead!" I'm getting bad vibes now. This is taking an ugly turn.

"But WAIT! There's more! We're all going to be... we're all going to be—" He starts rubbing his head, somewhat like Randy did in the days before his unfortunate end. I might need to intervene here.

"We're all going to be DEAD TOO!" he screams.

Rudy is laughing. I've got to put a stop to this.

Damn it, Dr. Nelson just walked in, and he's got company. Ben looks seriously disturbed right now, and Emily just rushed to his side to support him.

Dr. Nelson is calling my name. What the fuck is happening right now? Who are the two suits walking with him? He's calling my name and telling me I need to go somewhere tonight. Hell no, I can't just up and leave.

Shit! I think Ben is having a severe seizure; I have to go help... be right back.


😊😊😊😊☹☹☹☹
 
Aw, poor Jack had to leave :( and they didn't let him take his laptop.
Don't worry, Jack. I'll watch over Emily for you tonight. :)

​-Rudy

Dr. Nelson sat alone in a rigid chair, his fingers trembling. His eyes darted to the door, anticipating Agent Reynolds' arrival in the stark and chilling CIA office. The room seemed to hold its breath, the cold light casting sharp shadows that leapt like ethereal demons in the air. This unholy office was where the lines between truth and deception blurred, and Dr. Nelson was about to step into that treacherous terrain once again.

The meeting served a dual purpose: to assess Jack McCoy's promising abilities and to unravel the recent trial mishaps involving Stephanie, Michael, Chuck, Chester, Amanda and Randy – subjects who had recently been released from the trial. The doctor couldn't help but shudder at the thought of Randy White, the sole fatality in the trial. A sharp pain gripped his chest as he contemplated his inability to do anything to save the man. Dr. Nelson was aware that the X-subjects were in the care of the CIA for recovery, but his attempts to gather information had only resulted in vague responses. When Agent Reynolds' underlings arrived to escort the trial participants, a deafening silence hung in the air, which intensified Dr. Nelson's anxiety.

Nine days of this trial had left Dr. Nelson, a 67-year-old man, worn to the bone. The mysterious Formula 35C drug cast a shadow of uncertainty over his mind. The CIA's secretive stance smothered his trust like a dense fog. The declining mental state of the subjects haunted his conscience. He had contemplated ending the experiment, consequences be damned. Yet, Jack McCoy's remarkable progress and the curious case of Subject 7, Frank Tanaka, gave him pause. Frank communicated through haiku poems, exhibiting an almost supernatural perception of the world. It was as though the drug had granted him insight into reality's very essence. His latest poem delved into life's simplicity, nearly sparking a spiritual awakening within Dr. Nelson.

Spirit's stream,
Flowing motions, be not, be,
Life's essence, but a dream.

However, Dr. Nelson pondered, Jack's story was one of burgeoning talents, heightened senses, telepathy, and an IQ boost that defied all logic. A leap of nearly 20 points in intelligence was a monumental shift beyond the boundaries of what was considered possible.

A few tense moments passed and the door swung open, revealing Agent Reynolds. He strode into the room and settled himself behind the desk, his gaze locking onto Dr. Nelson's eyes, which were filled with a mixture of anxiety and curiosity.

"Doctor," Agent Reynolds's voice was steady, devoid of emotion.

"Mr. Reynolds," Dr. Nelson responded, mirroring the same tone.

Agent Reynolds took a deliberate, slow breath, his exhale a measured release of tension. He powered up his laptop, each keystroke punctuating the suspense. As he read through Dr. Nelson's latest report, a fleeting expression of panic flitted across his face, a detail not lost on the observant doctor.

Dr. Nelson's intrigue heightened, an involuntary shiver racing down his backbone. When Agent Reynolds concluded, he closed the laptop gently, yet his gaze remained fixed on Dr. Nelson, an unspoken weight hanging between them.

The silence was broken by Dr. Nelson's impatience. "Well?!" he practically implored.

Agent Reynolds leaned forward, his demeanor firm, arms crossed. "Doctor, what do you think is transpiring here?"

"I see two sets of promising results," Dr. Nelson began, "clearly indicating—"

"We need to shut it down," Agent Reynolds cut him off.

Dr. Nelson's words hung suspended, his mouth still half open as he coughed slightly to regain his composure. "I'm not certain if that's warranted. Perhaps a dose reduction or gradual tapering—"

"Dr. Nelson, thus far, the trial hasn't yielded any promising outcomes," Reynolds asserted.

"Promising outcomes? Did you not read the latest entry from Subject 15? And can you please clarify the exact parameters the Central Intelligence Agency seeks?" Dr. Nelson's voice quivered, his frustration simmering beneath the surface.

"Classified," Reynolds retorted, unflinching.

"Classified? I'm administering the drug, sir. How can I fulfill my duties without adequate information?"

"Only as much as we reveal, and as much as you discover, doctor. Nothing beyond," Reynolds's response was icy, leaving no room for negotiation.

"The case of Jack McCoy presents compelling indications of enhanced memory, congruent with my own research and frankly, mind melding! That doesn’t pique your interest—"

"THAT'S THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF OUR OBJECTIVES!" Reynolds's outburst was sudden, his tone indicating he had revealed more than he intended.

Dr. Nelson stared, horror-stricken, his mind racing. A million thoughts and suspicions churned within him.

"The old experiments are back, aren’t they?" Dr. Nelson let out a nervous chuckle. "This isn't about advancing humanity; it's the same bullshit you operatives have run since psychological warfare began. Enhanced interrogation, mind control. I should've known it the second you uttered those three letters C-I-A," he gasped, rising from his seat.

Reynolds adjusted his appearance with a dismissive air. "I need to submit a report to my superiors. You'll receive further instructions in due course. For now, continue with the trials."

"Fine. Will you at least tell me what happened to the five subjects you took away? Where are they?" Dr. Nelson's voice trembled with urgency.

Reynolds's smile was faint but cryptic. "Have a pleasant evening, Doctor."

Exiting the office, Dr. Nelson was left with a bitter taste in his mouth, the agent's demeanor and words a chilling reminder of the dark path he had wittingly stepped onto. His gut churned, reminding him of the devil's deal he'd taken—a deal that could very well condemn him to a life behind bars or worse, threaten his existence.

Dr. Nelson found himself faced with a singular, unequivocal course of action: he had to delicately guide the subjects away from their dependence on the drug, all while maintaining utmost discretion. The once-distinct boundary between ethical scientific pursuit and a perilous descent into darkness had become dangerously vague.

Recognizing the precarious situation, he decided it was prudent to revisit and modify any journal entries that might inadvertently divulge the subjects' budding skills and abilities. These changes were necessary to ensure nothing raised red flags for the agent, as the fine line between ethical research and potential misuse loomed dangerously before him.

Later that day, Dr. Nelson made an unexpected visit to his home to see his wife, Marge. As he stepped inside, his wife greeted him at the door with enthusiasm.

"Get in here, I wasn't expecting you until Sunday night," she exclaimed, her eyes wide with concern.

"Thought I'd stop in and recharge for a bit," he replied in a somber tone.

She could immediately tell that something was amiss by the expression on his face. Without hesitation, she hurried into the kitchen and prepared a pot of coffee. Meanwhile, Stanley settled in the dining room, placing his laptop on the table and reopening it to reread Jack's last entry about healing his mind and apparently Emily's as well. The sounds of pots clanging in the kitchen and the aroma of fresh coffee wafting through the air lightened his heart. Marge's presence was a soothing balm after a long and trying day. They had been married for 45 years, and her love remained a constant source of strength.

Stanley's eyes fixated on a particular sentence in his entry, one that intrigued him:

"Somehow, I was able to plug into her thoughts and I discovered the truth about her."

He scratched his head and adjusted his glasses, deep in thought.

Jack's newfound capacity to delve into the depths of the human mind was a mystery that demanded further investigation. It was also a double-edged sword — a potential breakthrough for humanity, but also a potential threat if it fell into the wrong hands. The CIA's involvement in the trials raised concerns. Stanley couldn't help but question the motives behind the CIA's aversion to these abilities. If their aim had been to explore avenues like mind control or enhanced interrogation, then the discovery of telepathy should have been of particular interest to them. The incongruity of the situation left Stanley deeply puzzled.

Marge entered the room with a platter of fresh fruits, nuts, and cheeses, along with a large brown mug of steaming coffee. As she sat down beside him, her hand gently caressed his head. "What's wrong, dear?" she asked with a concerned tone.

"Just work," he replied, his lips momentarily sealed.

"Are you really unable to share anything about what you're doing?" she inquired, a touch of exasperation in her voice.
Stanley gazed at his wife, cracking a half-smile. He grabbed a piece of cheese, took a sip of coffee, and then spoke.

"Not this job, Margey. I'm forbidden. All I can say is that I'm equally thrilled and terrified. It's as if there's a great light revealing a truth, but an equally great darkness trying to obscure it," he said, shaking his head in apparent frustration.

Marge possessed an uncanny ability to understand her husband, and she recognized that his words, though cryptic, held a deeper meaning. However, she couldn't shake her sense of fear for him. She had a growing intuition that whatever he was involved in had spiraled out of control, and she desperately searched for the right words to dissuade him from it.

"Honey, if you're uncomfortable with what you're doing, perhaps you should consider stopping and selling the labs. We'll find another way to make ends meet. I can't bear to see you like this," she pleaded.

Stanley stood up, picked up his laptop, and cupped his wife's blushing cheek. He offered a warm smile as he spoke, his voice filled with determination.

"My love, if I can keep the darkness from encroaching on this operation, I might have discovered the answer to all human afflictions."

Marge's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Trust me, dear, it's a battle, but I have to fight it. I must," he declared through gritted teeth, his gaze unwavering. Suddenly, his phone buzzed, and a text message popped up. It was from Agent Reynolds, and the message was marked as urgent. He quickly read the message and his eyes widened in panic. "I need to return immediately," he exclaimed.

Marge rose from her seat and quickly poured the coffee into a travel mug, handing it to her husband. She then embraced him tightly. Stanley kissed her passionately, his jacket now back on, and grabbed the travel mug.

As he headed for the door and climbed into his car, he stole one last glance at his wife standing in the doorway, shivering in the cold and waving him off. He waved back and, very quietly, let out a tearful sob. His desire to save the world was unwavering, but his wife had always made him question if he should drop everything to be with her.

"It's all for the greater good," he thought to himself as he sped out of the driveway.

It's a dark and lonely 3:39 am, and here I am, camped out in the hallway just outside Emily's room. Emily rests within, lost in a deep sleep, perhaps the most peaceful she's had in years. Dr. Nelson, I'm bursting with an extraordinary revelation to share tonight, an event that transpired earlier. I'll do my best to recount it, but I assure you, it's beyond belief.

For now, it's a quiet scene, just me and the ambience of a nighttime building and that annoying tick of the radiator knocking at the pipes above.

Lynette got up at around midnight to take a piss. She gave me a groggy stink-eye and asked, "Why the fuck am I up this late out here?" So, I spill my thoughts about Rudy, and she just rolls her eyes and mumbles, "I’m too old for this shit, man," before wandering off to the bathroom.

As for me, I'm wide awake, and not one bit drowsy. Looks like I'll be pulling an all-nighter. It's got me thinking, though, about how insane my life's gone in just a week. I mean, I went from worrying over my money at Gamblers Anonymous to guarding a gal in some top-secret lab, fearful that she might get offed while she sleeps.

How things have changed… the very concept of “reality” is different for me now in ways that I can’t accurately describe. The 35C pumping in my veins has opened parts of my mind that were previously unreachable and has changed my entire perspective about the nature of things.

It appears I've acquired a set of new abilities that have empowered me to perform extraordinary feats and perceive situations in a manner that enables understanding and control. As my first example, I'd like to explain to you esteemed doctors how I've managed to facilitate my own psychological healing. Please take notes.

Throughout my entire life, I've clung onto an immense burden of emotional baggage. In my view, this is a shared human experience. We all tend to carry around this aching and cumbersome weight that drags us down. It begins as we transition from childhood to adulthood, when we often feel disillusioned because we once believed life would forever be a magical fairy tale, right? Then reality hits, and it shatters our rosy perceptions. Ever since I lost that feeling of innocence and that sense of wonder, I've existed in a hum drum state of frustration, burdened by a toxic mass of anxiety, resentments and regrets. I've lugged these emotional loads with me into adulthood like a burlap sack packed with melancholy cinder blocks. It's something I've learned to endure, as we all must in our own ways, but it hasn't changed how profoundly angry I've been.

What I've discovered tonight is that our minds are equipped with a two-fold survival mechanism, one which allows us to endure an extraordinary amount of pain, and the other, the ability to consciously dismantle that pain. Remarkably, we can achieve this by focusing on the mental images of our conscious and subconscious mind and repeatedly re-experience them until they lose power and become just a memory. It's akin to watching a movie multiple times: the first viewing amazes you, with high emotions, but each subsequent viewing diminishes the impact until you're no longer stimulated or emotionally charged by it. This is my current hypothesis, and of course, the Formula 35C I possess is a variable that sets me apart from others.

Allow me to elaborate further... I've been seated here for hours, delving deep into my mind, revisiting all the things that have infuriated me, all the trauma, heartbreaks et al, replaying them repeatedly, and subsequently purging myself of the pain, shame, and regrets they carried. I've been confronting all the sources of pain, anger and victimhood in my life and reducing their power to mere insignificance. Illnesses, accidents, the painful emotion of my dog dying have all been discharged. My mother, a depressive alcoholic who couldn't provide proper care; I'm transcending that. My father, a convicted murderer who never offered me anything; I'm leaving that behind too. Society's labeling me as a failure; I can alter that perception. While I may not have achieved much in my life thus far, there's still life ahead of me. Billy Sanders bullied me in the third grade; forget Billy, the fights, and the past. Do you see the path I'm taking here? I'm liberating myself, and as the weight lifts from my shoulders, my determination and happiness surge back with incredible force.

You might find it intriguing, Dr. Nelson, that our minds continue to absorb information even when we're unconscious, much like they do when we're awake. These absorbed details can function as subtle hypnotic suggestions in our waking moments. I had an interesting experience during a root canal procedure while under anesthesia. While I was unconscious, the dentist chatted with his assistant about misplacing his keys that morning. Harmless, one might think. However, I noticed tonight an unusual pattern. Whenever I couldn't find my keys, I'd develop a toothache. Conversely, if I had a toothache, an irrational concern about my keys being lost would nag at me, even though they were safely in my front pocket. It's as if I was unknowingly following a hypnotic command—a truly remarkable phenomenon.

This is just the beginning of an incredible journey. My clarity of thought and the ease with which ideas flow through me have reached unprecedented levels. I find it astonishing that I've never been able to perform this act of mental self-healing before – to delve into my own mind, confront my pain, and simply tell it to take a hike. Picture a world where we could all do this - therapists across the globe would be searching for alternative professions. But let's be blunt; I didn't possess this skill until I learned to perceive it. In the past, I'd bury my issues, and whenever I attempted to confront them, I'd become inundated by the emotional intensity, prompting me to either evade or, in numerous instances, numb it with alcohol or gambling.

Now, let me expand on what I meant earlier when I said that something truly amazing happened.

About an hour ago, Emily woke up, and after a few moments, I could hear her sobbing. I decided to step into her dark room to check on her. My sudden appearance startled her, sending her into a panic, and she hastily turned on the lamp. Here's where things take a sharp turn into the land of the supernatural. I heard the click of the light switch, but the room remained dark. As I stood there, assuming the bulb had gone out, I observed what can only be described as countless trillions of glittering particles emanating from where the bulb should be. These bits slowly filled the room with light, inch by inch, moving in what seemed like slow-motion and high-definition detail. It was akin to witnessing a 3D puzzle assembling itself piece by piece throughout the room. I'm still having a hard time believing it actually happened. Is it possible that I can perceive events faster than the speed of light? I don't know, but it was utterly astonishing. I'm starting to worry if the water I’ve been drinking is spiked with LSD.

As the room fully illuminated, Emily's eyes were fixed on me, wide and unblinking, almost as if she were drawing me in with some kind of magnetic force. Uncertain of what to do, I knelt down beside her bed and gently took her trembling hand. At first, she instinctively pulled away, but I maintained my gentle hold and locked eyes with her. It was as if an irresistible urge compelled me to connect with her on a profound level, much like I had done with my own mind earlier. I couldn't explain this inexplicable urge, but I obeyed it nonetheless. I fixed my gaze intently into her eyes, immersing myself in the depths of her golden-brown irises. It felt akin to peering into a crystal ball, waiting for the white mists to swirl and unveil hidden imagery.

And then it actually fucking happened! Somehow, I was able to plug into her thoughts and I discovered some hidden things about her. What transpired next felt like a dream, it was the same feeling I got after being dosed each morning. I was inside her mind and staring back at me was a scared little girl, isolated within her own turbulent world, suffering from the harsh realities of her life. I could see that cold, distant persona we've come to associate with her isn't the real Emily at all. It's a self-made defense mechanism, a construct designed to ensure no one could ever hurt her again. Her life had been filled with neglect, confusion, and, most painfully, an abundance of remorse.

Images with full 3D motion and sounds flickered before my eyes, each one unveiling a fragment of her traumatic experiences: a little boy floating lifelessly in a pool, a jeering and envious mother, a father who always turned his back, cruel schoolgirls taunting her, a broken heart, and wrists stained with blood. Emily had endured an overwhelming amount of chaos within her. What I saw, and felt, was a girl who had cast aside her true identity, like so many others, and let it fade into oblivion. But right in that moment earlier tonight, she was there again because I had witnessed her true self. I had seen Emily.

In some inexplicable way, she perceived that I knew. She understood that I viewed the withheld accounts of her life. It’s as if she had let me in and needed me to see it. That feeling one gets when they finally unburden their soul, or confess to a crime was felt by both of us. A release of guilt, shame and weight ensued from her. Afterwards, her eyes softened, and they sparkled with a newfound hope I hadn't seen before. I was elated, and still am. We were suddenly like two tuning forks resonating at the same frequency. We seemed to exist in a realm where time held no sway, and the powerful essence of her truth was finally unburdened.

Honestly, I think it was the only real thing either of us had ever experienced. She gently squeezed my hand and let out a deep yawn, as though she were releasing the weight of a thousand burdens from her mind. I drew closer to her, intoxicated by her natural scent, and kissed her forehead. I couldn't find the right words to capture the depth of our shared experience, so I whispered, "It will be okay," as gently as I could. The healed girl radiated what can only be described as “gratitude” towards me as she rested her head on the pillow, finally at peace. I turned off the light and returned to my seat.

Tonight, has been an enlightening journey beyond anything I ever imagined in my life. Perhaps this is what Formula 35C was meant to do for Randy, Ben, Stephanie, Amanda, Chuck, Chester, and Michael. Yet, somehow, it seems to work only for me. Why me?

I hear something…

Oh, shit, I knew it. Rudy just stepped out of his room. The guy's shirtless and in sweatpants, looking like he’s been sleeping in a grease sauna. And the stench – it's like something crawled into him and died. There's also this nasty, blackish haze floating around him, making his already ghastly figure even worse. He's giving me the evil eye, too. Wait... he's about to say something. I'll type and chat at the same time.

"What are you doing out here, Jack?"

"I'm just keeping an eye on the hallway," I reply.

He smirks, and it's not a friendly one. "Vigilant, huh?"

Then, he hits me with this unsettling question, his eyes glinting with something that looks like rage. "So, Jack, are you watching the hallway or keeping tabs on Emily?"

I've had enough of this. "Just move along, Rudy."

But no, he keeps on staring at me, making it super awkward. He doesn't seem to get the message.

Still staring...

"For real, man, go," I finally snap, trying to get my point across.

Reluctantly, he shuffles off towards the bathroom.  Time to close my laptop and prepare to keep watch. Catch you later.

​-Jack

I’m sitting on the couch in the common room, mentally stuck in the aftermath of yesterday's turmoil, the aftershocks of which are still reverberating through the lab. The shock of the events has left everyone in a state of uneasy recuperation. My hope was high this morning, confident that the doctors would deliver news of the experiment's cancellation along with our checks. Yet, this hope was swiftly crushed as their announcement never arrived. Amanda, on the other hand, was officially released from the experiment. She vanished last night while the rest of us slept. Another casualty succumbs to the mounting fuckery of this place.

Ben's descent into madness accelerates with each passing hour. His monologues to himself have worsened, his voice switching into different accents that have made us all feel like we’re in the nuthouse. Currently, just a few feet away, he wears a vacant expression, engaging in a bizarre conversation with himself. I can only imagine the doctors in the video room, meticulously taking notes, their remarks dripping with a feigned profundity. While I can't provide audio due to my laptop video option getting disabled, I'll transcribe what I hear to the best of my ability:

"Are you not entertained, you bloody little bastard?" 

"Many things, not good here, make me ponder, ponder, ponder!" 

"Well, you'd better snap out of it and face reality. Whether you like it or not, you're stuck here." 

"No time for coffee, only pain, only past, only pain, only past, only pain, only..." 

"YOU'VE COMPLETELY LOST YOUR MIND! HAVEN'T YOU, YOU LITTLE WANKAH?" 

"Many things lost, many, many things. Wake up, wake up, wake up!"

I'm at a loss for interpretation and my patience to continue listening is dwindling. Yet, this dialogue offers a window into his deteriorating mental state. When not engaged in this unsettling exchange, Ben is preoccupied with the wall, or he's convulsed with laughter at the ceiling lights. His sanity wall has collapsed, and it's clear that Formula 35C has become his nemesis. 

The prospect of witnessing another victim succumb to the fate that befell Randy is too much to bear. Please understand that mere days ago, Ben was perfectly lucid. The spectacle of someone unraveling right before your eyes is upsetting. The display of one's breakdown into madness is disturbingly contagious. Have you ever seen someone behave irrationally and then sensed a creeping instability in yourself? It's a collective descent into uncertainty; we all grapple with doubts about our own reality, myself included. 

Jeff is my saving grace – he remains blissfully unaffected by the viral psychosis, an anchor that helps me maintain my grasp on sanity.

Emily's perched on the couch, looking like a delicate porcelain statue that's been told to stay still. Not a peep from her since last night. It's like she's used up all her spirit and called it a day. I can't help but wonder what profound life reflections are happening in her head right now. She's from the land of silver spoons and champagne toasts, a place where she was tucked away in a cozy elite bubble. But that bubble got a major pop yesterday. She watched her only buddy here, a fully grown dude, do something batshit insane and off-the-charts terrible to himself. Yeah, I'd say that shattered her little sheltered world.

Honestly, I don't think she's cut out for this rough and tumble stuff. I genuinely feel bad for her, and I'm secretly (or not-so-secretly) missing her snappy trash talk. It was like an unhealthy comfort food, you know? A little bit of snobbish bitchery would make the world feel kinda normal right about now.

And right at this very moment, as I'm treated to Ben's award-winning chicken impression, I've come to terms with the fact that this place and "normal" are no longer on speaking terms.

Jeff's been hitting me up with the eternal question, "Dude, what's the plan? Seriously, what's our fucking plan?" As if I'm holding the secret playbook of life at this point! I've just been feeding him the same line – we're in this, man, so we might as well roll with it. Clock's ticking, only 22 days left on this wild experiment ride. As I've said before... The cool thing about Jeff is he's like an emotional rock, like the one consistent Wi-Fi signal in this crazy place.

Sure, he's kinda running on fumes, and half the time I feel like I'm chatting up an old ashtray, but it's way better than dealing with Ben's bizarre tangents, Emily's silent statue routine, and now, believe it or not, even Lynette's joining the off-the-wall crew.

Lynette, bless her heart, is teetering on the edge of an emotional cliff. Her all-time favorite line seems to be, "I'm too old for this shit, man." She's been chanting this mantra since yesterday, and I've had to constantly remind her that she's only a few spins around the sun ahead of me.

I'm doing my best to be the voice of reason and soothe her stretched nerves, but she's in this strange mode now – like she's on airplane mode and can’t send or receive signals. I even threw in a question about whether the Formula 35C had triggered any kind of effects in her. According to her, nothing – unless you count the heartache of not being able to buzz her kids. It's kind of a silver lining that she's not experiencing any weird side effects. Maybe she's on the placebo train, who knows? But honestly, it's a bit of a buzzkill that she's started to put up these 'Fuck off' vibes.

Walter and Kyle are totally wrapped up in each other. All they go on about is whose team is gonna come out on top. Walter's putting on his holier-than-thou act, and Kyle's playing the devil's advocate. I haven't bothered joining their crazy back and forth – they've made it pretty clear that they're both cosmic elites and have zero interest in chatting with regular folks like us. Dear God, pardon the self-centered plea, but a little smiting wouldn't be the worst idea right now, right?

Seems like they're all gung-ho about being the poster children for opposite ends of the universe. Both of 'em are dead set that they've got the whole situation here under control. It's like a ping-pong match of doom and gloom – trading blows about the world's grand finale and all that fun stuff. Whack…

All things considered, it's a major downer in here, but I'm on high alert these days. It's a must, given the crazy amount of mental strain making the rounds, and those docs don't let us in on a damn thing...

Dr. Nelson, well, he's been wearing his worried face like a giant neon sign. It's clear as day he's catching heat from some higher-ups. No proof to back me up on this, but it's tough to believe these experiments are solely run by lab-coat types. There's got to be a big shot in the shadows pulling the strings, like a pharma giant or a loony billionaire. But what is the endgame here?

I really just don’t understand why the hell this whole thing is still rolling after Randy killed himself? I mean, they must've filled in Randy's wife about the gruesome details, right? She'd surely be raising hell to get some damn answers. But then again, it just hit me like a ton of bricks – we all scribbled our names on those pieces of paper that say we can't point fingers, even from the grave. Do you see the mess that’s building in my mind right now, Dr. Nelson?

Man, I'm hit with this gut-wrenching pang for Randy's kids. They're without their old man now. Who's gonna step in and fill
that void? It's a really sickening feeling in my gut. Dr. Nelson, I know you're reading this, so listen up – it’s high time you admit what’s really happening. Doing the right thing won't hurt, I promise! Give me the lowdown on what the fuck is going on here and if there's a way to put a stop to it.

Ben is quite obviously losing his mind, and we don’t have time to waste before he goes off the deep end. It's just a gut feeling I have and the fact that he’s clearly insane now.

Let's talk about that son-of-a-bitch Rudy. He's practically become one with that olive-green chair, and I'll be honest, he's creeping everyone out. Dr. Nelson, my sixth sense is screaming that he's preparing something seriously bad and dangerous. Like I said yesterday, his eyes seem glued to Emily, and it's starting to feel way more intense than it should be. Call me a pessimist, but I doubt he's just enjoying the scenery. It's like he's cooking some twisted scheme that might threaten her safety. Frankly, I believe it's high time you showed him the door, before things spiral out of control.

I'm here typing, and these vivid thoughts keep popping into my head—Rudy sneaking into Emily's room tonight to do some nighttime choking. And if not tonight, it's coming down the pipeline real soon. Dr. Nelson, you cannot allow that to happen.

You know, another depressing thing about this joint is the total lack of security INSIDE the dorms and community lounge. We've got all these nutcases exhibiting unpredictable behavior, and not a single security guard in sight to keep things from spiraling into chaos. After Randy's little meltdown yesterday, it's clear as day that any of these guys could flip in a heartbeat and turn the place into a murder scene. What's even more chilling is thinking those little black cameras? They might be here to merely record the carnage for the scientists to dissect later. Let me spell it out: those 2 idiot docs that stay overnight, won't lift a finger to stop it. Instead, they'll watch it go down, all in the name of "experimental data." Reality check—we're lab rats. They don't give two shits about us.

So, to cut through the bullshit, it boils down to one thing: we're fucked. So, if the fucking doctors and security detail they have protecting them can’t be bothered to protect us, then I'll shoulder the responsibility for all of us. In fact, I've got this crazy idea—I'm hauling a chair outside Emily's room every single night until we're rid of Rudy. If he dares to get close to her, I won't hesitate to take him down. It might not be the comfiest sleeping arrangement, but sacrifices have to be made. I'm not sure where this newfound courage is coming from, but hey, I'm going with the flow. This might just be the most gallant stint I've pulled off, especially for someone as annoying as Emily.

Whoa, hang on a sec. Feeling a bit woozy here. Need to take a breather, brb.

Just grabbed some water, and something is different. Everything is different.

I can't wrap my head around what's happening. All I did was start daydreaming about being Emily's knight in shining armor, and out of the blue, my body started tingling. Next thing I know, I'm hit with a wave of light headedness. And here I am, right now, feeling like my whole body's buzzing and my head's dissolving the hard numbness I usually feel within it. I swear, I've got goosebumps the size of mountains popping up on my arms as I type this. The room's turned up the brightness dial a few notches, and I'm seeing colors come alive like they’re sentient beings finally ready to communicate with me. I’m either tripping on some serious LSD or maybe I’m dreaming… I don’t know.

I was just hit with a sudden rush of memories in my mind, as clear as daylight and as vivid as if I was actually there. I was back to being 7 years old, seated on the sofa wearing superman pajamas, engrossed in Saturday morning cartoons. The aroma of eggs, bacon, and home fries being prepared by my mother fills the air, while my father works on the car outside. I could actually SMELL the food!

In the midst of this, I hear my mother's voice calling for my father, "John! Darling, come inside, breakfast is ready." She enters the living room, adorned in her lovely blue dress, her smile radiating warmth. During those times, she's not consumed by drinking or smoking, and her skin and hair exude a soft and smooth aura. She's truly beautiful. Her arms encircle me in a gentle hug, and a kiss graces the top of my head. I can sense her love covering me like a comforting blanket. Back then, I might not have fully comprehended its value, but in this moment, I truly do.

This memory remains vivid, revitalizing a dormant part of me—the innocent child with caring parents. The sensation is profound, awakening within me a sense of bliss and warmth that’s been missing for so long.

I need to get away from crazy Ben and lie down to mull this over. Later on tonight, after the lights go off, I need to station myself outside of Emily’s. Doing guard duty means I’ll have plenty of time to truly get a grip on these crazy new revelations.

I’m not exactly sure what Rudy is going to do if he sees me planted in front of Emily’s room, but there’s only one way to find out. I also don’t know if Emily isn't going to be freaked out that I’m out there, but something tells me, she’ll appreciate it.

We shall see.

​-Jack

It's quiet tonight.

Everyone went to bed early because of what happened today. Today might have been one of the worst days of my life. I'm sitting here in my small room, with frayed nerves and pained thoughts. My mind is drowning in a scalding lake of denial; like a forsaken soldier waking up to the sight of his severed legs. The scared child in me just wants to hide under the bed and cry myself to sleep. It's painfully clear that I've hit rock bottom. I put myself in this mess, part of this experiment, and onto a dark, twisted path leading to hell.

Randy took his own life today.

That wasn't an easy sentence to write, and I've been staring at it for an hour before typing this.

I should probably just continue and get it out of my head. I've been thinking about it all day, and it's driving me crazy. I've never witnessed someone's suicide before, and I'll tell you, it's pure evil. I barely knew Randy, but it hurt... it really hurt. And it still hurts.

It happened in the testing room this morning, after the daily dose. Dr. Waters moved over to Randy's chair to unstrap him before anyone else. I was watching the two of them because Randy had been completely silent yesterday and today, and I wanted to see how he reacted to the latest dose. The doctor got Randy's hand straps undone, and suddenly, as fast as lightning, Randy snatched a pen from Dr. Waters' lab coat and plunged it into his own throat multiple times. My heart hurts typing this. Fuck.

My mind can't comprehend... that he stabbed his own throat, and that damned monster, Rudy, was snickering in delight as he did it. The rest of us were horror stricken and completely in shock. Lynette and Emily screamed to high heaven and Jeff started bawling his eyes out. The rest of us just stared in silence.

What’s worse, is when Randy's blood started pooling on the floor, Dr. Waters slipped and fell in it. A sight which made Rudy howl in laughter. I can still hear his shrill voice slicing into my mind like shards of glass. If I hadn't been so disoriented, I would've torn through my restraints and used the same pen Randy used on himself to gouge that demon’s throat.

The vivid image of Randy's suicide and Rudy's contorted face is making me nauseous right now. I can't stop thinking about the blood, man fuck. And we all, just fucking sat there, utterly bewildered, strapped into our chairs, forced to witness the horror while Rudy reveled in his sick enjoyment.

I've never felt so powerless and afraid.

As if that wasn’t enough to deal with, Amanda, once vibrant and alive, now appears to be entrapped within herself. She became completely comatose during the ordeal. Was it triggered by the shocking imagery of Randy's morbid act, or perhaps it was the result of 35C? Regardless of what the cause is she's now completely lost within an abyss of her own mind. The doctors have tried every trick in the book to rouse her, to break through the walls she's built around herself, but all their efforts have been in vain. Now, she's just gone. Gone… along with everyone's sanity.

We're all shattered in our own ways. At least, I can speak for myself when I say that I am completely unraveling. The turmoil within me refuses to find solace in words; my thoughts race like a frenzied tornado, ripping through my mind. Amid this chaos, there's one vivid image that's etched itself into my consciousness: Randy, his own hand thrusting a pen into his throat, the life draining from his eyes like a flickering candle extinguishing in a gust of wind.

I've been looking for any semblance of sanity I can find. I sought out Frank. Since our encounter in the shower room, his words have bothered me. He spoke of the drugs as keys that unlock hidden truths, revealing a reality beyond our perception. This morning, I approached him again, finding him staring intently at the fluorescent lights above the bookshelves. I asked if he was intentionally blinding himself, but he turned to me, his gaze piercing, and uttered, “We’re all blind,” followed by, “it’s all a big lie anyway.” Even his accent seemed to have vanished, replaced by an unsettling neutrality.

"Frank, what the fuck are you talking about?" I demanded, my voice tinged with a mixture of fear and frustration.

"Don’t you see it? Don’t you understand what’s happening?" His words, spoken in an apathetic tone, left me unnerved.

"What, Frank? What?" I pleaded, desperate for clarity. He merely turned away, lost in his contemplation of the lights, as if the world around him had faded into obscurity.

What the fuck is he hinting at? What am I missing?

I'm utterly perplexed by the current state of affairs, and the most distressing aspect is our complete lack of agency to leave this place. I found that out firsthand today when I attempted to leave. After the chaos of Randy's gruesome end, I went up to Dr. Nelson, hoping to leave with my $2100. However, he calmly informed me that the experiment's contractual bindings prevented any of us from departing until its conclusion. What troubles me is the look in his eyes – they're clouded with stress, as if he's carrying a burden he can't unload. For a fleeting moment, I sensed a flicker of desperation, as if he wanted to confess something. It's as if he's a puppet dancing to an unseen master's tune, just like the rest of us. 
And here I am, helplessly stuck in this nightmare.

Our number has dwindled to nine, and the effects are becoming all too evident. Ben, who seemed normal at the outset, has begun to fray at the edges. I was alone with him in the common room, where he began obsessively commenting about the dimness of the lights. He repeated himself multiple times, as if locked in a loop. Frustrated and grieving for Randy, I snapped at him. He stared at me for a moment before breaking into a creepy smile. What's bewildering is that the lights aren't dimmer; if anything, they appear brighter. Perhaps Randy's suicide has taken its toll on Ben, leaving him shaken and disoriented. Honestly, I can't make sense of anything anymore.

Lynette, Walter, Jeff and Kyle haven’t spoken a word. They must be in as great a state of shock as I am. I don’t know how we’ll feel tomorrow, but today is… unbearable. A rush of anger surges through me towards the doctors. You damn doctors better know what you're doing!

Amid the chaos, another figure has me on edge—Rudy. There's something truly scary about him. Beyond his sinister involvement in Randy's death, he's taken to observing us from his seat. I swear, dark shadows seem to coalesce around him, like storm clouds amassing over a raging sea. His unfeeling eyes bore into us, hinting at some malicious plot brewing in his mind. Today, I caught him staring at Emily, a strange fixation that has intensified since our arrival. Though we've all been drawn to Emily, Rudy's gaze feels different—dangerous. I'm convinced he's up to no good.

In light of Randy's tragic demise, my perception of Emily has shifted. Beneath her exterior, I sense a depth of emotion stirred by his death. She's not the shallow persona she initially projected. Today, she confronted Dr. Nelson, demanding release from the program. Her desperation led to tears, and I can't help but pity her. My heart aches for her, and I worry about her safety in this crazy fucking madhouse.

I know my words are being monitored, but I don't care. I'm on the brink of forcibly escaping. Regrettably, the facility is fortified like a fortress, with no visible escape route. The doors leading to the testing room and the hallway are impassable, secured by complex codes and biometric systems. We're trapped, prisoners of our own shitty life choices. The absurdity of our situation is staggering—what happens if a fire breaks out? We haven't been trained for that contingency. Dr. Nelson, I implore you to communicate with me, to provide some answers.

I can't believe I missed the warning signs. I should've taken Carlos Rizetto's offer. I feel this constant stream of regret gnawing at me, dammit! Gambling's price has never been steeper. I should've been job hunting, not throwing dice. The truth is glaring, I'm trapped in this hellhole by my own stupidity. I'm responsible for this mess, alone. How much longer will they keep us here, watching minds unravel and lives extinguish?

I need solitude to reflect on these overwhelming thoughts. And I need to remain vigilant, watching Rudy's every move.

​-Jack

Randy White could not sleep.

The stifling heat caused his forehead to bead with sweat, drops cascading down his face onto a soggy pillow. An aggravated sigh escaped him as he lay on his back, his disheveled hair clung to his head like wet tendrils of despair. Frustration clawed at him, twisting his features into a grimace of torment. His skull once again throbbed with a relentless ache, and in his mind, an image burned like a brand: his wife and children.

Their faces, etched in black and white, stared back at him from within the confines of his tortured mind. The image of his wife and two daughters stood in a room of absolute darkness, an inky void swallowing all but their still faces. Their expressions were frozen in a blank stare that bore into him with an intensity that turned his stomach. An unspoken terror, an accusation of guilt and shame radiated from them, searing into his very soul.

"What the fuck do you fucking want from me"! Randy screamed, spit launching from his mouth.

With a panicked cry, Randy sat up, his drenched hair matted against his throbbing skull. His eyes were wide, ablaze with a mixture of panic and anger, locked onto the haunting image three feet in front of him. "What the fuck is happening?" he bellowed, his voice a mere whisper against the oppressive darkness. The specters of his family didn't move, didn't react to his outburst. Desperation clawed at him as he clenched his fists, striking his legs in a frenzy. Pain jolted through him like electric currents, each strike fueling his agony.

And then the image of his family simply vanished, leaving behind only a chilling emptiness. The drained man allowed a smile to creep across his lips, a soft buzzing calm settling over him like a shroud. Finally, peace, he thought.

But that serenity was shattered by a soft whisper that slithered through the darkness from his left.

​Randy...

His head snapped in that direction, eyes wide with terror. His wife, Sharon, materialized in the shadows. "What the fuck is going on?" His voice quivered, the fear barely contained within his words.

Sharon's form became solid, her voice only inches from his ears. "Are you trapped in another nightmare, Randy?"

"Am I?" Randy's voice trembled, a mixture of hope and dread intertwining in his heart.

"It seems like it. You've been thrashing and turning all night," she replied with an almost dismissive scoff.

Realization slowly dawned on him. This wasn't real. He was still in the drug trial. "I'm dreaming," he murmured, his voice shaky as he exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Yeah, the same old story. Another night, another haunting dream. Ever since you got out of that damn drug trial, this has been your reality. When does it end?" Sharon's words dripped with frustration.

But a nagging doubt lingered in the back of Randy's mind. He studied her body, then turned his gaze around the dim room. Familiar outlines emerged from the shadows – the TV against the far wall, her dresser adorned with knickknacks, and all their personal belongings scattered about. This was their bedroom, a room etched into his memory. "No, I'm inside the trial, dreaming about you," he said, a quiver of uncertainty in his voice.

Sharon laughed, a sound that curdled his blood. "This is ridiculous, Randy. You've been saying the same thing every night. Tomorrow morning, you should call Dr. Nelson. These drug aftereffects are obviously messing with your head."

Randy sat there, grappling with a reality that was slipping through his fingers like sand. He reached out to touch Sharon's face, an attempt to anchor himself in some semblance of sanity. His hand met empty air as she swatted it away, her features contorted into a frown. The eerie familiarity of this scene clawed at his mind.

"I need to see the kids," Randy announced abruptly, his voice strained as he struggled to make sense of the fragments around him.

"Do not wake them up," Sharon's stern voice followed him as he scrambled out of bed. He grabbed his bathrobe from the hook on the closet door, clumsily draping it over his body as he exited the room. The hallway stretched before him, a dimly lit path leading him towards his daughters' bedroom. He slapped his own face repeatedly, a desperate attempt to ground himself in a reality that was swiftly slipping away. Was any of this real? Or was he spiraling further into the abyss of his own broken mind?

The bedroom door creaked open, revealing a scene of innocence and warmth. Two beds, side by side against the far wall, bathed in the gentle glow of a My Little Pony nightlight. Randy's heart skipped a beat as he heard the rhythmic breathing of his daughters, Jenna and Rachel, emanating from within. Relief surged through him, a brittle lifeline in the sea of doubt.

Approaching Jenna's bed, the closer of the two, a swell of joy enveloped him. He gazed upon her sleeping form, her features peaceful in slumber, a lock of blonde hair obscuring part of her angelic face. He reached out to touch her, to reassure himself that this moment was real, that he was anchored in something tangible.

As his hand inched closer, a cold shiver ran down his spine, a premonition of dread worming its way into his gut.

"I told you not to wake them," a voice – Sharon's voice – erupted behind him, like the anguished cry of a vengeful spirit.

Randy's head snapped towards the doorway, his heart pounding in his chest.

There stood Sharon, her presence a morbid spectacle. Her face, once a canvas of beauty, was now an image of horror. Blood streaked across her features, a grotesque mask of suffering. The very sight of her twisted visage sent a wave of nausea crashing over him.

"Sharon, what’s wrong with you? What happened?" Randy's voice trembled, a mixture of disbelief and primal fear seeping through.

She scoffed, her laugh a mix of madness and malice. "Oh, come on, Asshole, you don’t remember?"

"Remember? Remember what?" The question tumbled from his lips, the answer echoing deep within his subconscious, like a forgotten nightmare clawing its way back.

"You killed us, you stupid bastard," she spat, the words dripping with venom.

"Don't you remember, Randall?" hissed his brother Andrew, suddenly appearing in the doorway, his face completely caved in. 

Randy's mind was a whirlwind of rapid images flashing violently through his mind:

His brother, wife, and kids crammed into the car, him at the wheel, but with a drink in hand.

His wife's voice shrilled, "Slow down!" Their kids wailed, anxiety and tears etched on their faces.

Rage consumed Randy; he snapped, "Shut up! Sick of your fucking nagging!"

His brother, Andrew, squeezed between the kids, begged, "Randy, please, stop this!"

Fury consumed him; he slammed the windshield with his fist and screamed. His eyes, a storm of red, the road a blur of gray.

CRACK! The crash echoed.

Bent metal, broken glass and blood on the dashboard. Bodies of his lifeless family, Randy staggers out, moves his wife's corpse to the driver's side, shoves what's left of the passenger door open.

Skyward rage, fists tangled in hair.​

A guttural scream of horror choked in Randy's throat, his mind struggling to process the nightmarish revelation. He turned back to his daughter, a desperate need for solace driving him forward. Just as his fingers were about to make contact, the world shattered. The room dissolved into nothingness, Jenna's form evaporating before his eyes. Panic clawed at him, an unrelenting grip of horror as his surroundings unraveled like a gruesome tapestry.

No, no, no! Randy's mind grated in a futile protest, the anguished cry echoing within the confines of his own consciousness. He pivoted, seeking escape through the door he had entered, but it too vanished into the void. A feeble cry for help fell from his lips, a mere whisper swallowed by the gaping chasm of his mind.

The onslaught continued, the relentless assault of his past misdeeds and buried shame colliding with his mind like a freight train on a collision course. Each memory was a hammer blow, each instance of weakness and cowardice a jagged blade to his soul. He was defenseless, trapped within the vortex of his own consciousness, a prisoner to his own demons.

Randy would scream for help countless thousands of times with no answer. And as the torment raged on, his sanity began to dim. His family, the trial, his own identity – all of it faded into a distant haze. The anguished pleas for help had morphed into an agonized whimper, the remnants of his consciousness swallowed by the abyss.

By the time Randy White awoke the following morning, his mind was a hollow shell. He emerged from his fitful slumber like a wraith, disconnected from himself and his surroundings. The once-familiar faces around him were now strangers, the room foreign and alien. As the morning progressed, the sense of being – of being Randy White – grew dimmer, fading like a distant star.

Randy's movements were sluggish, a mechanical mimicry of life. The loudspeaker's commands guided him, puppeteering his actions with a relentless grip. The people around him, the laboratory itself – all of it seemed distant, unreal, as if he were merely a specter haunting his own existence. The weight of his name, his identity, became more burdensome with each passing moment.

He was too weary to question, too lost to wonder. Who was this "Randy" anyway? The lines between reality and nightmare had blurred beyond recognition. And so, he continued to shuffle through the motions, a ghostly figure caught in the crosscurrents of a reality that no longer held any meaning.

The mindless remnant of Randy White knew what it had to do.

Well, today was a whole different level of fucked up in this loony bin, Dr. Nelson.

It's half past midnight, and sleep is nowhere on my agenda. I finally decided to jot down my thoughts now because earlier, well, I wasn't in the mood for it. My brain is in overload mode, you know?

I kick-started my day with Frank in the shower, and just to clarify, no, it wasn't a shower buddy situation. Found him sprawled on the floor, hot water roasting him like a Thanksgiving turkey. I grabbed the guy, there was this weird flash of light, and bam, he was back from wherever he was. Then he opened his mouth after a silence streak and dropped this "drugs open eyes" wisdom like I was supposed to get it. I tried to nod like I got it, but honestly, I was lost in translation.

After that, we had our morning round of formula 35C, and it was by far the strangest fucking dream scenario yet. I was surrounded by a group of shadow beings or some shit, and you were front and center, throwing a reality-altering proposition at me. Red pill, blue pill kind of stuff, like I'm in a horror remake of the Matrix. Now, I'm aware it's a dream, so I straight up confessed that I'd go for the red pill, unlock some superpowers or whatever. Thought I'd wake up with a cape or something, but nope. Instead, I'm feeling more like a used wet wipe. No superpowers, just a heavy dose of blah. If you’d like to prescribe me something to shake it then I’d suggest coffee and a few smokes.

​Enough about me. Let’s talk about Randy, a case study in radio silence. He's been walking around like he had a lobotomy or something, a real-life zombie without the snack cravings. Even Emily can't crack this code. What's going on? What is this drug doing? I'm about ready to jump out of my skin with worry here. If you can spare a moment from whatever mad science experiment is cooking, I could use some advice. Seriously, Randy's teetering on the edge of losing it, and I don't want to be the one to catch him. Help, please.

Lastly, where are Stephanie, Michael, Chuck, and Chester – seriously, where the hell have they vanished to? It's more than a bit unsettling that they've just up and disappeared. Gone without a trace. Are they in some sort of undercover operation or have they been secretly transported to a loony bin? Can can you throw me a fucking bone here and answer a damn question for once? My mind is tangled in a web of conspiracy theories that could rival JFK and 9/11. Are they off the grid or, worse yet, are they...dead? Did this twisted experiment claim their lives? Did you pull the trigger, Doc?

I've got a thousand dark thoughts swirling in my mind. And again… why the hell can't we make a single call to the outside world? The silence is maddening, and the walls are starting to close in. I don't think I can take this shit much longer. Dr. Nelson, please, I'm begging you, I need some answers. The shadows in this place are growing longer, and I'm on the brink. Get back to me soon.

Hoping for a lifeline,

-Jack

The shrill wail of the alarm roused Jack McCoy from his slumber, stabbing through the silence of his small room. He laid there for several minutes before sitting up on his bed, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. The sound of shuffling feet and raspy coughs drifted from beyond his door, evidence of fellow Subjects roused from sleep.

"Everyone to the main room, now!" Dr. Water's authoritative voice cut through the fog of morning confusion.

Jack yawned and slipped into a fresh pair of scrubs, realizing there’d be no time for him to shower since he’d lingered too long in his bed this morning. Toothbrush in hand, he emerged into the hallway, where he encountered Randy, who gave him a hearty slap on the rear and said, "Mornin' Sunshine."

"You're back, you crazy bastard?" Jack retorted with a grin.

"Damn straight, buddy, and without the headache! They gave me the good pills last night" Randy said with a smile Jack hadn’t seen in days.

“That’s fucking awesome, man!” Jack replied.

“Oh and hey, Chuck and Chester are out! You just got your money back, Jack!” Randy shouted from a distance before entering the common room. Jack responded with a thumbs up and headed to the bathroom.

In the dimly lit bathroom, steam poured from the shower, filling the space with a hazy aura. Jack placed his toothbrush and toothpaste on the sink, then briefly stepped into the nearest stall. The shower's vigorous flow resembled a wet chimney, with mist ascending towards the ceiling.

"Are you trying to turn your skin into soup? Or just embrace the full-on sauna experience?" Jack joked above the torrent of water.

No response.

After flushing and washing his hands, Jack tiptoed toward the still-closed shower curtain, his gut churning with nervousness. He stared at the fabric, his ear straining for any sound beyond the water's rush. When silence greeted him, he took a deep breath, gripped the curtain, and yanked it open.

What he saw sent a shockwave through his body. Frank was curled into a fetal position on the shower floor.

"What the hell!" Jack yelled at him. "Frank, are you okay?"

Frank remained motionless, his eyes staring blankly into the void, his face a mask of sheer terror. Jack reached down to touch his arm, and in that instant, a blinding flash of light engulfed them both.

The light seemed to snap Frank out of his stupor. Jack's shock mirrored his own.

"Frank, what are you doing?" Jack's voice trembled.

Frank stood, hastily covering himself, his expression one of bewilderment.

"What the hell just happened? Was that light real, or am I strapped into that chair right now getting my daily dose already?" Jack wondered aloud, just as the shower's five-minute timer clicked off, cutting the water's cascade.

Frank stared at Jack, his eyes focused but his expression confused. "Drug... open... eyes," he whispered in a thick Japanese accent before abruptly fleeing the bathroom.

Jack stood there, his mind a maelstrom of confusion. He moved to the mirror, squeezing toothpaste onto his brush, and scrubbed at his teeth. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, each one crazier than the last. He rinsed his face with cold water, trying to shake the feeling, but it persisted.

Exiting the bathroom, he entered the common room, where doctors and fellow Subjects congregated in the center. Jack felt a fleeting sense of relief, knowing he wasn't alone, but the nagging questions remained. Dr. Nelson approached him.

"Finally, young man. We've been waiting. Time to begin."

Jack's eyebrows shot up in surprise. His gaze swept the room, landing on Frank huddled in a corner, lost in thought. When Dr. Nelson locked eyes with him, something seemed off—an unnatural twitch in the doctor's eye.

"What aren't you telling us about this drug?" Jack questioned, suspicion rising.

Dr. Nelson blinked, his eye twitching. "Why do you say that?"

"Forget it, for now," Jack dismissed, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. "I'll just write about it later in my journal."

As Jack joined the group, he found Randy. But something lingered in the air—an unease, a sense that something out of the ordinary was happening to all of them. Dr. Nelson's gaze remained fixed on Jack, like a riddle waiting to be unraveled.

“Everyone pay attention right now!” Dr. Waters shouted.

Jack exchanged a concerned look with Randy before joining the huddle of Subjects. The room seemed charged with an undercurrent of tension, a palpable sense that something was out of sorts. Frank's distant stare and Dr. Roberts sudden hostile command didn’t sit well.

Dr. Nelson stepped forward, his demeanor grave. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to embark on a crucial phase of the trial. As you know, the drug's effects are intensifying, leading to unforeseen consequences."

Murmurs of concern rippled through the group. Jack's mind raced, the memory of Frank's strange episode in the shower replaying like a broken record.

"We have entered uncharted territory," Dr. Nelson continued, his tone heavy with gravity. "We need your cooperation and feedback now more than ever. Document everything, no matter how trivial it may seem. We need to understand the full spectrum of effects, both physical and psychological."

Jack exchanged glances with Randy again, a silent swapping of shared apprehension. Both of them with conjured thoughts of Chuck and Chester. This whole experiment was taking a turn down a dark and unsettling path.

"You may experience hallucinations, vivid dreams, or even psychological time distortions," Dr. Nelson warned, his gaze sweeping over the assembled group. "We're committed to understanding the varied effects of this drug, but we need your unwavering commitment too."

Jack realized then that Chuck and Chester truly were gone. He didn’t dare ask about them in front of the group, but the idea of less people in the experiment sent a bolt of panic down his spine.

Dr. Roberts entered with the cart of protein shakes, water and vitamins in tow.

“Now everyone please take your morning sustenance then proceed to the testing room." Dr. Nelson ordered and left the room.

As the briefing concluded, Jack found himself drawn to Frank, who once again sat alone in a corner, staring blankly into space. He approached cautiously, his concern growing. "Frank, are you okay?"

Frank turned to Jack, his eyes still carrying a glint of that earlier terror. "Mind... show... truth."

Jack frowned, puzzled by Frank's strange words. "What do you mean, Frank?"

But before he could get an answer, Dr. Roberts clapped his hands, demanding everyone's attention. "Subjects, please head to the testing room. The next session is about to begin."

Minutes later everyone was in the “white room.” Jack settled into his chair and was quickly given his pill by the ever-irritable Dr. Rogaine. He laid there deep in thought staring at the ceiling. The bright cold lights seemed to dance before his eyes and before long he was seeing random imagery. The images that played were a kaleidoscope of colors, shapes, and patterns, accompanied by a hypnotic hum that seemed to burrow into his brain.

Jack felt a growing unease, as if the images were trying to pry into his thoughts, unravel his psyche. He stole a glance at Randy, who seemed to be wrestling in his sleep. Within minutes, the room's walls slowly closed in on him, his heart pounding in his chest.

Just as the images took a particularly chaotic turn, a flash of light exploded in the center of the room. Jack's vision blurred, his mind a whirlwind of colors and sensations. He felt his body swaying, disconnected from reality, caught in a hurricane of distorted perceptions.

When the chaos finally subsided, Jack found himself standing in the center of a room, surrounded by a group of shadowy figures. His heart raced as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. Were these people real, or were they mere figments of his imagination?

"Welcome, Jack," a voice echoed through the chamber.

Jack turned, his eyes widening in shock. Before him stood Dr. Nelson, his eye twitching in an unsettling rhythm. But there was something different about him, something strange and alien, as if it were only the illusion of Dr. Nelson.

"What is this? Where am I?" Jack's voice trembled.

"You've entered a realm where the boundaries of reality and imagination merge," Dr. Nelson's voice seemed to come from all directions. "We are the architects of this game, the weavers of the real, and of dreams and nightmares."

Jack's mind raced as he tried to process the surreal encounter. This couldn't be real, it had to be a hallucination brought on by the drug. Yet, the sensation of the cold floor beneath his feet, the distant hum that reverberated through the air—all felt too vivid to be a dream.

"We are here to unravel the truth of the human mind and soul, to unlock the hidden chambers of the past, present and future," Dr. Nelson's words were both hypnotic and menacing.

"Why? What's the purpose of all this?" Jack's voice quivered.

"Knowledge, Jack. Power. The ability to shape reality itself," Dr. Nelson's eye twitched, casting an eerie glow across his face. "But to proceed, you must make a choice."

Jack's heart pounded as he stared at the Dr. Nelson imposter before him. A choice? What was he talking about? Fear mingled with curiosity, pulling him in conflicting directions.

"The drug you've ingested has opened a gateway in your mind, Jack," Dr. Nelson's voice grew more insistent. "You can either walk through it, become a master of your own reality, or you can return to the restrictions of your former existence, none the wiser."

A choice that held the promise of power and knowledge, yet shrouded in uncertainty. Jack's mind raced as he grappled with the decision that loomed before him. The shadows danced around him, their whispers echoing in the chamber, urging him to choose.

And as he stood on the precipice of this surreal juncture, the world around him shimmered, reality and illusion intertwining in a dizzying storm. Jack's breath caught in his throat, his pulse racing, and he uttered two simple words:

​"All-In."

What a fucking day, man.

We finally got a taste of the outdoors. They've got this courtyard dead-center in the lab, and we were all escorted out there after our dosing this morning. The air was ice-cold, gnawing at our skin, but damn, it was a welcome sight to see the sky, even if it was painted in dark, brooding shades. You could almost feel the weight of those clouds pressing down on us.

Everything was fine and dandy at first. I was with Ben, Randy and Jeff by the entrance.

"Anybody else dealing with a headache?" Randy asked. He's been nursing one for over a day, and the agony was practically painted across his face.

"I'm in the clear on the headache front, but I've got a major case of the shits," Ben chimed in.

"Randy, you holding up alright?" I asked, genuine concern coating my words.

"My head's a fucking furnace, man. Don't know about you guys, but these drug sessions... they're like crazy and fucking weird. Mine are all twisted images of death, my death! Over and over and over. I’ve died a thousand times since we started this shit. I also see soldiers in different wars with their heads blown off and nuclear bombs blowing up cities. Some seriously weird shit," Randy admitted.

"I'm right there with you. In mine, it's either being devoured by hordes of people, not zombies, real people, or I'm drowning, burning, all kinds of morbid shit. It’s fucked." Jeff chimed in, his voice laced with a note of fear.

Personally, I'd been swimming in a whirlpool of crazy images and sounds too, but it isn’t centered around death. Mostly, things I can’t even describe. I decided to keep that particular chapter to myself.

"What the fuck are Chester and Chuck up to?" Randy exclaimed; his gaze fixated on the courtyard.

I turned my attention to see Chester and Chuck tailing Emily and Lynette, shouting after them. The girls seemed far from thrilled.

As it turned out, Chester and Chuck had formed an unlikely duo. This revelation was quite the twist, especially given our perception of Chuck as a semi-decent dude. But Chuck was clearly pulling a 180 today, and the same went for Chester. His hormone levels had apparently hit DEFCON 5. He'd been at it since the morning dose, practically throwing a party for his private parts. That drug had certainly stirred things up. As for Chuck, he was on a military lingo roll, barking orders like we were in a boot camp straight out of Full Metal Jacket.

And there they were, trailing behind Emily and Lynette who were sauntering through the courtyard, soaking in the cold air.

"Hey Emily, got a boyfriend?" Chester's voice rang out.

Emily, seemingly unimpressed by Chester's advances, chose to give him the silent treatment.

Chuck jumped in with his own flair, "Chester is talking to you, private!"

Lynette, not having any of it, responded with "Get lost, asshole."

This seemed to trigger Chuck's irritation. Chuck's voice thundered, "Stand at attention, now!"

The situation was on the express train to the Land of Weird.

"Could I be your boyfriend? How about we go to your room?" Chester continued, addressing Emily directly. She halted, her gaze shifting to Chuck, panic painted across her features.

"Hey, you ignoring me, bitch?" Chester growled, his face stern.

Emily turned to leave. Lynette took it upon herself to step in, forming a blockade against Chester. However, boundaries were apparently not part of Chester's vocabulary. He shoved Lynette aside, leaving her sprawled on the ground.

In an unexpected twist, Amanda, who'd been observing from a few paces away, surged toward Chester.

"Keep your hands to yourself, you douchebag, or I'll—"

"You’ll do what, huh?" Chester's roar pierced the air. Chuck, from behind, gave Amanda a rough shove, refocusing his attention on Emily.

Enter, Randy the Savage, who by now had seen enough.

He charged straight at Chester, bowling him over and then launching into a frenzy of punches. The girls cried out, "Randy, stop!" Chuck joined the action, his kicks directed at Randy, who was fueled by an overwhelming fire.

By this point, it was a full-blown melee, a fracas of epic proportions. I tried to wrest Randy off Chester, but he thrust me away as if I were a mere piece of paper. The man is strong, that was clear. Randy's face was red with rage, and he was shouting into Chester's face as he rained blows down on him.

Jeff and Ben had their hands full with Chuck, but it seemed like they were on the losing end of that struggle.

I spotted Kyle, the self-appointed devil incarnate, frolicking about, cackling away and serenading us death metal screams.
Walter was nowhere to be seen, but his voice wafted from the depths of the chill air, quoting scripture like the apocalypse was upon us. His Southern drawl provided a bizarre soundtrack to the chaos: "Yea, though I walk through the valley—"

Suddenly, the door burst open, and four security guards rushed in like a swat team, swiftly restoring order and separating us. Chester was looking like a trainwreck, Randy's eyes were wild and bloodshot, his fists battered and bruised. Chuck was on his knees, hands behind his head.

"It was the girl's fault, he just wanted some action," Chuck yelled. Is it just me or is that not the most absurd justification for sexual harassment?

The girls collectively voiced their grievances, all hinting at Chester's inappropriate behavior. The three men were herded back inside, and five minutes later, the rest of us were escorted back to the common room.

Randy, Chester, and Chuck were conspicuously absent inside. I'm on edge about Randy's fate.

Rudy, ever the observer, had never joined the outdoor escapade. He lounged indoors, a smug grin plastered on his face. He cast a knowing glance over us and taunted, "Look at you pitiful fools, can't even behave like good little lab rats."
I responded with a scowl. Also, it's worth noting, he looked somewhat slimmer, as if he'd shed some weight.

So here I am in my little room, waiting to hear the aftermath. Dinner's in an hour, fingers crossed that Randy's back by then. Chester and Chuck? I couldn't care less if they get booted. At least I won't be dishing out that $1200 to Chester if he's kicked out.

​-Jack

This place is starting to smell like shit, man, seriously.

​I've been searching high and low for a cleaning crew in this dump since we set foot here, and I'm at the point where I'm about to organize a one-man protest for cleaner air. Randy used to wield a mop, for crying out loud. Can't we just throw him some cleaning supplies and let him work his janitorial magic? I'm willing to bet he'd do it for the price of a Happy Meal. The guy is practically ready to trade his sanity for a side of French fries. And let's talk about the personal hygiene of some of these people – or the lack thereof – and "some of these people" is code for Rudy.

Rudy is a fucking scumbag, and his troubles run deep. He's practically cemented in the olive green armchair no one will sit in, casting an unsettling, psycho gaze upon us that even Hannibal Lecter might envy. The stench he emits is potent enough to floor you from a good ten feet away. Dr. Nelson, I implore you, wield your authority and mandate that this man engage in some proper hygiene.

Before I get to the drama that unfolded, let me tell you some positive news.

I thought this morning's psychological tests would be tough, but I'm happy to report I did better this time. The aptitude tests didn't drag on like before, and even the math part wasn't as bad as I expected, even though I haven't touched math since 8th grade. My reading and vocabulary have always been strong, but lately, I've felt sharper mentally. It could be because I've cut back on gambling, drinking, and smoking, which seems to have cleared my head. Or maybe the pills are giving me a cognitive boost.

I'd also like to report that today's dose seemed to have gone really well for me.

I was briefly transported back to the dream realm, but instead of dreams, I relived old memories I didn't even know were still there. I went back to an early Christmas with my mother and father, before she drank, and he was too far gone. It was happy. I must have been two years old or so. I was there, in my 2-year-old body, but with all my present awareness. Dr. Nelson, it's worth considering that this treatment might have potential benefits in restoring memory and addressing Alzheimer's disease. I'm speaking from my personal experience, of course.

On the other hand, Lynette's been consistently short-tempered since our morning dosage. This afternoon, while I was relaxing on the couch next to Jeff, I witnessed her confront Dr. Roberts because she couldn't make a call to her kids.

"When will you allow us to call our kids?" She snapped at him.

In response, Dr. Roberts retorted without even giving her a glance, "External communication is restricted for the duration
of the trial." His response further escalated her anger.

"Excuse me! Don't you think it's common courtesy to make eye contact while someone is speaking to you?" She yelled, clearly exasperated.

Dr. Roberts turned towards her, and his face reddened slightly. "Once the trial concludes, you'll have the opportunity to contact your family for pickup," he said in a rehearsed tone before walking away.

Lynette let out her frustration by punching the couch cushion and uttering “robot ass motha-fucka”. 

The exchange highlights a larger issue – we're forbidden from communicating with the outside world throughout our stay here. This limitation triggers a straightforward question: What's the reasoning behind this communication ban?

Last thing I'll report, Walter and Randy were at each other’s throats after dinner. Walter has been exhibiting some very strange behavior as you recall from our little group session the other day. I had my laptop record the whole incident on video just so I could retype the conversation exactly as it happened. While it seems the pills, or abstinence is enhancing my own mind, Walter and Randy are on a completely different wavelength.

Walter keeps saying that we’re all dead and actually in hell. Randy, who’s been suffering from a headache since yesterday is pretty fed up with it. Today, Walter, sounding like a southern preacher, was getting crazier and crazier about it, quoting revelations and shit. Randy almost punched him, save for Emily and I both holding him back.

It went like this:

Randy (face red) You've got to be fucking kidding me, Walter, I can't believe you're still going on about this whole 'we're all dead and in hell' bullshit."

Walter (hyper as fuck) I'm telling y'all, Randy, it's the goddamn truth! Look around, damn it! This place is too damn weird to be real. We ain't in some fancy drug trial. We're in the afterlife, serving out our damn punishments.

Randy (through gritted teeth): Walter, I swear, if you keep preaching your fairytale bible shit, I'll give you a reason to believe it.

Walter (passionately): Randy, you've got to open your eyes, man! This ain't no ordinary trial. We're in the afterlife, mark my words.

Me (calmly intervening): Come on, guys, let's not escalate this.

Emily (trying to soothe Randy): Randy, just breathe. He's not worth the trouble.

Ben (excitedly narrating): And here we have Randy, ready to throw down, and Walter, the hellfire preacher. This is one intense spiritual showdown, folks!

Jeff (chuckling): Oh man, this is better than Netflix.

Randy (clenching his fists): Walter, my head's pounding like a jackhammer, and your fucking crazy talk ain't helping! Get the FUCK AWAY FROM ME!

Walter (raising his voice): The pain is just a taste of the inferno we're in, Randy! We're the damned, I tell ya!

Me (firmly): Walter, this isn't helping anyone. Let's all take a step back.

Emily (whispering to Randy): Don't give him the satisfaction, Randy. He's just trying to rile you up.

Walter (pointing to an empty chair): Where's Stephanie and Michael, huh? They're burning, Randy! And we're next in line for the inferno!

Ben (enthusiastically narrating): The tension's rising, folks! Randy's restraint is admirable, and Walter's determination is unshakeable.

Jeff (grinning): Pass the popcorn, this is golden.

Randy (clutching his head in agony): Walter, you're pushing your luck, motherfucker.

Walter (raising his fists for the first time in Randy’s face): You better watch your damn mouth boy, or it’s gonna get real ugly in this place!

Me (authoritative): That's enough, Walter. Get the hell back to your side of the room. Randy, take a walk.

Emily (to Randy): Let's go.

Ben (enthusiastically narrating): And the referee, Jack, steps in to cool things down. Emily's support for Randy is unwavering.

Jeff (chuckling): I can't believe they're going at it like this.

Walter (staring at Randy): "You'll see... you'll all damn see..."

After the showdown, they both distanced themselves. Randy was a heartbeat away from murdering him, I’m sure of it. I think the bottom line is, we’re all pretty out of it right now. The place stinks to high heaven, we’ve not seen outside in days, and honestly Doc, there’s nothing to do.

I'm having a random thought about my father again... I wonder if this is how he feels, being locked up. I kinda pity the guy, but then again, not really. He was a pro at offing people for cash. Mom tried to justify it, claiming he only took out the trash, but come on. Can’t people change if given the chance? He definitely didn't have a VIP pass to play God. I mean, seriously. Sometimes I wonder, if he'd just been your average, run-of-the-mill dad, would I be this screwed up? Chances are slim.

I’m gonna hit the hay for the night; maybe I'll snag one of those books and give it a read for a change. It's been over two years since I actually cracked open a book. My brain's in "clear-as-day" mode lately, thanks to the sheer joy of being mind-numbingly bored. 
​
Actually, I think I’ll quickly go play the big brother and check up on Randy. His mood's a little unstable and I’m worried. Plus, I’m getting a little jealous that Emily is giving him so much attention. She’s still a class A bitch, but she was a rockstar at helping me defuse a potential homicide today.

Catch you on the flipside,

​-Jack

John McCoy lay on the lower bunk of his prison cell, engrossed in The Art of War, attempting to find solace within its strategic words. The sound of rowdy prisoners reverberated through the cellblock, a constant reminder of the world he was confined within.

“John, you’ve got a visitor,” the guard's cold voice broke through his concentration.

John looked up from his book, his face etched with detachment. "Who?" he inquired, his voice steady.

“A lawyer,” the guard responded bluntly.

John's brows furrowed in mild annoyance. "Tell him to go to hell," he retorted, his stoic demeanor unshaken.

“It’s Carlos Rizetto’s lawyer,” the guard's response was tinged with a note of anticipation.

John closed the book, sighing as the weight of inevitability hung heavy in the air. He slowly rose from his bunk and stood before the guard, who watched with a hint of trepidation. The officer stepped aside, motioning for John to exit his cell.

As the guard led him through the prison complex, his tall frame and piercing blue eyes drew cautious glances. Prisoners near him instinctively gave him a wide berth, a testament to the respect he garnered. John's expression remained impassive, hiding the tumultuous emotions that churned within him.

Upon reaching the visitor area, John spotted Mr. Limon, the mob attorney who was a regular visitor.

“Hello John,” Mr. Limon greeted, his voice smooth and controlled. He was a small man with glasses and slicked-back hair, an air of calculation surrounding him.

“Tell Mr. Rizetto, I’ve kept my mouth shut,” John's tone was cold, the words a rehearsed mantra.

“He's well aware, Mr. McCoy, otherwise you wouldn’t be standing here,” the lawyer's response was casual, but the implication was far from it.

John's gaze locked onto Mr. Limon, his features a mask of calm and detachment. “Then what do you want?”

“Please, have a seat, John,” Mr. Limon gestured towards the chair across from him.

John complied, his eyes never leaving the lawyer's face.

The lawyer maintained eye contact, a faint smile playing on his lips. “How's everything on your end? Are the monthly deposits being made into your account?”

John nodded, his gaze unwavering, revealing nothing.

“That’s good to hear. I’m here to discuss your son, Jack,” Mr. Limon's tone shifted, his demeanor growing more serious.

John's knuckles whitened as his fists clenched slightly, his eyes narrowing in anticipation of the lawyer's words.

“Don’t worry, he’s safe… as far as we know. We can’t seem to locate him, which is why we’re here. John, he's amassed quite a debt—around $6000 to Mr. Rizetto,” the lawyer's words were matter-of-fact.”

“Deduct it from my monthly stipend,” John's response was curt, his voice devoid of emotion.

“That won’t even cover the vig, John. There's a faster way to resolve this debt, a way that aligns with your skillset, if you catch my drift,” Mr. Limon's voice was laden with implication.

John's jaw clenched, his disapproval evident in the tension radiating from his body.

“Who?” he uttered through gritted teeth, his curiosity tinged with a dangerous edge.

The lawyer leaned in, whispering the name into John’s ear, prompting the guard to bark, “Keep your distance!”

John's stern gaze held steady, "His debt is wiped, after this.".

“His debt will be absolved,” the lawyer affirmed, standing up as he did so.

John's grip on the table's edge tightened, his voice low and firm. “It wasn’t a question.”

With a nod from the lawyer, John watched as Mr. Limon walked away, leaving him with a sense of inevitability and a heaviness in his heart.

Returning to the general population, John scanned the room until his gaze landed on a man with dark hair. The man was engaged in lighthearted conversation with another inmate, unaware of the intensity of the gaze that bore down on him. After a moment, the man noticed John's unrelenting stare, and he responded with a wave and a tentative smile.

​John nodded solemnly in response, a mixture of emotions churning within him. As the man continued to joke with his fellow inmate, John's thoughts swirled in a whirlwind of decisions and responsibilities, a reminder that even within the confines of prison, his past continued to shape his present.

It’s 2:22 AM and I can’t sleep. My brain's partying like it's 1999, and I'm just here, wide awake, regretting every life choice that led me to this moment.

The main culprit? Michael's crazy escapade. Seriously, his "let's gouge out my own eyes" performance is on loop in my head. I've tried rebooting my noggin, but it's like a bad acid trip that won't end. Dr. Nelson when you read this, I’d like to get a prescription for sleep aids, pretty please.

Wish I could just teleport myself back home and ask Willy if Rent-A-Center finally picked up their stuff from my place. Seriously, could I be any dumber? Why not just teleport directly inside my place to see for myself? Why do I have to ask Willy? Wait, if I'm going to teleport anywhere, it should be into a bank vault. But wait, then how would I teleport out? Why not just teleport to some remote tropical island where all my worries would be gone? Damn, overthink sucks.

Focus, Jack, on the actual issues here. What's really keeping me up? I've got a hunch it's those damn gambling debts. Those bookies are probably lining up outside my tiny studio, ready to collect. Those Rizetto goons are like clockwork visitors. They're not too rough on me for now, probably out of respect for my Pop, who's doing time. But their patience's wearing thin as evidenced by my last encounter with them where they hit me with a 2-ton SUV. Not cool.

The Rizettos are the neighborhood overlords, running this city Godfather-style. Whitey Bulger's got nothing on these guys. What's even crazier? Pop was their top hitman. Wrap your head around that. Speaking of crazy, I remember Dad showing up at my third-grade class pretending he was a plumber. Total embarrassment, man. All the other dads were heroes in uniform, and I had the secret assassin for a father pretending to be one of the Mario brothers. Thanks, Pop.

The guy was MIA through most of my childhood, busy doing hits for Carlos Rizetto. He missed Little League games but aced the assassination scene, you know? My dad was a top-tier hitman, a legend according to some. Then, one slip-up during an FBI operation and he's caught red-handed. The Feds wanted him to rat on the Rizetto bosses, but he never said a word.

I haven't visited Dad in ages. What do you say to a guy you hardly know? He wasn't around much. Mom only spilled details when we had to hide out at grandma's, fearing Rizetto foes. Weird stuff that made zero sense.

Carlos Rizetto once gave me a shot at earning, assuming I inherited Pop's loyalty. Tempting, given my debts, but I'm not that guy. Not a killer like Pop. I might fib a bit to the debt collectors or get wild in a tight spot, but I try to do right. Plus, it would break Mom's heart, and despite her issues, I care. She's hanging on, thanks to Pop's stash. Once I'm debt-free, I'll help her out and maybe get her into AA.

Hold up a sec, this conversation is off the record, right? If not, disregard everything. Can't risk testifying or some crap. Consider me the court jester. Everything above is pure fiction.

Anyhow, before I went full dumpster fire, I was an honest suit-and-tie guy, selling stuff at Interstellar Communications. Hitting the streets, Caramel Macchiato in hand, peddling our phone and internet packages. If I hit quotas, I'd bank some decent pay. But I got tired of dealing with pompous jerks. Some were cool, but those anti-salesman types made my life hell. Sales... It's one of those gigs that you're forced into if you skip college. Dropping out seemed cool then, but now? Lab rat Jack here.

After I got the boot from stability, I cashed in on unemployment. Later, I went full tilt, gambling away my lifeline like an idiot. Not the smartest, huh? Addicts don't think straight. You dive so deep that your brain tricks you into thinking a jackpot's the only salvation. Spoiler: I never hit the jackpot, just a jackpot of losses. The losing streak from hell. I even believed I was "due." Dream big, right? Wrong. Those alley bums you see in every big city? They're probably dreamers too. What's worse? I could've job-hunted instead of betting my future. But I didn't. So, here I am, the grand lab rat in an experiment. Stuck in a prison environment, just like dad.

Honestly, I'm in a crazy mental zone. Rock bottom's got a new meaning now. Ever question your sanity? I do. I ponder "who am I?" and "what's my damn problem?" all the time. It's hell, a straight-up nightmare. Need a hint, Docs? Some guidance?

Anyway, gotta attempt sleep.

​-Jack

(8 Days before Orientation Day)

"And let me tell ya, that's when I knew I was never gonna gamble again," Ron declared, his voice quivering as he recounted his tale of woe. He was a burly, bearded figure, eyes glistening with a mix of regret and relief, seated within the small circle of fellow degenerates at the Gambler's Anonymous meeting that frosty morning.

The assembly was sparse, consisting of just five individuals who had braved the aftermath of a Boston snowstorm. Despite the chill outside, Jack McCoy was there. At 37, Jack McCoy was a captivating mix of Irish and Italian descent. Towering slightly over six feet, he had thick raven-black hair that reached down to the middle of his neck. His light blue eyes emanated a welcoming warmth when he smiled. The young man was not at the meeting out of any sincere belief that he belonged, but more for the promise of warmth, donuts, and free coffee – a trifecta of comfort that he couldn't find at home, where he’d lost his rights to electricity for failing to pay the bill. 

"Thank you for sharing, Ron. And hey, maybe someday your daughter will look past the college fund fiasco and give you a shot at redemption," chimed Aaron, offering a mix of empathy and skepticism, his eyebrows slanted in two different directions. "Now, is there anyone else who wants to talk this fine morning and wrap this up?" He locked eyes with Jack, practically challenging him to contribute.

Jack's gaze lingered on his scuffed and dirty boots, remnants of a snowy journey to the meeting. With a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand bad decisions, he finally lifted his head. "Look, I get it – I've probably said this before but hear me out. I think this might be my last fucking meeting."

The group hushed, a collective silence broken only by a snicker from Vic, who sat on Jack's right. The snicker bordered on incredulous disbelief, a sound so distinct it could've been bottled and sold as mockery.

In response, Jack shot Vic an irked glance, then turned his attention to the others. "This morning, folks, I woke up to find this damn eviction notice plastered on my door. Can you believe those fucking bastards?" He paused, frustration etching lines on his forehead. "I can't stomach the thought of being homeless. I refuse to be another statistic. I've got to fight back – do it the hard way, cold turkey."

Aaron sat up a bit taller in his chair, a hopeful grin tugging at his lips as he directed his encouragement toward Jack. "You've got this, Jack. Remember the old saying – if you don't rein yourself in, life's gonna come along and slap some sense into you." With a final authoritative nod, the group leader rose to his feet. "That's a wrap for today, everyone. Thanks for coming out. Now scuttle back home before the storm decides to get feisty again."

After the meeting concluded, everyone departed, leaving Jack as the lone inhabitant of the room. The meeting had infused him with a renewed sense of hope. His pal, Vic, who shared his gambling woes, had excitedly rambled on about a seemingly "golden opportunity" before the meeting had started. This peculiar prospect involved an advertisement Vic had stumbled upon on Craigslist. The ad hailed from a laboratory seeking individuals willing to take part in an experimental drug study, with a tempting compensation of $300 per day.

"Can you fuckin' believe it, Jack? Three hundred bucks a day! That'll get those fucks off your back!" Vic exclaimed with an enormous grin plastered on his face.

Jack raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You sure it's not some kind of scam? What if it turns out to be a con?"

Vic shrugged off his concerns, laughing. "Ah, come on, dumbass! What do you have to lose, you fuckin’ loozah?"

Jack contemplated the eviction notice haunting his door and found it hard to present a convincing counterargument. He took a gulp from his Styrofoam cup, or as he liked to call it, "black sludge," and made a face at the subpar coffee. He and Vic spent the next hour dissecting the opportunity in depth. Eventually, they shook hands, united in their hopes of participating. Jack, an old-hand gambler laden with debts to some unsavory characters, saw this as a much-needed "get out of jail free" card.

Leaving the meeting, Jack devised a plan: he would kick his gambling habit, snag a Sunday newspaper to scour job listings, and then throw his hat into the ring for the drug trial. If he managed to secure a spot in the trial, his intention was to line up a job for after its conclusion, hopefully steering his life back onto a more normal course.

The city streets were coated in a fresh layer of snow, a scene that was both mesmerizing and bone-chilling. The cold penetrated to his core, leading Jack to question the wisdom of not hitching a ride with Vic. As he trudged on, he mused about how long he could survive in a wintery climate if forced to live on the streets. He also thought about living with his drunken mother but banished the idea immediately.

Fifteen minutes into his journey, Jack arrived at "Brown Street Goods," a small market that promised temporary warmth. With determination, he cleared the entrance of snow and managed to get the door open against the wind's resistance. The bell above the door jingled merrily as he stepped inside, and the door slammed shut behind him, shutting out the cold winds.

In this haven of warmth, Jack's mood improved significantly. He felt the blood returning to his frozen extremities, and he couldn't help but smile. With a sense of relief, he removed his earmuffs and stowed them in his pocket, ready to tackle the next part of his adventure.

The store had a charmingly worn look, a dingy tile path leading to the register. Flanked by double-sided shelves holding familiar items – candies, chips, toilet paper, cat food, and the beloved canned Beefaroni and Spaghetti-O's. Classic convenience store goods, though triple the grocery store's prices. The aroma of freshly brewed hazelnut coffee tickled Jack's senses, inviting him to grab a cup alongside the newspaper.

​Guilt nibbled at him as he noticed the trail of slushy footprints he'd left behind. When he reached the counter, he rubbed his frigid hands together and cleared his throat, facing William, a seasoned silver-haired clerk. The elderly man welcomed Jack with a sly wink and a small grin nestled beneath his bushy mustache.

"How's it going? Cold enough for ya?" the clerk chimed in.

"Tell me about it, it's downright brutal out there. This winter's a real piece of work. Sorry about tracking in the mess," Jack replied, rubbing his hands together to stave off the chill.

"Don't you worry, son. Cleaning's become my main form of entertainment these days. Looking for some smokes?" the clerk inquired.

"How 'bout a job?" Jack threw back, a half-smile gracing his lips.

"Well, if only business were booming. Economy's not exactly throwing a party right now. How long you been on the job hunt?" The old clerk's curiosity peeked through the mustache that adorned his weathered face.

Jack frowned and sidestepped the question, focusing on restoring feeling to his frozen nose. "Just give me a pack of those Camels, and if you've got a Sunday paper left, throw that in too."

The seasoned clerk nodded and retrieved the cigarettes. "Single pack or doubling down? You know, you get a deal with two."

"Just one for now," Jack answered.

William placed the cigarettes on the counter and leaned over to fetch a slightly used Sunday paper. "Eight bucks for the smokes and the paper's on the house. Just finished reading it," he said as he rang up the order.

Jack's face brightened, appreciating every chance to save a few bucks. As he reached for his wallet, his eyes caught the display of scratch tickets to his left. He'd spotted them upon entering the store but quickly averted his gaze to stave off the temptations that haunted him. Jack was determined never to waste money on gambling again, but then an idea flickered into his mind. "Hey, Sir, how much would that paper really cost me?"

"Two bucks, but don't sweat it, kid," the old man grinned, offering a wink.

"Well, that's not quite where I'm headed with this. I'm thinking of taking your kindness and testing my luck. How about a two-dollar scratcher?" Jack suggested with wide-eyed enthusiasm.

"Hmm, alright. Which one's your pick, son?"

"You make the call, old man," Jack responded promptly, his eyes locked on the case. He couldn't help but notice the ticket promising "$2,000 a week for life," and his mind painted a vivid picture of the dream life it offered. Still, not wanting to jinx himself, Jack decided to let the clerk choose for him. As expected, the old man selected a different ticket, not the one Jack had felt particularly "good" about. Yet, he decided to stick with the clerk's choice, reasoning that his luck had never exactly been a winning streak. The ticket landed on the counter, a penny placed atop it.

"That's ten bucks, all in," the clerk stated.

Jack pulled out a well-worn debit card from his wallet and handed it over.

"I can put the cigarettes on the card, but for the ticket, I need cold cash."

"Damn it… got an ATM around here?" Jack asked through gritted teeth.

"Sure do, it's in the back. But there's a three-buck charge, mind you. So, this ticket's setting you back five bucks," the clerk warned.

"Well, let's hope I hit the jackpot then!"

Jack hustled to the back of the store, inserted his card into the ATM, and reminded himself not to let the gamble spiral beyond the "free ticket" he was getting. The state of Massachusetts had been coughing up $300 a week in unemployment benefits, yet like clockwork, every week he'd squander it all at the casino. He entered his pin number, hesitating for a moment. Should I even be withdrawing money right now? he pondered. For an instant, he considered abandoning the ticket idea and walking out. His eyes flitted to the front of the store and his thoughts played out the repercussions of his impending decision. He almost cancelled the transaction, but then his gaze fell on a luminous digital sign that shouted, "$40,000,000," the -Lottery Jackpot-. Right beside it, a white sign chipped in, "You can't win if you don't play." Jack's mind was made up.

"Ah, screw it," he mumbled.

"WHAT?" the old man's voice boomed from the counter.

"Nothing!" Jack yelled back.

Facing the ATM, Jack contemplated how much to withdraw and decided he might as well get all the funds out to avoid future fees. He reasoned it was smarter to take the hit just once. He withdrew $280, leaving a measly $17 in his account. Jack pocketed the wad, except for a twenty-dollar bill needed for the ticket and smokes. Returning to the counter, he handed over the twenty, receiving a ten-dollar bill in return.

"May luck be on your side," the clerk grinned.

"Thanks, Sir. Mind if I scratch it here? Just in case I win?" Jack inquired, eyeing the ticket and mindful of the cold trek back to his apartment.

"I already picked out your penny." the old man replied with a wink.

Jack's smile broadened as he picked up the penny and started scratching off the ticket's coating. After a moment, he checked it, checked it again, and once more. He had lost.

"Damn. I was really hoping for something to break my way," Jack muttered, stowing the smokes in his pocket and grabbing the paper.

"It was worth a shot, son," the old man chuckled.

"Sure was," Jack replied with a disappointed expression.

About to leave, Jack's gaze fell upon the ticket that had caught his eye initially: "$2,000 a week for life." The statement lingered in his mind, prompting a moment of reflection. Why does that ticket seem to be calling to me? he wondered.
"What the heck, I've got no use for this ten-dollar bill anyway. Give me five of those tickets over there," Jack declared, tapping the glass case.

The seasoned store clerk fetched five tickets as requested. "Here you go. Feeling lucky now?"

"I don't know, but for some reason, that ticket is whispering to me. It's like it's trying to tell me something. I've got a good feeling I might just win big," Jack said, setting the paper back down on the counter.

"Alright then, here's to your win," William responded as he took Jack's payment.

Jack proceeded to scratch the tickets in rapid succession, each time his frown deepening as the truth unveiled itself: they were all losers. Disappointed in himself for being lured back into gambling's clutches, he hastily discarded the losing tickets in the trash and retrieved his paper. He shot the clerk a grin. "Here's your penny..."

Jack examined the penny the old man had handed him for the tickets. Something felt off, and he checked the date: 1990. It was one of those newer, cheaper alloy pennies they'd started producing after 1981. Jack tossed it into the air, catching only a faint tick. He grinned, realizing the source of his bad luck. "Mind if I pick my own penny from the cup?" he asked, placing the paper on the counter.

"You got some kind of penny superstition, huh?" the old man chuckled.

"Sort of. These newer pennies are like magnets for bad luck," he commented while rummaging through the cup. He pulled out a darker penny and cradled it in his palm. The year read 1978, his birth year. A sign. He flicked it upward, the metallic ping confirming its high copper content. A smile formed. "This one's my lucky charm. Give me ten more of those tickets." The clerk shrugged and handed Jack a fresh batch of ten tickets.

Taking a deep breath, Jack separated the tickets with care. Slowly, he scratched each one, his attention laser-focused, diligently revealing the potential winners. When he was done, he held onto only three cards that had secured him a total of ten dollars – half of what he'd paid.

"These ones not living up to the hype?" the clerk teased.

"Give me ten more," Jack requested, fishing out a twenty from his pocket.

"You... sure about this, kid? Ain't you supposed to be on the job hunt?"

"Don't worry, old timer. I've got savings," Jack fibbed.

"Well, alright then. Let's have a bit of fun."

The old man handed over the tickets and pocketed the twenty. He cashed in Jack's previous winnings and asked if he wanted the cash or more tickets. Jack opted for new tickets as he scratched away at the ones already in front of him. Lost in his own world, Jack's focus was singular: hope. He ventured into a realm where his life could transform at any second, where everything could turn for the better. Bills paid, a new apartment, a shiny car, all debts wiped clean. Jack's world was about to shine brighter, he could feel it.

An hour later, Jack stood before the counter, one ticket unscratched. He had lost all his money, the store clerk snickering, assuming the young man was having a bit of lighthearted fun. For Jack, it was no amusement. He had just squandered his week's income, leaving him without enough for food, rent, or the overdue electric bill, which brought the mocking eviction notice to the forefront of his mind. The gambler was broke, again. But this time, it was dire. With rent 37 days overdue and no power... Jack realized his misstep. He should have used the money for food or to pay the electric bill. His face drained of color, eyes dimmed with the weight of his compulsion's aftermath.

"Feeling lucky with that one, son?" the old man asked.

Jack flinched, met the clerk's gaze, and let out a sigh. "I hope so. Really, damn well hope so."

With a heavy heart, Jack scratched the card, the sting of defeat sharp and unrelenting. As expected, it was another loser. Like Jack himself. He tossed the scratch card into the trash, along with the pile of several hundred others. He closed his eyes, rubbed his face, and embraced the cold, hard truth. All he wanted was to cry. He turned to the door, his exit marked by the clerk's shout.

"Your paper!"

"Keep it."

Jack trudged through the dim and icy evening, his head hung low. A cigarette dangled from his lips as he meandered the desolate streets of Boston. The realization that he had a mere $17 left on his card hit him like a punchline, meaning he was stuck with another week of raw Ramen noodles. He ambled toward his apartment building, pondering how he'd dig himself out of yet another self-made mess. A glimmer of hope warmed his thoughts as he recalled his buddy Vic's "golden opportunity." Checking his watch, he noted it was just past 5 pm – he had a tight window to apply for the trial online at the Boston Public Library before it closed in two hours. Jack's optimism was fragile; his life was running low on chances, and he needed a game-changer, pronto.

As Jack started to feel almost like a functioning human again, a silver Buick SUV pulled up beside him, giving him a nudge just strong enough to knock him over. Out stepped Jimmy and Tony Rizetto, offspring of the infamous mob boss, Carlos Rizetto.

"Hey, Jacky boy, did ya miss us?" Tony quipped, sporting a grin. Both were decked out in dark jeans and leather jackets.

"Did you have to use your car as a battering ram, you dick?" Jack shot back.

They burst into laughter. "Oh, poor Jack, got a little ouchie? Gonna cry, baby?" they teased. "Where's the cash you owe, Jack? It's been over a month – you owe us over $5,000, and the boss is tired of waiting."

"If he only needs $5,000 for his gender reassignment surgery, why not apply for a loan?" Jack quipped, instantly realizing he'd regret it.

Jimmy's fist collided with Jack's gut, sending him sprawling back onto the snowy sidewalk.

"Okay, okay, I just need a few more days," Jack began, cut off as Jimmy delivered a kick to his stomach. Jack lay still on the ground.

​"You've got one week, Jack, or you'll be experiencing a very painful session, capisce?" Tony barked. They both retreated to their vehicles and left Jack in the snow, staring at the sky as snowflakes gently drifted onto his face.

​Only 13 of us remain standing now.

Michael is gone. Today, during our dosage, he completely lost his sanity. I'll delve into the details shortly. I'm infuriated, to be honest. Michael was someone I genuinely cared about.​ I don't know what became of him, but he'll NEVER be the same again after what happened. If that doesn't sound like the prelude to a horror story, I don't know what does.

So let me begin...

We were strapped into our chairs in the white room, as usual, each of us drifting into a dreamlike haze, except for me, the lucky exception. While the others swam in the waters of slumber, I was left stranded on the dry shores of consciousness. I observed the reactions of my fellow test subjects – a wave of moans and whispered conversations, like I was the only conscious patient in a trauma tent during war.

Enter Michael, or should I say, Michael on PCP. His voice began to rise, an escalating stream of Spanish words that seemed more like an exorcism. "DIABLO! DIABLO!" he shrieked, his words hanging in the air like a malevolent prayer. I will say this, it wasn't soothing to listen to. It was downright terrifying. Like, grandma-just-stabbed-grandpa terrifying.

Of course, the others were none the wiser, all snugly wrapped in their drugged cocoon. But me? I was gripped by a growing unease, a nagging sense that something was about to go horribly wrong. Was I on some sort of placebo? Did they swap out my real pills for Tic-Tacs when I wasn't looking? Seriously, why the fuck wasn't I in dreamland?

As Michael's screams reached a pitch that could shatter glass, the two resident "Dr. Evils," Dr. Waters and Dr. Roberts, sprang into panic mode. They practically lunged at Michael, desperately trying to free him from the clutches of whatever nightmare had ensnared him. It was like watching a twisted version of the exorcist only without the head spinning and puke.

The horrifying part – the moment Michael's hands were unstrapped, he unleashed a freakshow spectacle. He didn't hold back; he went straight for his own eyes. His fingers dug and clawed, a sickening work of violence as he squished and pulled, as if his eyes were the last remnants of his sanity and he was hell-bent on annihilating them. The screams – dear God, the screams – they etched themselves into my brain, a haunting soundtrack to my nightmares.

It was like watching a car wreck, except I was in the passenger seat, hurtling head on with a semi-truck and I couldn't escape. Michael's desperate cries echoed in my head, each one a jolt to my own sanity. And then, as if the world had been drained of color,  I felt a profound emptiness. It was as though my own life force was ebbing away, like a silent bystander to my own demise.

The world blurred, and a wave of shock swept over me, I was paralyzed, unable to draw breath or form words. I was trapped in a twilight zone of disbelief and terror. My eyes were fixed on the sickening horror unfolding before me – the Doctors frantically ushering Michael out, a grotesque puppet show of agony and chaos.Orderlys entered into the room with mops and buckets to clean up the mess. God help me, I wanted to scream.

"Why the hell am I the only one who's awake for this madness?" I demanded of the universe, or perhaps the nearest wall.

I mean, what cosmic twist of fate was this? Why was I privy to this nightmare while the others got to snooze away?
After an agonizing eternity, the doctors returned, and my fellow prisoners of war slowly roused from their drugged slumber. I tried to voice the horrors I had witnessed, but my vocal cords were betraying me, refusing to form coherent words. It was Randy, of all people, who broke the silence.

"Where's the hell's Michael?" he roared, his anger a thunderous clash against the eerie quiet.

Dr. Waters' response was cold, chilling in its detachment. "He's no longer part of the experiment." That was it – a single sentence that sent tremors through our already fragile psyches. Confusion and concern rippled through the room like a contagious disease.

And me? Well, I held my tongue. Call me a coward, but the truth was too grotesque, too unsettling to share. I didn't want to be the one to summon that storm of negativity into our midst. I could already hear the whispers – the same ones that would undoubtedly find their way into my own nightmares. Michael went nuts. Michael is going to the loony bin... We're next...

We've spent the day in a state of numbness, holed up in the lounge. My mind is foggy, my thoughts a chaotic jumble of fear and confusion. To soothe our frayed nerves, we decided to play some poker. Because, you know, nothing calms the nerves like a good old game of cards. And guess the fuck what? This evil universe found its twisted sense of humor – I lost $1200 of my potential trial earnings to Chester, that smug son of bitch who pretended like he didn’t know how to play at first but took all our money. Talk about a kick in the existential gut.

So, here I am, pondering the irony. I'm stuck in an experiment that is supposed to save my ass, and I've managed to earn exactly zilch. Zip. Nada. Will I be the next one to fall victim to this nightmarish spiral? Who knows, maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and find myself desperately digging at my own eyes, courtesy of this twisted cocktail of chemicals they've been feeding us.

For the first time since we've been trapped in this psycho experiment, true fear has wrapped its icy fingers around my heart. The game just got a whole lot darker, and the stakes, well, they're higher than ever. First it was Stephanie, whom none of us really knew, but Michael… this shit just got real serious, real fast.

And then there's the question that won't let go – why the hell didn't I feel anything from today's dose? As if the universe decided that my nightmare quota wasn't quite full yet.

Fuck it, man. I need to sleep this one off.
​
​-Jack

Well, it's official – we're all on drugs. At least I know I am.

After our dosing this morning, my brain has been floating in a haze all day. I feel like I'm stuck in a loony bin, with all these restrictions and a lack of sharp focus. Please, don't let me go bananas here, Dr. Nelson.

Today's episode in the "white room," our new nickname for it, was a trip and a half. I was floating through space, cosmic and mind-bending. I knew it was all a dream, but damn if it didn't feel like I was truly cruising among the stars. Time twisted – seconds stretched into years, and the whole thing felt like an endless ride. The twist? I was fully aware I was in a dream. This wasn't your run-of-the-mill dream where you're just a passenger hopping between scenes with zero clue it's all in your head. Nope, I was wide awake in there.

Luckily for this one, we all managed to make it through the second dose unscathed. Miraculously, we're all still standing—though I won't go so far as to say I'm thrilled about that. Cough**Rudy**Cough Thankfully, today's dose didn't feature any horror-filled reactions.

After a while, they herded us into the common room for what they called a "group introduction session." Bonding boot camp, right out the gate on day two. Dr. Nelson laid down the law and asked us to dish out some personal information about ourselves. We formed a makeshift circle and Randy made sure to sandwich himself between me and Emily who was on my left. On Emily's left was Chuck, then Ben, then Chester, followed by Frank. Oh, and let's not forget Rudy, who scored the prime seat right across from me – what luck. On Rudy's left, we had Amanda, then Lynette, and the line-up continued with Kyle, Michael, Walter, and Jeff, who ended up as my right-hand man. 

And of course, Dr. Nelson picked me to talk first – how charmed my life is.

"My name is Jack McCoy, and I'm a gambling addict."

Smooth move, Jack. It slipped out like a prerecorded message. To my surprise, Amanda, the short-haired feminist lady, gave me a friendly nod – either she's been to some kind of an anonymous meeting or she's just genuinely nice.

I kept it simple, mentioning my Revere, Massachusetts roots and my various odd jobs. No need to tell the gangster debt part, right?

"Thank you, Jack. Randy, please go next," Dr. Nelson said.

Randy looked around like a deer caught in headlights, then sucked in half the room's oxygen through his nose before speaking. "Hey, folks, I'm Randy, and right now, I gotta take a massive shit," he announced, and laughter erupted from all corners of the room. Bravo, Randy. Keep the bathroom talk coming.

"I got me a wife and two kids at home. Stupid bitch was threatening to divorce me if I didn't get a job, and uh, that's how I got here," Randy continued, shamelessly sharing his life's ups and downs. You gotta admire his honesty, though.

"I used to be a janitor at the high school, but I got fired for hitting a student," he confessed, looking down at the floor.

"Why did you hit the student?" Dr. Nelson inquired, appearing behind Randy like a curious ghost.

"He was a real piece of work, tormenting this kid, giving him a hard time, and shoving him around," Randy grumbled, clearing his throat. "My brother was gay, and he used to be on the receiving end of this sort of crap back when we were young. He was a good man. I lost him a few months ago in a brutal car accident. The guy behind the wheel was plastered, and... well, no, hold on..."

Something's gnawing at him, that's for sure.

"Anyway, every time that jackass bullied this kid, all I could see was my little brother. It was like he was right there, and then I just... I just lost it," he finished, voice breaking with a sniffle.

Dr. Nelson, now staring at Rudy's hair in apparent disgust, thanked Randy for sharing and expressed condolences for his loss. Awkward silence followed.

Next up was Emily, who stood up and professed that she's not in it for money because "she's like super rich" but wants to see what this drug does to her brain, like enhancing her memory or something...

"That's fucking stupid!" Chester interjected from a few spots away. Chester, the dapper car salesman with the perfect teeth. He's the guy you meet for two days, and you already can't stand him.

Dr. Nelson quickly attempted to shut Chester down, but  Chester wouldn't back down.

"We don't know what the hell this drug is going to do, lady. I mean, look at what happened to that girl yesterday!" Chester ranted, getting louder and louder.

Randy, our hulking defender, stood up, marched over to Chester, and loomed above him like a furious giant.

"You give this girl the respect of keeping your fucking mouth shut. You hear me, pal?" Randy thundered.

The guards twitched towards us, but the doctor waved them off. Randy the Savage, my new nickname for him.

Chester, not wanting to wrestle the human mountain of hair, cowered down. "Whatever, man," he mumbled, wisely choosing to back off.

"Thank you, Randy. Please go back and sit down," Dr. Nelson calmly said, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Emily picked up where she left off, mentioning she didn't feel anything from the drugs except it put her to sleep and when she woke up she felt groggy and unfocused. I guess she didn't get the dream package in her doses.

"Thank you, Emily. Chuck, the floor is yours!"

I swear Chuck could wrestle a bear and come out on top. He stood up, towering over us with his barrel chest and tattoos.

"I’m Chuck Meyers, former US Marine, and, uh, I do steel framing for the city. Or I did until my back gave up on me, and now I'm chilling here. Thanks, y'all." The man is to the point, I'll give him that.

"Thank you, Chuck. Next up, Ben," Dr. Nelson called out, directing the spotlight to the shy and awkward Ben. 

"Um… so, I’m here to pay off my student loans, or at least a good chunk of 'em. Oh, I’m Ben, by the way…" Ben's freckled face was apologetic, like he thought we'd yell at him for speaking.

Dr. Nelson probed, "Hello Ben, what were you studying?"

Ben giggled nervously, "Uh, that’s the thing, nothing really. I got student loans for an online school and used the extra cash to hit up Las Vegas and try my hand at being a... a... stand-up comedian." His face turned red like a ripe tomato, and we couldn't help but wonder how that Vegas adventure went.

"Tell us a joke!" Michael chimed in with excitement.

Ben froze, staring at the ceiling, desperately searching for a funny bone to tickle. Finally, he gave in, "Okay, um… a man was at a bar drinking, when a genie sat next to him and said he could grant two wishes. The man thought, 'No way!' But he gave it a shot anyway. First wish was an endless glass of beer. Poof! The genie granted it, and the man was chugging away like a frat boy. But guess what? The glass never emptied! So, he took a big gulp, put the glass down, and it was still full. The man was over the moon! Then the genie asked for his second wish, and the man thought for a bit. He looked at the genie, then at the full glass of beer, and said, 'Well, I guess I’ll take another one.'"

Kyle and I laughed, but it seemed like the rest of the room was still trying to process it. Poor Ben, tough crowd.

Ben looked around, shrugged, and said, "Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here. It didn’t go so hot." He sat down and I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. How the fuck does a kid that shy get the ambition to be a stand up comedian? Baffling.

"Thank you, Ben. Now it's your time to shine, Chester," Dr. Nelson said, with a hint of sarcasm.

Chester, the wide-eyed big talker, flashed a smile like he was about to sell us something we didn't need. "I’m Chester, currently from Boston, originally from Sacramento—"

Californian, huh? That explains so much.

"—I am here for the money. I’ve done many of these trials in the past, and let me tell you, this one is the strictest. But hey, rules are meant to be broken, am I right?" He chuckled, and winked over at Emily. Her annoyed look was priceless.

He kept on yapping, and yapping, and yapping. I swear I saw dust gathering on some people's shoulders, waiting for him to finish. Even the flies started to drop dead from his endless drone of nonsense.

Finally, Dr. Nelson politely thanked him and moved on to Frank.

Frank, the mysterious Asian guy, looked like he'd rather be elsewhere. He's been eating his meals in the corner, always in a hurry to retreat to his room. When Dr. Nelson called on him, Frank just shook his head and bowed. Silence speaks volumes, and Frank's silence said, "I'm here for the free food and to avoid small talk." No need for words when you've got your priorities straight.

Dr. Nelson barged into the circle and stood in front of Frank. He patted Frank's shoulder like they were old pals. "Okay, Frank, maybe not today, that's fine. Rudy, your turn, buddy."

Rudy, the creep with the smirk, looked around the room, probably trying to psych us out with his mind tricks.

"I am Rudy," he said, giving each of us the stink eye. "And that is all I am going to say."

Well, thanks for the riveting speech, Rudy. Maybe you'll write a novel next.

Dr. Nelson gave him an awkward nod and kept circling around the group. "Amanda, you're up next."

Amanda greeted us with an enthusiastic, "Helloooo everyone. I'm Amanda, call me Mandy if you want." Her voice had that loud projected vibe, like she was accustomed to speaking to large groups. Please, God, don't let her start lecturing us on the patriarchy I thought.

"I'm a veterinarian, and a recovering alcoholic," she confessed, and my eyes widened. Of course, she's been to meetings. "I lost my practice because I was too drunk to actually do my job," she admitted with a wince. "I'm sort of here for the money, but I'm also here because I've been sober for 3 months now and it's driving me up a fucking wall. I will take the money, but I really hope – I really, hope—"

Her voice trembled, and my heart sank. This woman has been through some shit.

"—that whatever this Formula 35C is, it gives me a way out of this darkness I feel. My daughter died two years ago, and I just can't get past it," she said, and tears started flowing like Niagara Falls.

I felt like a total douche for judging her earlier. Here I was, thinking she was just some tough feminazi, but she's dealing with some heavy stuff.

She covered her face, sobbing, and Dr. Nelson handed her a tissue. He patted her on the shoulder and whispered something in her ear. She smiled up at him through her tears, and I swear I saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

"Thank you, Amanda, thank you. Lynette, it's your turn," the doctor said.

"First off, honey, I'm so sorry for your loss," Lynette said, giving a slight hug to Amanda. Amanda quietly said thank you and hugged her back. Then Lynette faced the group again. "Alright, folks, I'm Lynette. I'm a single mother from Dorchester. Got three kids and I need this money for real. None of my little rascals know I'm here. I told 'em I was going away for a little while for a super-secret job. I ain't letting them know about this nutty experiment stuff."

She nodded. "That's it. Lynette's done talking."

"Thank you, Lynette. Kyle, your turn, young man." Dr. Nelson said.

Ah, here comes the man with the long hair and the 666 tattoo. Let's see what he's got for us.

"Hello, fellow lab rats! I am the one and only Kyle, and I'm here for one simple reason: to get freaking high, babypop!" he declared with a giant shit-eating grin.

The room filled with chuckles and nods of approval.

"Is that all, Kyle?" Dr. Nelson inquired.

"Yep, Doc, that's the short and sweet version. The money's nice, sure, but I'm on a quest, a mission to find that mind-blowing, life-altering chemical concoction that's nowhere to be found on the streets. You feel me?" he responded, laughing like a proper drug fiend.

Oh, we feel you, Kyle. We totally feel you.

"Alright, Kyle, I get you. Moving on! Michael, show us what you got!" Dr. Nelson said, clearly eager to keep the ball rolling.

Michael sprang up and struck a pose in the center of the circle.

"Hey there, my fellow friends!" he announced, spinning around to lock eyes with each and every one of us. "As you know, I'm from the land of the coffee and the cocaine – Colombia! I landed in this great country seven years ago, and let me tell you something, I'm passionate about cooking!" His grin radiated like a supernova. "Once this experiment is finished, I'm gonna whip up some mind-blowing dishes for each and every one of you because the grub we're getting here is, how should I put it, dog food quality!"

Randy couldn't hold it back and groaned, but the rest of us couldn't help but chuckle.

"Gracias, gracias! And hey, if any of you dare to challenge me to a battle of wits – aka chess – bring it on! I'm always game!" he added, throwing a dramatic wink our way before gracefully returning to his seat.

He's definitely got charisma. Maybe I should polish my dishwashing skills 'cause when this shits done, I wanna be first in line for a job.

As Dr. Nelson shifted his attention to a man named Walter, I realized he was like a hidden character, the mysterious old dude lurking in the shadows all this time. Walter was older, like he had just stepped out of a time capsule from the 1960s. The thick glasses and hermit-like vibe had me half expecting him to start reciting a bunch of hippie moon-star talk.

Everyone's gaze fell upon Walter, and he seemed lost in thought, rubbing his knees like a guy trying to conjure up some long-lost wisdom from his bones. Finally, he looked up and spoke.

"Good day, everyone. I reckon I've got a darn good idea what's a-brewin' here," he said, and Dr. Nelson paused behind Rudy, waiting for Walter to explain himself.

With an eerie intensity, Walter hissed, yes, like a damn cat. Then he covered his face with his hands and nervously peered around at each one of us in the circle, eventually fixing his gaze on Rudy.

"Deviant, sicko!" he suddenly shouted, pointing at Rudy.

Next, he turned to Chester and bellowed, "Lying and lustful cheat!" He continued on like a psycho fortune-teller, throwing insults at each one of us. Lynette was a fornicator, Randy a brute, Emily a murderer? Jeff a poisoner, Chuck a pervert, Amanda a drunk, Ben a homosexual and then he fixed his gaze on me and screeched, "Self-loving Scoundrel!"

Ummm. What the fuck. We were all taken aback, stunned into silence.

"That's all I got to say," he concluded, looking back down at the carpet.

Randy, never one to hold back, couldn't resist. "Hey, you old fuck, what about you?"

Walter lifted his head, locking his giant magnified eyes onto Randy, and launched into a sermon. "Listen to me, you stubborn of heart, you who are far from righteousness. There are those who are clean in their own eyes but are not washed of their filth." he declared, chomping his teeth at Randy like a rabid dog.

Randy just stared at him, shaking his head. "Fucking whack job," he muttered, speaking for all of us.

"All right, folks, that's enough soul-searching for today. Let's wrap it up with you, Jeff," Dr. Nelson smoothly interjected.

Jeff, affectionately known as the "poisoner" thanks to our devoutly religious friend, sat right beside me. He cleared his throat, looking a tad nervous, and said, "Uh, I'm Jeff, hailing from Malden. I'm 22, and I thought, 'Hey, why not make some quick bucks with this trial?'" He shifted in his seat, shooting me a desperate glance as if I held the secret to conquering stage fright. I gave him a supportive smile and nod, like I was his personal life coach. "Anyway, I bailed on college, and this trial is really rough, you know? I'm dying for a cigarette and a joint to ease my nerves. I mean, half the room is with me on this one. I could use some coffee too."

A chorus of empathetic nods and muffled agreements swept through the crowd. I totally felt his pain; a cigarette and a strong cup of joe would've been a godsend at that moment.

Dr. Nelson thanked Jeff for his honesty and instructed us to carry on with our routine until further notice.

The rest of the afternoon was dull. I took a nap and then had a slightly depressing dinner – a Caesar salad and garlic bread. It beats protein shakes, but not by much. I thought about starting a card game in the common room, but my lethargy got the best of me, and I decided to return here for some more shut-eye. I swear, I'm walking around like a sleepwalking zombie.

Well, I guess we'll rinse and repeat the whole shebang tomorrow. I'll drop you another line then to let you know how things are rolling. Right now, though, I'm just really, really tired.

Man, that fucking Walter. Can't shake the things he said outa my head.

Catch you later,

​-Jack     

Buckle up Dr. Nelson, because this was one hell of a day.

The shitshow started at 6 AM, where I'm blissfully buried beneath layers of sleep. Then, out of nowhere, the demon horns of hell blare through the loudspeaker, jolting me awake like I'm in the midst of a fucking heart attack! One thing's for sure: a loudspeaker system as my alarm clock? Definitely not the way to go. We don't need an air raid siren to get us out of bed!

With my heart pounding like a meth head at a rave, I jump up, grab my shit, and race to the bathroom! Another big problem here? I'm starving! Thank you, no smoking policy, for giving me the luxury of always being hungry now and probably gaining 50 lbs during this experiment.

Dr. Waters, being the prick he is and acting like he's running boot camp, screamed. "Move it! 15 minutes to the common room!" Seriously, are we gonna do jumping jacks and push-ups before breakfast? Maybe I'm not actually cut out for this. Well, I made $300 already, so that's something to keep me going, but not a good start. I didn't sign up for the military, Dr. Nelson.

Anyway, I get into the bathroom, take my five-minute shower, and there's Chuck, the guy with the crew cut, probably relishing the moment as it reminds him of his old military days. He's shaving away at the sink, and I'm just minding my own business, brushing my teeth, when he decides to strike up a conversation. "Early bird gets the worm," he says, acting like there's nothing in the world to worry about.

I give him a nod and humor him, "You think we'll get a 5-star breakfast?"

He grunts like a caveman and says, "Nope." Guess that settles it.

Randy, waltzes in a few minutes later half naked, scratching his junk. He's a real sight to behold – not in a good way, mind you. He's like a walking carpet with hair sprouting from every inch of his skin. But at least he washes his hands after using the toilet, so I’ll give him some credit for that.

"I'm fuckin' starving," Randy announces with a rumbling stomach, followed by a hearty laugh that morphs into a fart, resembling a discordant trumpet solo.

I take this as my cue to make a swift exit to the common room. "I'll see you out there," I mumble, hoping he won't try to talk to me.

But no such luck. He stops me in my tracks, demanding to know my name. "Jack McCoy," I reply, cautiously extending my hand.

He shakes my hand like we're old buddies and immediately starts unloading his marital troubles on me. "Married life sucks. My wife is a class A fucking bitch, brother," he says with bulged eyes and swollen neck veins. I can see in his face he's got some baggage that he's desperate to unleash on anyone who will listen.

Now, I'm no therapist, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't hired to be Randy's marriage counselor. But here we are, having a heart-to-heart about his love life and I’ve only been awake for 15 minutes.

As if that wasn't enough, Randy jumps to a new topic, "You think they're gonna fry our brains here?" he asks casually as if we’re discussing the weather.

"Let's hope not, I've got tickets to Disney World come spring," I reply, trying to escape this unexpected conversation.

Randy lets out a laugh that sounds like a mix between a donkey and a machine gun, and off he goes to the shower. As if on cue, Michael decides to make his grand exit from the shower at the same time, in all his naked glory. Yeah, thanks for that visual.

A short while later it's breakfast time, and we all gather in the common room with high hopes. But guess what they serve us? Chocolate protein shakes, vitamins, and bottled water. Yep, that's it. Sound the alarms, people – Randy's about to throw a temper tantrum.

He's pitching a fit like a hipster who just found out they ran out of almond milk for their organic, gluten-free, soy-based latte. Dr. Nelson, you promised us hearty good food, remember? Randy was practically drooling in anticipation.

So, when the doctor and his assistant rolled in with the shakes and vitamins, it was like lighting a fuse. "What in the flying ASS FUCK is this?" Randy roared, steam practically coming out of his ears.

The poor doctor looked a little startled, but he kept his cool. "It's what you get," he replied, unshaken by Randy's rage.

But Randy wasn't backing down. He went full-on ballistic, shouting and swearing like there's no tomorrow. The whole group stood there; eyes wide open, unable to process the madness. Emily seemed to enjoy the spectacle, which doesn't surprise me. If Randy hadn't immediately jumped on the doctor, I know she would have.

I have to admit; it was quite the show. Even the smelly John Wayne Gacy guy managed to crack a smile.

Dr. Roberts, in all his stoic glory, stared down at Randy like a towering statue. "You can skip breakfast if you wish," he said calmly.

Goodbye Randy the human, hello demon man! But he shifted gears and swallowed his pride and reluctantly chugged that protein shake.

The rest of us just stood there in silence, praying for lunch to be something more than liquid.

Look, I get it. We all crave a hearty breakfast and some good coffee. This "no smoking" rule is turning my stomach into a growling monster. But hey, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do – and in this case, it's all for the money…

An hour later, they herded us into the testing room. The room is a blindingly white chamber attached to the big community area, separated by a hefty metal door. It's like we're about to be probed by aliens or something. I noticed that we all seemed to pucker up a bit as we entered. 

Inside, it's like what you would imagine the inside of a flying saucer would look like with fifteen lab chairs arranged in a perfect circle. The overly eager doctors strapped us into the chairs like they were securing hostages. My brain conjured every horror movie I’d ever seen in the span of 30 seconds. It wasn’t comforting, to say the least.

They stuck pads to our chests and heads, meticulously monitoring every heartbeat, brainwave, and temperature fluctuation. The room resonated with a chorus of beeps and hums, similar to an elderly ward in a hospital for the soon-to-be-dead. It didn't help my state of mind, I'll say that.

But the real torture came from Rudy, the master of shit bombs. Seriously, he's like human gas generator. He squeaked out multi-tone farts for a good 10 minutes. I don't even know how that's possible. They haven't fed us that much. At first, it was comical, but the laughter soon turned into desperation as his foul concoctions filled the air. It's like he saved them up for this specific occasion. I'm guessing he's one of those passive aggressive types who waits for the perfect moment to strike. I'm really just not a big fan of the guy..

Luckily they didn't use needles. Thank God for that! Instead, they dosed us with little green and white pills like candy on Halloween. The catch? The doctor was our pill-pusher, inserting them into our mouths and pouring water down our throats like we were little baby birds.

Once we were all "medicated," we just laid there, waiting… for something to happen. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a bread knife.

Out of all of us, Stephanie was the most terrified. Her quiet sobs echoed through the room blending with the beeps, reminding us that we're about to go deep down the rabbit hole. She posed questions to the doctors, seeking solace from impending distress, only to be met with a look that might as well have said, "Shut your mouth, bitch, and let the fear gnaw at you." The atmosphere was tense as she fidgeted nervously, the rattle of her agitation pulsing in the air.​

As the minutes ticked by, I stopped observing my fellow test subjects and fixated on the ceiling. The doctors moved around us in eerie silence, eyes glued to the machines. That's when I realized I should have just found a fucking job instead of subjecting myself to this.

Minutes passed and the room melted away, and I found myself in a surreal dream world, my body buzzing in a strange, but comfortable numbness. An otherworldly kaleidoscope of cogwheels, circuit boards, and molecular explosions danced before my eyes. Then I felt like I was floating in water, deep in some ocean abyss. Bubbles surrounded me, bringing a strange pleasure, but they morphed into black clouds and then total darkness.

Amidst this mind-bending experience, I heard a faint voice asking, "How are you doing?"

"Who, me?" I mumbled aloud, or maybe it was just in my mind.

No response.

Then, reality twisted again. I saw a campfire, and nearby, a woman screaming in agony. It felt so real because it was real. Stephanie was screaming in her chair. The machines beeped frantically, and doctors rushed to her aid. But she just kept screaming. I was the only one awake enough to witness her torment.

Twenty minutes later, people were rising from their chairs, being escorted out of the testing room and back to the community area. Stephanie was nowhere to be seen. I asked Dr. Waters where she was, trying to feign indifference.

His eyes locked onto mine with a cold intensity. "She won't be in the trial any longer," he replied curtly.

I nodded, but inside, panic surged. I knew what I had seen. Stephanie's reaction to whatever they had given us must have been catastrophic.

Many hours have passed since the first dose, and I feel a lingering fatigue. The incessant yawning, once every two minutes for the past seven hours, is like an annoying reminder of the drugs effects. I was terrified earlier, but writing this journal entry has brought some semblance of calm. Perhaps that's why Dr. Nelson insisted on these daily entries – for some twisted form of therapy.

In the common room this evening, I observed my fellow test subjects once again. Most struggled to socialize and maintain a sense of normalcy. The ban on TV, phones, and internet has left us with only quiet classical music playing in the background. It's fucking weird, man. I'm just happy I made it through the first day with my mind intact. 

I couldn't help but notice Randy trying to strike up a conversation with Emily, the blonde girl. She seemed somewhat receptive to his advances. I guess he forgot he's married. If things progress well during this trial, maybe I'll consider making my own move on her, but it's too soon to decide. I'm not entirely sure about her yet. Can I really put up with her shitty personality? Crossing my fingers that the drug helps her check her bitch side at the door.

Elsewhere, a group was playing an amateur game of Texas Hold 'em. Watching them fumble and make foolish bets tempted me to join in and exploit their naivety. Running a card game for them and taking a cut might be a lucrative venture, but with the ever-watchful cameras, privacy is a distant fantasy. I'm not sure what the rules are in this place for gambling, but I don't want be disqualified and put out in the snow.

I've also been thinking about our three doctors here. Dr. Roberts, the silent one, seems more robotic than human. He's the caretaker who feeds us but hardly utters a word. That douche Dr. Waters, with his receding hairline and mean glare, handles the prep work and pill distribution. He's someone you'd expect to find starting bar brawls. Stephanie's unfortunate question to him about pain received a chilling response. All she asked was if it was going to hurt and the bastard just glared at her, never answering her question. Now she’s gone and we don’t know what happened. No seems daring enough to ask.

Then there's you, Dr. Nelson, the mad scientist with your wild Einstein hairdo. You sold us on this experiment with promises of close observation and possible breakthroughs in brain activity or Alzheimer's cures. But Stephanie's situation now leaves me with more than a few fucking questions...

I hope tomorrow brings some clarity and relief.

​-Jack

(One week before Orientation Day)

Bang! The doctor's fist crashed onto the metal desk as if it were the face of all his problems. Bang! Bang! Bang! "Well, this is just a load of shit!" Dr. Nelson yelled into the empty room, as if hoping the walls would apologize and fix everything.

He glared at the towering stacks of turquoise folders as if they were the source to every bad thing in the universe. Slumped over the rickety desk, he grumbled curses under his breath, sounding like a tired old man trying to to take a piss in the middle of the night. The folders seemed to mock him, like a mischievous group of giggling demons, and he wondered if he had unknowingly died earlier in the day, and this was hell.

"Oh, what a wonderful night this is," he muttered sarcastically, imagining himself jumping out the window to his own death. But, alas, he was stuck here, thanks to his new best friend, Agent Reynolds of the CIA, who had decided to make his life a living hell.

Dr. Nelson was the genius behind Nexus Mind Research Labs, a place he'd been running for eons with a smidgen of success. His grand ambition in life was to cure Alzheimer's disease, but right now, he was just trying to survive this daunting task the CIA had thrown him into.

Earlier, Mr. Reynolds had handed him a top-secret mission, which felt more like a secret recipe for disaster. The task? Choose fifteen candidates for an experiment called 'Formula 35C.' The only problem? No one had a single clue what Formula 35C even was!

As he thumbed through the applications, he couldn't help but think, This is like trying to find a needle in a haystack while suffering from hayfever! People from all walks of life had applied, and the doctor had to figure out who was desperate enough to ignore the fine print or, better yet, too dimwitted to read it. As if there was some magical process to predict who would do what! Sure, there was an aptitude test and basic intelligence test to guide him, but who's to say once they got into the trial they wouldn't start demanding lawyers to comb through the contract?

The ad had promised "$300 every day for 30 Days!" - a dream come true for any broke soul. Naturally, hundreds applied, including people who could mistake their own feet for hot dogs. But how was Dr. Nelson supposed to distinguish them from the rest of the lot?

He grunted, staring at the shredded paper in the basket, wondering if that's where his sanity had ended up.

Over the last 13 hours, he had approved fourteen applicants, but there was still one more to go before he could call it quits. He shuffled the folders, each one a story of desperation, despair, and hilarity. It was amusing at first, but after so many the old scientists was ready to lose his mind.

Dr. Nelson's weariness and his pulsating bladder pushed him to a choice. He resolved to grab a file at random and designate its owner as the 15th subject. The one he snagged belonged to Jack McCoy – a man down on his luck, a gambling addict, his family saga reminiscent of the Sopranos. What grated on the doctor, though, was Jack's potential intellect. He scored higher on the online intelligence and aptitude tests than everyone else despite being a highschool dropout.  Dr. Nelson decided the trial needed a wildcard and waved that aside. "Fuck it" he reckoned.

With a rejuvenated spirit, Nelson seized his cold coffee, the 15 files and headed straight for the door. Despite his aching bladder's insistent rhythm, he pressed forward, praying it wouldn't betray him. He hurried along the well-lit corridor, whispering, "Hang on, Stanley, a bit more."

Reaching the men's room, he dumped the folders unceremoniously on the counter and faced the urinal like a knight preparing for battle. Within seconds, sweet relief washed over him as he unleashed the fury of transmuted coffee into the toilet. "By the firing of neurons, Batman! This is the most bliss filled piss ever!" The scientist hollered, his gaze darting to the stalls in a sudden panic, desperately hoping he was alone.

Zipping up and flushing away the evidence, he washed his hands, but they shook uncontrollably. Fatigue and fear twisted inside every one of Dr. Nelson's nerves. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror, questioning his life choices. "Stanley... what the fuck are you doing? Is this right?" he whispered to the mirror. His reflection merely stared back with a puzzled expression, as if to say, "Beats me, mate!"

As Doctor Nelson strolled down the passageway, he crinkled his nose at the stale and frigid air that assaulted his skin. It was like Agent Reynolds had a personal vendetta against warm temperatures, keeping the air-conditioner set to arctic levels even in the midst of a New England winter. The old scientist had lived in Massachusetts his whole life, and he'd grown accustomed to cozy fires and hot cocoa during the snow months. This was just another reason why he suspected Mr. Reynolds might be a cold-blooded reptilian alien in disguise. Nearing his boss's office, he wondered for the umpteenth time how he ended up in this wacky CIA escapade.

When the CIA first approached him, Nelson had fired off countless questions, but all they gave him about Formula 35C was that it was a strange cocktail of narcotics cooked up by the agency. He wasn't even sure if they had tested it on animals, and if they had, why keep it a secret from his research team? It didn't sit well with him that they were jumping straight to Phase 4 clinical trials, bypassing all the rules like a gang of Hell's Angels bikers in a shopping mall.

But alas, he signed the papers, and now he was entangled in a conspiracy web like a fly stuck in honey covered shit. It was a deal with the devil, and he'd kissed his common sense and integrity goodbye. Still, if he could cure Alzheimer's disease, he reasoned, it might just redeem him in the eyes of humanity. Or at least land him on the cover of Scientific Mastermind Weekly.

Arriving in front of Mr. Reynolds's door, he knocked twice. A soft voice invited him to enter. Dr. Nelson carefully balanced the folders and his coffee while opening the door. The office's pale walls moaned with boredom, and the AC buzzed like a caffeinated mosquito, tormenting his already frazzled mind. Shivering slightly, he stepped inside.

Mr. Reynolds huddled over a desk along the rear wall, his towering figure strangely similar in height to Dr. Nelson, even while seated. He sported a black suit with a blue tie, his face bearing a gaunt, almost cadaverous appearance, and his frame seemed unusually lanky. His uncanny likeness to the first zombie in the graveyard scene from the movie "Night of the Living Dead" left Dr. Nelson questioning the very essence of the man's humanity. The agent, paused from his writing to look up at the doctor.

"Have you chosen your Subjects, Dr. Nelson?" Mr. Reynolds asked with all the warmth of an ice cube.

"Yes Sir, I have fifteen as you requested," Dr. Nelson replied a bit too fast.

Reynolds resumed writing without so much as a nod. Apparently, "thank you" wasn't in his vocabulary.

"What's the next step?" Stanley questioned, gripping his coffee like it was his security blanket.

Mr. Reynolds looked up, and his narrowed eyes screamed, "Can't you see I'm busy?" But he held his tongue and merely said, "Leave me the folders and await further orders."

Dr. Nelson approached the agent's desk with utmost caution, fearful of making any noise that might provoke his ire. He gingerly arranged the folders in front of the towering figure and took a step back. As he glanced at the desk he noticed hieroglyphic-like scribbles on Reynolds's papers, Dr. Nelson raised an eyebrow, perplexed. It was a puzzle, either coded CIA messages or an Egyptian grocery list; he couldn't say for certain.

"Well then, I'm off to the warmth of my home and wife. I bid you a good night, Sir!” He declared and quickly turned to flee. 

Just as freedom appeared to be within his reach, the sound of the agent rising from his chair sent a shiver of unease through him. He felt an overwhelming sense of anxiety and vulnerability, akin to what Theon Greyjoy, known as Reek, experienced in the Game of Thrones series he'd been watching. An uncomfortable, gnawing ache crept into his own groin.

"Doctor."

"Yes?" Dr. Nelson squeaked. Did he say Reek? The doctor panicked.

"Why did you choose these fifteen people?" Reynolds inquired, arms crossed.

Dr. Nelson hesitated, then grinned, "Because they all have one thing in common."

"And what's that?" the agent pressed on.

"Some are so broke they'd sign a contract with the devil himself, while the others wouldn't read the fine print even if it was tattooed on their foreheads. In short, they're all stupid!" Dr. Nelson responded with a sly glint in his eye, even as his thoughts fought to push away the image of Jack McCoy's folder.

Reynolds gave him a blank stare, offering no response. Dr. Nelson took that as his cue to hastily exit the room.

​Standing outside the door, he wiped away a single bead of sweat and sighed, "Well, Stanley, you may be in deep CIA shit, but remember, it's all for the greater good!"

Hello again. It's almost midnight, and I find myself desperately craving a cigarette. Everyone appears to be asleep by now. We were sent to our beds at 9 pm, but I've been tossing and turning. The cigarette situation poses quite a problem. Smokers who can't smoke need something, like snacks, candy, anything! It's been 7 hours since I've eaten! Dinner was served at 5 pm, which is the earliest I've ever dined. We had pork chops, mashed potatoes, and green beans on the menu and  veggie burgers provided for the two vegans among us. I can't help but feel sorry for them. 

Earlier, I visited Dr. Nelson as instructed. As I get more familiar with this place I must say, the setup here feels like a prison. We are confined to the common room, our dorms, and the bathroom. The common room has three exits: one leading to our dorms, another to the main part of the building where Dr. Nelson's domain lies, and the last one to the testing room where we'll receive our daily doses. It's reminiscent of being incarcerated, much like my father who, by the way, is in prison. But that's a tale for another time.

Two security officers escorted me to Dr. Nelson's office. The door leading out of the common room is made of metal and requires a code and thumbprint scan for access. See what I mean about the prison vibes? After they deposited me in the doctor's office, they waited outside.

​I was sitting before an empty desk for many minutes, clad in my white scrubs. Oh, did I mention that we had to don these scrubs and leave our civilian clothing behind? No smoking, shitty attire, stank-ass Rudy, and the oppressive feeling of being confined - truly, life's blessings are abundant.

Finally, the long-awaited moment with Dr. Nelson had arrived. The man's got a look that screams "I've seen some serious shit, boy." White wispy hair, goatee game strong. He sat down at his desk and sighed like he had the world on his shoulders, He just looked at me and smiled, I smiled, and we smiled some more. It was a smile fest for the ages.

"So, how you doin', son?" he asked. 

"I'm a'ight," I replied, a master of eloquence.

Next thing you know, he plops down my folder labeled "Subject 15." Out of 15 people, I was picked last, how flattering.

Dr. Nelson then started inquiring about how I'm adjusting to this "glorious" experiment and how the other docs are treating me. I managed to keep my mouth shut about the bald prick from hell. No need to sound like a whiny little bitch on my first day. I also asked him for something to take care of my toothache and he gave me a few ibuprofen he had tucked away in his desk drawer.

But then, my inner tobacco enthusiast couldn't resist. "Wouldn't it be fantastic if I could also have a smoke right now?" I said, trying to play it cool.

"No smoking during the trials, son," he declared, crushing my dreams.

"Might I ask, why that wasn't mentioned in the ad?" I fired back, like an attorney ready to defend my nicotine rights.
He sighed again. Not a good sign.

"Jack, the compound we're testing is a bit… complex. We can't risk anything messing with the results," he explained.

"Well, how will you know what the drug effects are for the smokers?" I asked, feeling pretty slick.

He chuckled. "Depending on the results, we might broaden our testing to include other variables, but not now."

"But you just gave me ibuprofen, won't that mess with the results?" I think I got him here!

"They should exit your system in just a few hours, which won't pose any issues for the trial," he responded, his tone revealing a hint of boredom.
​
Well, I tried, but the good doctor prevailed. First round goes to him, but this games not over yet. 

"Alright, Doc, what the fuck is this Formula 35c drug supposed to do? Cure baldness, make us all super geniuses, or just turn us into the walking dead?" I asked, hoping for a superhero type answer.

He chuckled, maybe a little nervously. "Great question, that's why I called you in. At Nexus Mind Research, we're focused on finding a cure for Alzheimer's disease. You know, when old folks start losing their memories?"

"Oh, yeah, that memory wipe-out thing and of course it only effects the non-smokers, is that right?" I chided, suddenly feeling victory coming on. He wasn’t amused it seems.

"Yes, it attacks the memory center of the brain, and in the end stages, it's a total loss of self. A real downer, 1 in 6 people over 65 will get it," he sighed, sadness in his eyes.

I couldn't help but wonder if he had a personal connection to the disease. "You've experienced it with a loved one, huh?" I took a wild guess.

He cleaned his glasses, "You're sharp. Yes, my father, when I was a boy. It's why I'm in this line of work." 

"So, this drug we're taking is gonna make us remember everything, right?"

"That's what we're aiming to find out," he replied, but I caught a flicker of anxiety. Uh-oh, something's fishy. Does he even fucking know what this drug is supposed to do?

"Don't stress, I'm overseeing everything. Been doing this for ages," he reassured me like a smooth operator. But then, his phone rang, and he switched to gruff mode. "Let's have him."

I stood up, wanting to shake hands, but he seemed uninterested and grabbed another folder.

Suddenly, the security officers arrived with Michael, the Colombian chef, and I was swiftly ushered out. My meeting ended abruptly, but I managed to squeeze in one final question before leaving, "Are we going to have these daily meetings?"

"Nah, not likely. But I'll read all your laptop entries, so spill your guts," he replied.

"Yes, Doctor," I said, realizing they'll be reading our entries. Sneaky, sneaky, free laptop deal! As the security guys escorted me out, I heard Michael gushing in his charming accent. Must be loving his time with Dr. Nelson.

As I made my way down the quiet, dimly lit hallway, an unsettling feeling crept over me. The rows of closed doors stretched into the unknown, concealing secrets I couldn't fathom. It dawned on me that no one knows my whereabouts; I'm in an undisclosed location, far from Boston where they snatched us up in those creepy blacked-out vans and drove us for an hour.

Dr. Nelson, if you're reading this as you said you would, I hope you understand that my words are honest and unfiltered. You did encourage us to share everything, right? I just hope this whole thing is confidential, as I have no idea what might spill out of my mind during my stay at Nexus Mind Research Penitentiary.

Well, I should try to get some rest.

Tomorrow promises to be a major day.

​-Jack

Well, I've really fucking done it this time.

Let me bring you up to speed... I'm in a lab, far from Boston, with total strangers, about to test an experimental drug for cash. Sounds batshit crazy, right? Well, it is, and to top it off, I have a damn toothache. 

Sitting four feet in front of me is Rudy, looking like the long-lost twin of John Wayne Gacy – the serial killer who dressed up like a clown. His eyes are boring into me like he's trying to telepathically communicate, but all I'm getting is "You! You'll die first!"

Rudy's got the whole package – greasy hair, 100 extra pounds, and a stench that could be a biohazard. We all took showers, mind you, but I guess he missed that memo. Imagine a sickening blend of unwashed feet and a decaying corpse, a scent so putrid that he could stroll through a horde of zombies and they'd mistake him for one of their own. If this is what the next 30 days look like, sign me up for the real apocalypse.

Today is orientation day.

I'm typing on a laptop they gave us this morning to share everything that happens as I experience it. I find myself a bit anxious here, like I'm stepping off a cliff into the unknown. Yesterday, I was pretty excited, believing this shit would be a breeze. Today, I'm overwhelmed with doubt, questioning if I truly considered this thoroughly. It's one of my shortcomings; I often rush into things without thinking it through. I'm actually surprised I'm even still alive, to be honest.

On the bright side, they're giving us $300 per day for being a guinea pig in this experiment. That's a pretty tempting incentive, don't you think? I mean, if I make it through the whole 30-day trial, I'll be looking at almost ten grand in my pocket – enough to settle my debts with those Rizetto assholes and finally square up with my bills. That part sounds fantastic.

However,  here comes the bad news. This mystery drug they call "Formula 35C" doesn't come with a description. We were told only, "it's for the brain." Gee, thanks. I don't have the faintest idea what the fuck this drug will do to me. I guess that's the whole point right? Dumbasses like me take the pill so the doctors can make the pill better. It's a pretty big gamble, and I'm playing with my sanity on the line. The shit I do for money, man.

Now, back to these other people...

To my right sits Randy. He looks a little unsettled at the moment. He's staring at his laptop with quite an expression. I can't tell if he's having trouble reading or if he needs to run to the bathroom and drop a seismic number 2. Either way, he suddenly demands my attention, and of course, I'm thrilled about it.

"Wah tuck posed to rah?" he blurts out, and I have no idea what the fuck this means... I need a second.

Okay, after a moment of contemplation, I manage to decode his message, but he doesn't give me a chance to reply.

"Well? What the fuck are we supposed to write on this stupid thing?" he repeats, this time slower and with a hint of consideration for my sanity.

I can see he's an impatient person, no problem, I'll help, "Just what they said a few minutes ago. Your thoughts, feelings, and anything that pops into your head."

His face contorts into what I can only describe as pure confusion, and he lets out a throaty growl, which, to be honest, is a funny reaction to something so simple. "What the hell for? Just give us the fucking drugs already," he grumbles, eyes glued back to his laptop screen. I can't help but laugh. I'm feeling better already.

"JACK MCCOY," I hear one of the scientists yell out from behind me.

"That's me," I belt back, and lo and behold, it's the mean balding guy, Dr. Waters, I think.

"Ten more minutes, then you will make your way to Dr. Nelson in the staff office," he yells while checking something off on his clipboard.

"Sir, Yes, Sir!" I reply, adding a touch of sarcasm for flavor.

"You'll call me Doctor, do you understand?" he replies with condescending authority.

"Yes, Doctor!" I shoot back with a genuine smile and daggers in my eyes.

I guess I better get back to it.

Most of these other folks seem pretty normal. This morning was a trip, going through all sorts of physical and mental testing with them. The doctors even hooked us up to polygraph machines to weed out any potential troublemakers. We’re all still here, so I guess that’s good.

We’re certainly a diverse bunch here at this trial. Besides Rudy and Randy, there's Jeff, who looks like the chill stoner type straight out of a small town. Jeff and I hit it off quickly because we're both smokers, but they won't let us light up during our stay, so of course we both had to bitch about it. I'm already craving a cigarette badly and I know it's going to be a tough ride. Jeff's half-baked and not too bright, but he did nail a solid 30 minutes on the treadmill. 

Next up, we have Ben, a shy and young-looking redhead who seems like he just got out of highschool. He's been pretty quiet, but I swear I heard him crying after the physical testing. What a bitch. Although, I probably would have cried too had I not jumped off at the 5 minute mark. I don’t exercise. If I were to step into the ring with a 90-year-old woman, my money would probably be on her for kicking my ass.

Ah, and there’s Frank the Asian, sitting there in the corner like he's in timeout. His glasses are so thick, his head would explode if he glanced at the sun. I'm starting to wonder if he's an undercover scientist here to spy on us. Whatever the case, he's keeping his poker face strong, and I can't help but admire the guy's dedication to the loner persona. 

Oh, and here's Michael, the over-friendly chef from Columbia in his mid-30s. He's got that charming accent that makes you listen even if you don't understand half of what he's saying. He's been drilling everyone about his grand plans for his future. When he bags the full payment from the trial, we're all invited to his new restaurant right on Newbury Street. Assuming of course, we all do make it through this trial.

There are a couple of other guys in here that I still need to learn the names of. Like the grumpy old commando dude in his 50s, looking like he's stuck babysitting a bunch of stupid youngsters. Then we've got the metalhead with "666" inked on his neck - no surprise he's out of work. And don't even get me started on the used car salesman guy - big smile and all, laughing like he’s having the time of his life. I can already tell I'm not going to like him.

There's only 4 woman here which officially makes this a sausage party. I'm sitting next to one of them now, her name's Lynette. She's a mid-40s black woman, with a pretty face and pink hair. She's sitting nearby, raising her hand like she's ready to interrogate Doctor Rogaine. Looks like she's caught his attention.

“Well, ma'am, what's on your mind?” the balding prick asks, oozing irritation.

“How much crap are we supposed to write down?” she fires back, arms crossed like a boss.

The doctor rubs his balding head, eyebrows raised. “Just jot down whatever pops into your head. When you're done, you're done. Close it up and standby.” He's clearly not in the mood for Lynette's questioning.

She seems content with that response, swiftly shutting her laptop and leaning back. Our eyes meet, and she sighs, clearly over this whole ordeal.

“I'm ready to cash out and get my money, honey,” she says with a sly grin.

A kindred spirit! I can't help but smile back. 

Okay, we've also got a girl here named Stephanie, the young college chick kicking back on a comfy chair.  She appears pretty shaken up. Her eyes are wide open, and she's gazing at everyone like they're potential threats. I'm not sure if she can handle this shit to be honest. She's hot as fuck with long brown hair and those big brown eyes, but man, she's reeks of fear. The slightest loud noise causes her to jump and scream. It's crazy.

Then there's Emily, another very attractive girl with blonde hair. She's got no fear. What she does seem to have is a Ph.D. in "Bitchology". She's been whining about everything since we got here. Let's just hope the drug we're about to take doesn't enhance some people's already fucked up personalities. The only thing worse than a bitch is a bitch².

And then there's Amanda... She's a not-so-attractive woman in her 40s, maybe 50's, rockin' short hair and horn-rimmed glasses. She's not much of a talker, but she's definitely a writer as she hasn't stopped writing since we got here. My guess, is she's one of those "fuck all men" types and won't be afraid to say it. I can't wait for that can of worms to open, let me tell you.

I have 5 more minutes before I have to go see the Wizard of Oz, Dr. Nelson himself, so I suppose I should give you the lay of the land here.

We're all hanging out in what the doctors call the "common room." It's pretty big, but honestly, it's pretty dull. There are these two huge tables that can fit all of us, and I'm chilling at one of them right now. Right behind me, there are these massive bookshelves crammed with all sorts of books about everything under the sun. I'm a big reader and have read well over 2000 books, mostly sci-fi and fantasy stuff. But I gotta be real, these books don't look too exciting – mostly seem to be textbooks and manuals. I guess I'll have to make do with what's there.

They tossed in a deck of cards and a chess board, which is cool. There's also a couple of big couches and three comfy chairs scattered around. Oh, and there's a water dispenser tucked away in one corner. But guess what's missing? Vending machines! No way to grab a snack or a drink. I really hope they figure this out soon, or I'm going to enlist the aid of Emily to fetch a supervisor.

I wasn’t supposed to be doing this alone. My buddy Vic told me about this drug trial during our last gamblers anonymous session. He didn't make the cut, so I guess it's just me flying solo. We're both a couple of reckless knuckleheads, but Vic's got his own place and wheels, so I'm scratching my head wondering why I got picked over him. Maybe they were looking for the absolute bottom of the barrel, and it seems they nailed it judging by the company I'm in.

I suppose I should be happy in a way. While we're stuck here, everything's on the house. Hygiene products, food, and they're even throwing in "room and board," which basically means we each get our own small bedrooms. No need to waste a single penny on stupid shit like toilet paper and toothpaste. Trust me, those things become pure gold when you're flat broke like me.

Oh, and by the way, did I mention I'm a gambling addict getting the boot from my apartment? Yup, that's my golden ticket to this paradise.

Now, let's talk grub… so far, they've been feeding us like Gordon Ramsay's the chef. After the testing this morning we were greeted by a long table with trays upon trays of fresh veggies, succulent grilled chicken, delectable fish, and a couple of rice dishes to top it off. No more ramen noodles and stale donuts in my diet, thank God. 

There is however a giant fucking red flag... they confiscated our phones, wallets, and keys. No way to reach the outside world for the entire duration. It's a bit sus, don't you think? Is this even legal?

But hey, let's not whine too much. My lousy studio doesn't even have electricity and it's the middle of winter. Not to mention the eviction notice that is glued to my front door. So, what I've got here is pure luxury in comparison. At least I won't freeze my ass off.

"JACK MCCOY," bellows the balding asshole doctor.

"Yes, Doctor?" I respond with the sweetest voice I can muster.

"Time's up, buddy. Let's move it!" he declares without even giving me a glance.

Well, folks, it seems I'm off to have a meeting with the big cheese. Hopefully he can give me something for this toothache.

​Catch you later!

​-Jack