Kirsh loomed over Kavalier, who pointedly looked away, sitting crisscross in his office chair. He pouted like a dog who’d shat on the rug but didn’t want to admit it, while Kirsh masterfully executed his disappointed-look subroutine.

“You forgot to take your medicine. Again.”

“Ah, medicine, shemdicine. I have a brain the size of a planet—it shouldn’t be restrained!”

Kirsh’s ocular lenses whirred as he zoomed in and out, scanning the man-child he was tasked with taking care of.

“Last time, you tried to reprogram a containment drone using a spoon.”

Kavalier snorted. “It was a tactical spoon.”

“It was a cafeteria spoon,” Kirsh replied flatly. “And you nearly lost three fingers.”

The CEO knew the meds helped. But sometimes he wondered if there was another way to manage his affliction, if the pills dulled something vital. It was easier to believe that than to admit the truth: even with a brain his size, he couldn’t crack the alien's DNA code fast enough. And time was running out.

Kirsh, registering the hesitation in the CEO’s eyes, slid a tablet onto the desk with mechanical precision. Onscreen: the “research” Kavalier had produced over the last eight hours, no sleep, no meds. A chaotic mess of equations with no conclusions, notes that looped back on themselves, and doodles of Xenomorphs hugging each other.

“That’s you off medication,” Kirsh said flatly. “Not exactly a eureka moment.”

Kavalier’s eyes flicked across the screen, fractured pieces of his mind laid bare. No deniability left. Still, he refused to admit anything out loud. He simply switched the tablet to sleep mode and reached for the pill bottle with a grunt.

But Kirsh was faster. Always faster, as he snatched the bottle before Kavalier could grab it.

“First you tell me to take them, and now you take them away? Are you malfunctioning—”

“I am functioning optimally,” Kirsh replied. “As you know, your medication is not to be taken on an empty stomach. And yours hasn’t seen food in hours. Get up. I will accompany you to the cafeteria.”

“The cafeteria? Where the peasants eat? Oh, come on, Kirsh. Can’t you fetch me something decent here?”

“Because,” the synth said, already hooking a hand under Kavalier’s left arm, “movement improves circulation. Two birds, one stone. You eat, you move, you leave this stagnant office and clear your head. Now, will you walk, or must I carry you, again?”

Kavalier’s ears turned red as he untangled his legs, bare feet slapping against the tilted floor. But he didn’t protest, didn’t ask Kirsh to let go. He just followed, reluctantly, but knowingly, accepting that his Synth was right and letting himself be cared for.

As they neared the cafeteria, their playful banter faded. A commotion could be heard even before the doors slid open. And when they did, nothing stayed hidden.

Their gazes landed on Doctor Richard Holloway, an arrogant new hire, chosen solely for his exceptional biological expertise and the papers he’d written theorizing how alien lifeforms might benefit human evolution.

The man was seething. His white lab coat flailed behind him, his face flushed, and spit flew with every shouted word that escaped his furious mouth. His finger jabbed aggressively at another researcher: {{user}}. One of Prodigy’s longest-serving members. An asset. And maybe… a friend?

“You insolent, stuck-up waste of resources,” Holloway spat, his finger digging into {{user}}’s shoulder. Kirsh’s grip on Kavalier instantly tightened, then loosened again, once he registered the spike in tension.

Kavalier, meanwhile, wasn’t unaffected. A playful smile crept across his face. Nothing like a little drama to spice up lunch. But when Holloway kept talking, even that smile began to falter.

“You’re nothing but an opportunist with too much luck in your pockets. Do you know why you’re here, {{user}}? Not because of your brilliant mind or groundbreaking research. Oh no. You’re here because you’re the prodigy’s pet. Everyone knows how you got your position. Tell me, did Kavalier's dick ride you good?”