I thought I was mistaken.

  I thought I heard your words.

  Tell me, how do I feel?

  Tell me now, how do I feel?

  -- New Order, "Blue Monday" (1983)

  "You have to admit, the weather is quite nice," said Luis, as he and Craig strolled along one of the private beaches on Ernstein's isnd.

  "Hope the water's warm," Craig nodded.

  "You gonna keep your shirt on?" asked Luis.

  "I feel more comfortable with it on. I had cancer as a teenager," said Craig. "Some of the medication I got put on, it caused gynomastia. Usually can't see it, but I've got a little bit of a moob problem," he said.

  Yes. I was force-fed estrogen for nine months and castrated against my will. 'Moob problem' doesn't even begin to cover it.

  "Jeez. What kind? If it's not personal."

  "Very personal kind. Let's just say I can never have kids, and that I can wear women's jeans comfortably, and leave it at that."

  "Ouch," winced Luis.

  "The emotional pain was what really hurt," Craig said.

  Careful. That was true. Don't forget to lie, Craig.

  The two of them headed into the surf. It was a little chilly, but Craig got used to it, eventually. British people don't really swim in oceans, as a general rule. They usually just sit at the edge of them and write bad poetry. But when in Rome--or the U.S. Virgin Isnds, as the case may be.

  Besides, it was a stupidly simple way to make sure that Luis and Craig could talk in true confidence. Worried about being bugged? Jump into the water. Worried about being overheard? The surf is noisy. Worried about cameras and lip reading? Face the ocean.

  Just watch out you don't get swept into the undertow. No lifeguards out here. Still, they didn't have to go out that far.

  "What'd you find?" asked Luis, once they felt confident enough they were private.

  Yeah, Craig could go first. Why not? Establish trust.

  "The cameras," Craig said. "It's not just to keep the girls on the isnd. He records things. It's bckmail material. Ernstein wants leverage on his guests. One of the girls tried to seduce me, actually. Told them that as the medical doctor on staff, it would be unethical for me to do so. And that I don't have a sex drive since I have no testicles."

  "From the cancer?" asked Luis, sympathetically. "Jesus."

  "Oh, no no, I do have a sex drive. That part was a lie."

  As was caring about medical ethics, of course, thought Craig.

  "That's a lot of data, a lot of footage to go through. I think he'd probably keep that data close by, find any useful bits, delete the rest. I'm thinking his office, or a pce connected to it. An encrypted solid state drive maybe?" asked Luis.

  "Yeah, maybe," said Craig. "Encryption's tough but not unbeatable. If we could physically get the drive off the isnd, I know some people who know some people."

  "What kind of people?" asked Luis.

  "Can't say. Doctor-patient confidentiality," said Craig.

  "Right, well, I trust you, Craig."

  Craig grimaced. "Don't."

  "Don't what?"

  "Don't trust me, Luis," said Craig. "I've hurt people who put their trust in me."

  "Who hasn't?" asked Luis. "I trust you more than I trust Ernstein and his group. That's all that matters right now."

  "What you found was that bad, was it?"

  "They're all trans girls," said Luis. "And at first I was creeped out. But... it makes sense. These girls, they're desperate. Coming from abusive homes. Abusive environments. And they're young, Craig. I don't know how young, but I don't wanna know how young. And when you're young, you're stupid, and if a billionaire tells you he'll give you everything you ever want and you can live on his tropical isnd forever?"

  Luis shivered despite the warm tropical weather.

  "And then, sometimes, they go off with one of the guests. And they don't come back."

  Craig, who was a bit more hardened to this kind of exploitation, simply asked, "How'd you figure this out?"

  Luis sighed. "I do have a sex drive. And I'm not a doctor."

  Craig turned to Luis, slowly. "You fucked one of them?"

  "Yeah," said Luis. "I'm not proud of that. And I'm sure that bastard got it all on camera too. But... she confided in me. Told me her story. What she didn't know? Didn't take much to fill in the gaps."

  "Right," said Craig.

  "It's also--you know in the spy movies, the cop who doesn't take the payoff, they think he's internal affairs and he gets whacked, right? So I took the payoff," Luis was scrambling at a justification.

  "Luis, I don't care," said Craig. "I'm not condoning it, but you did it, you're gonna have to live with that. And you got information, now you have a chance to do something with it. I am the st person you need to justify anything to."

  "You're not a doctor, are you?" said Luis.

  "I am very much a doctor. A good doctor. And proud of it," Craig said, with a bit of an edge to his voice.

  Then he sighed.

  "But... I have other responsibilities, yes."

  "MI-6?"

  "Nah, I'd say you're in your te twenties," quipped Craig.

  Craig didn't smile. Neither did Luis.

  "So what's the pn?" asked Luis, desperate to change the subject.

  "Don't know yet. I'm thinking of changing it. What do you yanks say with your version of football? 'Calling an audible?'"

  Craig's mind reeled through the possibilities. He could just continue to gather information, slip into the woodwork, then get back on the private jet home, continue his residency, get another couple weeks wired into the Doki-Doki Deathtrap back home—every heartbeat monitored, every choice logged.

  Then get sent on another mission. Then another. And another.

  But if Ernstein was bckmailing billionaires, government officials, heads of state... and he could get everything Ernstein knew... that would be valuable to the LHC. To whoever Luna's bosses were. He was sent to take down one perverted billionaire. That drive could take down dozens.

  That might be worth something.

  It might even be worth his freedom.

  "Luis, I'm going to tell you something, and I want you to listen very carefully, because I'm only going to say it once. The st person I told this to didn't listen, and they got hurt because of it."

  "I'm listening."

  "Don’t put your faith in me. I will disappoint you at the end of it. That said, the safe py is to do your duty diligently, get paid, get out, keep your mouth shut. The risky py is to grab whatever physical drive it's on, and let me take it to my people. It might take them months... years, maybe, but they could decrypt it."

  "Risky, nothing. We could get killed."

  "Or worse."

  Luis tilted his head.

  "What's worse?"

  "I wouldn't be surprised if some of the girls weren't trans women."

  Luis didn't get it at first. And then:

  "Oh, Jesus. I don't think anyone could survive that."

  "Maybe they could. But they'd either crack, psychologically, or be psychotic to start with."

  ***

  Across the isnd, Jeremy Ernstein was welcoming another one of his illustrious guests, personally.

  "Alistair! How goes things?" he said.

  "Oh, they're going about as well as you'd expect. Fundraising continues to go well. Both for the senatorial campaigns and the megachurches. Synergy, I think the bean counters call it."

  "And your sister," said Ernstein. "Surprised she's not joining us."

  "Truth be told, Henrietta's really the workaholic of the family. All business and schemes. We made contact with an old business associate of dear old dad. Not that we want to get tangled up in what he was doing. But money’s money. And some of the ideas… well. Intriguing. I said it could wait, but she wants to forge ahead."

  "Well, your usual suite is set up. What would you like to do first?" Ernstein said with a smile.

  "Normally, I'd jump right into it," said Alistair Smyth-Farrow. "Bit of a sinus headache from the flight. I think I'm going to take a quick nap, first, and if that doesn't clear it up, I might visit the clinic."

  "Sorry to hear that, Al," said Ernstein. "But just to let you know, we've got a new doctor. Just temporary. Vetted, but not tested, so maybe be careful what you say around him. At least until we know we can trust him, you know? Then who knows. You're going to need a few doctors for your sister's project. He might be amenable. Or he might need convincing."

  ***

  It was Luis's idea, but Craig readily accepted. If only for spite. Luna wouldn't trust him with weapons after all.

  But Luis had no problem inviting him to go shooting.

  And why wouldn't a British doctor want to do some shooting while he was on American territory?

  "Ah, no, Craig. It's not like the movies," offered Luis, when Craig stood perpendicur to the target and reached out his right hand. "You're going to want to hold the gun with both hands."

  "But wouldn't holding it to the side like this reduce my profile when people are shooting back?"

  "You'd think that, but there are too many tradeoffs. With two hands, you get less sway, better grouping. In an actual firefight, accuracy isn't just about the first shot, it's about the follow-up shots. Plus, when you're startled, your body's natural motion is to bring the gun up to eye level, which aligns to the modern stance. Faster to train, easier to remember under stress," Luis expined.

  Craig listened, carefully, remembering and internalizing what Luis said. After all, this was Luis' area of expertise and while Craig was usually the smartest person in any room he walked into, he was self aware enough to know that he wasn't the smartest person at everything.

  Luis went over weapon safety habits -- twice -- told him to make a steady trigger pull, smoothly align the sights, and don't waste motion. Recoil anticipation, managing muzzle rise... that would come with practice.

  And then, after a few dry-fires...

  Live ammunition.

  Craig fired.

  The sensation was unlike anything he had experienced before. He was unprepared for the violent jolt, the sound cracking through his bones even through the ear protection. His arms reflexively stiffened—then rexed, recalibrating.

  Naturally, the shot went a little wild, but it was still heading in the general direction of downrange, which was good enough for Luis.

  "Question," said Craig. "Should I be holding my breath?"

  "Yeah," said Luis. "Steadier shot."

  Craig nodded. He adjusted his posture. Remembered to hold in his breath. Elbows tucked. Stance squared.

  Shot number two nded dead center of mass on the little target.

  So did shots number three, four, five, and six.

  "You say you've never shot a gun before, Craig?" asked Luis, impressed.

  "I'm British. Never had the chance to."

  "You don't seem nervous."

  "I'm not."

  Luis raised an eyebrow.

  "...Right. Well, you’re no John Wick…” Luis chuckled, then paused. “But damn if you’re not learning faster than anyone I’ve seen.”

  "Just a quick learner. Always been a quick learner," Craig said.

  He didn’t smile. There was nothing joyful in it. Just the confirmation of a theory: Yes, I can be this too.

  ***

  A few hours ter, Craig was back in the clinic, back during his office hours. A couple of new girls came by.

  For HPV vaccines.

  That was a gut punch.

  It was a world-shifting, can't unsee-it moment.

  There was no overt violence. Just a shot. A procedure, and a form.

  He could even rationalize what he was doing. Compartmentalize. Understand that he had no choice. He had a gun held to his head---well, technically a pacemaker---and was being forced to be a spy against his will.

  Craig didn’t kid himself—he was already an evil bastard.

  But even evil bastards have standards.

  And Craig knew exactly why that vaccine is administered. What it implied about intention and pnned exposure.

  And when that vaccine is supposed to be administered.

  At age twelve. Maybe age fifteen, but that's a three-dose series.

  Revenge against the Lonely Hearts Club and Dorley would need to wait. They just became lower priority targets.

  ***

  He sent a morse code message to the LHC that night.

  F. U. B. A. R. ("Fucked up beyond all recognition.")

  The response:

  A. P. A. P. ("Acknowledged. Proceed As Pnned.")

  Proceed as pnned, his ass. He was going to take Ernstein down. And everyone else. Because he was Craig Fucking Bir, and he was broken and twisted and evil, and sadistic, and goddamn it, if there was ever a time the world needed a bigger bastard, this was it.

  ***

  "So you've had this sinus headache for how long, Mr. Smythe-Farrow?" asked Craig, the next day. He was sipping tea out of a mug. Only too te did he realize that it was a funny mug.

  It read: "My Job Is Top Secret: Even I Don't Know What I'm Doing."

  He hated novelty mugs. Maybe he could go shooting with Luis ter, use it as a cy pigeon.

  Alistair Smythe-Farrow simply leaned up against the wall.

  "I don't have a sinus headache, Dr. Bir," he said.

  Craig took a very deep, very slow breath.

  Great. He was not only made as a spy but his actual identity was compromised. He'd never met this fucker before, never said that name on the isnd. Where'd he fuck up?

  Unless...

  "Let me finish my coffee first. Then we'll get into whatever you think this is," said Craig. "I swear, things are getting better all the time."

  He hoped that would pass as sarcastic if Smythe-Farrow wasn't aware it was a code phrase.

  "If you're waiting for a countersign, don't bother, I don't know it," Smythe-Farrow said with a smile. "I'm not with Lambert. Or Dorley, for that matter."

  Oh, yeah, this was going to be a fucking day, he thought.

  "Then who are you with?" said Craig.

  Stay calm. Stay cool. Don't give away anything.

  Luckily, he had significant practice with hiding his true feelings---the few he had, anyway.

  "I'm with myself. Well, my family, anyway. You'd be surprised, but my father was one of the original investors in Dorley Hall. Did they even tell you what Dorley Hall used to be?"

  "I always assumed it used to be a mental institution. Now the patients run the asylum."

  "Yes, you're technically correct. In both ways, in fact. But between it's time as a mental institution and when Lambert and Quinn took it over for their... project, of which I know you are aware, it was my family who ran it. We want it back. Or at least... we want to run it into the ground and rebuild what it was somewhere else."

  "And you're telling me this because..."

  "Because you want to run that pce into the ground, too."

  Yep, thought Craig. Burn it down. Salt the earth.

  "Nah, I'm over it," Craig lied. "Besides, I've got my own career now. Don't really have time for... whatever this is. Revenge pns? Spy games?"

  "You could be a very rich man, Dr. Bir."

  "I could be a very dead man, Mr. Smythe-Farrow, if I make enemies of the wrong people. And please. Dr. Brandon here. I'm on a working holiday, and I was told everyone here exercised a modicum of discretion."

  Alistair Smythe-Farrow thought for a moment, taking a few steps around the clinic. But not towards the exit, Craig noticed.

  Craig let out a deep sigh.

  "Alright, Mr. Smythe-Farrow, let's quit pying games. What is it, exactly, that you want?"

  "I want to promote you from a pawn in someone else's game to a major piece in mine. Ernstein has bckmail material on many major pyers. Bckmail material that I'd like to see retrieved, or destroyed."

  "Worried about your reputation?"

  "Hardly. But some of those people on those files are potential customers. If he ever uses that bckmail, those customers might then turn on us. You can see how it's all a liability for me."

  "So, why me?"

  "Well, Dr. Bir, let me ask you the same question you just asked me. What is it, exactly, that you want?"

  Revenge. Recognition. Suffering, he thought. And if I'm honest with myself, estrogen and a sex change operation, but after he wielded dysphoria and testosterone like a fucking scalpel.

  But then he thought more deeply about it.

  He asked himself: How do I feel? Tell me, now, how do I feel?

  And he realized what he wanted.

  Freedom.

  He wanted freedom. Freedom to choose his own destiny. Agency. He could choose to indulge his inner psychopathic nature or fight against it, but it would be his own choice. And that was something he wanted even more than revenge.

  "Because whatever it is you do want, Dr. Bir," said Alistair Smythe-Farrow, "I assure you I have sufficient resources to secure it."

  Craig raised an eyebrow. "I don't doubt that you do. Do you have a pn, or is this all hypothetical?"

  "I can get you access to Ernstein's office. From there, you'd be on your own, but retrieve the drive or it's remains, and you may write a bnk check."

  "And if you have access, why are you not taking the drive yourself?"

  "Too high profile. And if you get caught, I can pusibly deny that you've done the work for me."

  "Do you have a pn for extraction?"

  "One of my associates will be piloting a small speedboat --- the kind used by drug smugglers. It's moored at the big isnd. When the operation has commenced, I can have them dock at the northernmost beach, with the engine running."

  "And then you shoot me in the head and take the drive?"

  "That would be the smart thing, if you weren't useful in other ways. We have big pns, Dr. Bir. Pns that require medical expertise over a long period of time. You'd be more than useful, Dr. Bir. You'd be practically indispensable."

  "I'm sure that's what Gus Fring told Gale Boetticher."

  "Who?"

  "You've not seen Breaking Bad, then. Look. I'm not saying no. I'm not saying yes. I'm going to keep it under consideration. This is a dangerous game. I want to take some time to work out all the angles first."

  "Your file said you were brilliant, Dr. Bir. I trust you'll find all the angles you need. Thank you for your time."

  And with that, Alistair Smythe-Farrow walked out of the clinic.

  And by that time, Craig's tea had gone cold.