Dr. Phillips smiles sinisterly, proudly even. "What you're going to be doing is far more important than clinics. You are going to become inventors with the science you have immersed yourself in over the past few years."
This doesn't sound interesting or like what I want to be doing. I want to help people, save lives, and develop cures. "You made it sound like this was something different," I tell Dr. Phillips.
He releases a hearty laugh as if what I just said was the funniest thing he's ever heard. "Isabelle Hammel, you are about to make history. You are about to develop a cure and save lives. We are going to be doing all of that through the development of our methodology. I have chosen the three of you based on your drive, GPA, and willingness to be open-minded."
"So then, what is it we're doing?" I ask, still not impressed. I want to hear what this is about—what we'll be achieving.
"Darkest Perception," he says, as if it were a name we should have heard before. I never missed a lecture, page in a book, or a presentation Dr. Phillips had given our classes, and by the look on Gregg and Leigh-Ann's faces, they haven't heard of Darkest Perception either.
"What is Darkest Perception?" I ask, obviously giving Dr. Phillips the lead-in he was hoping for.
Another look of pride pulls at his mouth. "Darkest Perception is an undeveloped method of permanently undoing damage to the amygdala ventromedial prefrontal cortex and the hippocampus." I'm staring intently at Dr. Phillips as he piques my interest. "Isabelle, tell me what the amygdala is responsible for?"
As if it were an auto-response, I tell him, "It's the region of the brain that controls emotions and fear."
"Very good," he agrees. "Studies have proven that brain scans have shown above average activity in the amygdala when PTSD sufferers experience a bout of anxiety or fear."
"And the ventromedial prefrontal cortex shows sluggish activity with PTSD sufferers, right?" I question Dr. Phillips.
"Correct. The overactive hippocampus and the underachieving ventromedial react like hot and cold, causing fog—or anxiety—at different levels in these cases. Therefore, we are going to find a way to re-balance each level, as well as flip the levels entirely."
"Wouldn't that erase all sense of normal fear a person should have?" Gregg asks.
"Yes," Dr. Phillips responds.
"Why would we want to develop that type of research?" I ask.
"Eliminating fear will allow the human mind to go further, accomplish more, and adapt to changes seamlessly." I've never doubted Dr. Phillips, nor the personal scientific goals he has been working toward, but I'm not sure I understand the full purpose of this research. Though, I can assume there is more logic than what he's explaining.
"So, how are we going to conduct this research?" Leigh-Ann asks.
"Case studies," Dr. Phillips answers simply. A little more excitement fires through me. I prefer case studies over clinics. Real life is easier to learn from. "Music is going to be the basis of this methodology since it's one of the strongest forms of brain manipulation. Isabelle, you minored in music theory, correct?"
"Yes,” I answer. Dr. Phillips co-taught a class last year with a science music theorist to teach the effects of certain tones, beats, rhythms, volumes, and notes to evoke certain emotions, though the depth of the information taught was never more than basic knowledge.
"Isabelle has what we need to make the perfect research and development team,” he says.
"I don’t know if I have enough—”
"Give yourself some credit,” he tells me. "You have what we need.”
"Uh—”
"Anyway, before we begin, I must have each of you sign a non-disclosure agreement as well as some other paperwork, since this method is to be used for medical purposes only. It's a lot of fine print, really, but we must protect ourselves, right?" Dr. Phillips asks with a kind of laughter that isn't returned by the three of us.
"Why us?" I ask, knowing he gave simple answers for his decision to choose us for this study, but this isn't just a case for learning, this is more.
"I have my reasons," he says. "With that said, if any of this makes you uncomfortable, you are welcome to back out now."
26
Axel
There isn't much more I can add to this situation to make it any dirtier than it already is. I have Isabelle by the elbow, refusing to release her from my grip due to the massive goose egg sticking out of her head. Her pupils are still dilated, and I don't trust that she can stand up straight, or that she doesn't have at minimum a mild concussion.
"Let go of me, Axel," she hisses again. "Or just let me sleep.”
"No. Be quiet," I tell her.
"I'll scream. You know what TSA will do to you?"
"First, we’re on a private jet. There’s no TSA. Second, if there were TSA, do you know what they'd do to you … Isabelle?" I remind her that she isn't safe and that she's still on the run despite the promise of safety I offered her.
"Both of you … shut up," Everett says. "Can we just get the fuck off this jet?"
"Don’t tell me to shut up!” she tells Everett.
"Jesus, stop it," he snaps.
I keep my mouth shut until we’re out of the building beneath the jet’s landing pad. Thankfully, we find Chuck waiting out front.
I open the back door, helping Isabelle into the car, but she pulls her arm from my grip and jumps in. Everett sits in the front seat, which is a relief for the moment because the three of us being smashed in the backseat isn't ideal.
"Drop me off on Mass Avenue," Isabelle tells Chuck.
I catch Chuck's eye in the rearview mirror and with a slight shake of my head, tell him to ignore her. He doesn't respond to Isabelle's request and peels away from the curb.
I reach over and try to take Isabelle's hand, despite being as ticked off at her as she is at me right now. She doesn't comply, though. "Don't touch me."
"Easy,” I tell her. "Relax. You don’t need to be getting all worked up after hitting your head as hard as you did.”
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" she asks, twisting her entire body to stare me down. "You think another person's innocence is less important than your own?"
I don't know how much she knows about me or my past, only what she has said so far. I want to tell her everything but now isn't the time.
"You know who I am," I tell her.
"Well then, tell me why you were you going to prison. Tell me who died because of you, and why they died."
I clear my throat, holding my focus on the rearview mirror where Chuck will look if he has concern. While I know he has no issue ignoring everything he hears in this car, there are some things that need to remain private.
"You want to know why Axel was arrested?" Everett asks like it's a big joke. "Because he's a fucking moron."
I throw my head back into the leather seat, knowing there is no way of getting out of this car without my life's secrets being exposed.
"I think I've figured that part out," Isabelle says to Everett.
"Oh!" Everett shouts, sounding like he's watching a football game. "Did you ever go to that bar, ‘Dawgbar,’ on the other side of Fenway?"
"Yeah," Isabelle says, sounding unamused and confused. "Why?"
"You should have seen what happened the night Axel got dumped by this chick he was dating."
"You're an asshole," I tell him, knowing he isn't going to stop.
"So, imagine this, Axel gets dumped by this hot, older woman, right? We hit up the bar so he can get shit drunk to forget about her, and who do you think walks into the bar? This isn’t even a dumb joke. This is true, real life shit."
Isabelle looks over at me after staring at the side of Everett's face. I can't tell if it's remorse in her eyes or empathy. In either case, I'd like to jump out of the car before this conversation goes any further. "The ex?" Isabelle asks with a dumbfounded look on her face. Everett might be trying to reveal my past, but he’s making himself sound like a real dick at the same time.