Olivia [Ch. 4]

Olivia’s tests turn deadly.

Content Warning: Olivia explores psychological profiling, manipulation, and emotionally detached narration that may be unsettling for some readers. Chapter 4 includes themes of kidnapping, intense discussions of trauma, fantasies of death (suicide), and death.

Reader discretion is advised.

You can read the first three chapters below.

Olivia [Ch. 1]

Olivia [Ch 2] | Boundaries

Olivia [Ch. 3]

Where We Left Off

“I know you probably think I’m crazy—but I thought that it might be too soon to ask you to move in, and it’s difficult to get any data when conditions are consistently uncontrollable…so I improvised.

Hope you don’t mind.”

---

Clean-Up Time

When he came to, there was the initial twitch of panic in his eyes—which I had anticipated—but it was just that. A twitch.

Now, hear me out: I don’t usually kidnap people—but from our very first conversation after I locked him up, it was clear Ben, the situation, it was all non-standard. I required a more controlled evaluation.

No one but Benjamin fucking Baker wakes up in a polycarbonate enclosure cell in some random white girl’s basement and goes;

“I know that I said I had no interest in being more than friends, but that was before I knew you were into the freaky stuff. I’d like time to reconsider my options.”

I blinked three times, slowly, then my eyes narrowed.

“Did—did you just make a sex joke?”

I, at minimum, appreciated the confidence—or over confidence, given his situation. He was clearly attempting to perform some rather odd psychological experiments—as if he weren’t the one locked in a giant box like a lab rat.

But, still, I was willing to feed into the game if it meant getting data. My response needed to be perfect. I chose a classic Olivia Opening.™

The fastest way to break someone’s confidence is to take cheap, indirect shots at their ego. We call this ‘negging’—it’s an average man’s greatest, most versatile tool. Naturally, I stole it, claimed discovery, and renamed it after myself. Call it payback for Plymouth Rock.

My voice took on a motherly tone, you know the one—overly sweet and patronizing.

“Out of all of the millions of responses you could have had to waking up hungover inside of a box…how did that pretty little head of yours land on a sex joke?”

His eyes met mine, voice steady.

“Because there’s no sense in trying to manipulate your empathy—you’re a psychopath.”

Most people avoid direct eye contact before dropping the psychopath bomb. He met me head on. That meant two things:
One, he wasn’t tossing out diagnosis just to see what would stick.
And two: He wasn’t the least bit on edge or intimidated. Not really.

“When did you know?” My voice came out quieter than I would’ve liked. “What tipped you off?”

Silence.

“I had my suspicions at the cafe.” He finally broke the quiet. His voice was calm but tight—as if he was measuring just how much to tell me. And it clearly wasn’t a strategy to spare my feelings.

“I was sure when we met at the bar. You’re incredibly charismatic, and mirror your present company very well. You kept your BAC below .05%, precisely. I considered a military background, private security maybe, but you looked a little too young.” Ben continued.

“But, the whole night, through every stage of drunk Ben, your little mimic act stayed consistent. You weren’t trying to manipulate me or the situation—you were trying to blend in. That told me that it was less likely to be formal training. More likely a personality disorder that’s often characterized—or mischaracterized—as being unfeeling.”

He paused. The corners of his eyes softened—it wasn’t pity, just a side effect of natural empathy.

“You wanna know what really did it for me, though? The exact moment?” He gave space for the rhetorical question to breathe. “When I was beating Jukebox guy to a pulp, you didn’t flinch. You watched, unblinking. Most grown men that I know start turning away or breaking up the fight, even when one guy had it coming. There’s a certain level of bloodshed that most people can’t stomach—not you. I don’t think you have a limit—and I know you have experience.”

His observations were surprisingly accurate. But, from him, each one landed like a physical blow. That’s when the tingling started in my fingers—it’s my body’s way of warning me that I am about to loose control.

My eyes narrowed in time with his monologue. My fingers curled and carved crescent moons into my palm—a lousy attempt to delay the red already bleeding into my vision. Ben must’ve caught on because he tried to diffuse.

“Liv, I didn’t mean it as a bad th—” but I cut him off.

"Don't call me Liv." I snipped.

The pure rage that burned into my stomach in that moment was unexpected, very unwelcome—and fascinating in its intensity. I hadn't anticipated such a visceral reaction to something so trivial—

“I’m sorry, Liv, what do other guys usually call you when you lock them in your fucking basement?!”

Photo by Aleksi Partanen on Unsplash

"Alright, alright, let’s relax, okay?” I said, my voice devoid of inflection. I simulated a regulatory breath and stepped away from the enclosure. “I just want you to answer a few questions, undergo a very short and relatively painless study, then I’ll send you on your way.”

He chuckled—which was deeply unsettling for the moment. Not many people laugh in a situation like that.

“That’s it? You’re just going to let me go? By the looks of this little serial killer den, I thought you had something else in mind.”

My eyes narrowed. I analyzed every single change in his expression, stance, posture, attitude. I thought I was going to be up against a master strategist but it seemed that I’d managed to crack a little something loose. Still, his body relaxed, shoulders visibly untensing. He had been nervous, at least to some degree.

“I’m the crazy one here?” I asked incredulously. “You’re the one that has absolutely no digital footprint, no real identity outside of arrest records. That’s a red flag, by the way.”

"Maybe I just value my privacy. Did you consider that?" He chuckled—

—again, not very reassuring, given the circumstances. His eyes swept over the basement, lingering on nothing in particular.

"Plus, this little Joe Goldberg situation you’ve got going on, it doesn't exactly scream 'stable' either, does it?”

“This isn’t about me; quit deflecting.” I snapped.

"Oh, pardon me for being curious about my captor,” he quipped with a dramatic eye-roll. “Before the interrogation, are you going to tell me what my crime was?”

“There are no Miranda-rights in the control room.” I turned to grab my notebook. When I whirled back around, a single eyebrow raised. "Are you ready to answer the questions or do you need a little bit of foreplay before you open up? I can get the rags and petrol?"

It was strange, that moment with Ben. The familiarity. The comfort. That shitty basement with its bleach smell, flickering lights, and the ominous hum of the enclosure. In that moment, I felt like I belonged.

“Physical, mental, all the same to me. Torture is torture.” He said it with a ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Give me everything you’ve got, beautiful." His eyes assessed my reaction.

"Ew, don’t call me that." A flicker of genuine distaste crossed my face, quickly masked. I cleared my throat, dismissively waving off the flattery.
“First question; the last time that you fantasized about your own death, what was it like? Was it peaceful? Violent?”

The question hung like a noose around Ben’s throat—I could see it in the way that he swallowed.

He knew that I knew.
I knew that he knew that I knew—
—we had both let ourselves drift back to that dream… more often than we’d admit.

“Violent. Always is.” His voice was tight but his eye contact was steady. He was being honest. The self-deprecation that followed reinforced this hypothesis. He chuckled, “I usually imagine dying in some other country killing fascists or something.”

“Why haven’t you done it?” I asked.

The question came out before I could stop it; that never happened. I was always so careful—you guessed it, until Ben. He responded in a way that mirrored my comfort.

“I don’t think I’ve earned the right to make that decision. Kind of like penance, in a way. I don’t get to determine the length of my suffering.”

The air felt heavy, both of us deep in thought. Ben’s voice sliced through the existential silence.

“So, what now, madam kidnapper? Is this the part where you start demanding ransom? Or am I lucky enough to be an ink blot test and weird lotion fetish kind of victim?”

He asked it so casually—like he was truly prepared for either.

“First of all, I don’t normally kidnap people. There’s no routine to this—so jot that down.”

I glanced at the distinct lack of pen or paper in his enclosure.

Not the point.

“Sure you don’t, princess.”

That.

He was testing tactics on me; wanted to see which strategy would strike what nerve. That was an incalculable error on his behalf. I could play the mental games just as well as him, probably even better.

I didn't bother to measure my pace as I stalked toward the enclosure, my focus entirely on Ben.

"I know about you too, you know?” The sudden shift in my demeanor—adrenaline spike to detachment—elicited a reaction. Minuscule. Fleeting.

I reveled in it.

“I know that you've never had a stable relationship, that's why you don't go visit your parents—hurts to see what you won’t ever have. You've never settled down or had a home of your own, in fact, you probably think you don't deserve one—

—my guess would be that you did some things in a foreign country to people whose names you can't even pronounce and you weren’t ready for the guilt that came with it.

You joined the military for some short-sighted reason. You’re intelligent and capable—college was never the barrier. Which leaves legacy. Father? Grandfather, more likely, judging by your age. Either way, a legacy built on sand.”

I looked at him with something akin to pity.

“That’s a thing about service members, Baker, you lie. Military culture accepts bending the truth more often than not, especially if it’s ‘for the mission.’ Studies show, on average, enlisted service members bend or withhold the truth 25 to 30 percent more than civilians.

Let’s do the math, shall we? In terms of percentages, the average person lies or exaggerates 20-30% of their casual social statements. If we establish a conservative baseline of 25%, statistically speaking, you’re attempting to honor a legacy that is 32.5 percent, almost one third, fiction—that’s by the rosiest of assumptions.

And don’t get me started on the rate at which men lie.

So your father or grandfather died when you were…what, 9? 10 years old? Whoever it was, they weren’t some grand war hero who saved democracy. They died in a war to preserve the interests of the rich and powerful.”

I emphasized every syllable of each word.

“He was just another body, filling the needs of the patriarchy.”

My voice softened, as if I were so confident, there was nothing he could say that would change my mind.

“But, hey, look at you; you finally fulfilled the legacy you’ve always dreamt of.”

I stepped back, analyzing his response. For half a second, his lips pressed together, then his eyes flicked away, just long enough. That’s what gave him away.

Photo by Hassan Pasha on Unsplash

"That's a lot of assumptions, Liv,"

His jaw tightened as if he were chewing the words. The shortening of my name grated my nerves more than it should have.

"That's a lot of assumptions, Olivia," I corrected, my voice sharp.

A beat.

I could almost see him compartmentalizing the feelings that I had stirred.

"You know what—let’s make a deal," Ben leaned back and slid down, back against the glass wall. He rested his elbows on his knees, his gaze sharp despite the relaxed posture. "I’m starving. We need space. You could bring me something to snack on. Can’t have a hungry lab rat—oh, bonus points if it has peanut butter. Protein, fats, and carbs. Good for fuel—something tells me I’m gonna need it.”

And then he had the audacity to wink. I rolled my eyes and turned toward the stairs to the kitchen. It wouldn’t hurt to put a little bit of distance between the two of us.

When I came back, he was laying on his back on the floor, eyes closed. At the sound of my steps hitting the cement, he hopped up and waited at the thin slot like one of Pavlov’s pets.

He scarfed down the sandwich.

Without missing a beat between the last bite and the words,

“You have an epi-pen around here somewhere?”

My face dropped. My brain instantly flagged his file: no allergies. And I always remember.

“You’re not allergic to peanut butter. You don’t have any allergies, I checked your medical records.”

“That’s the thing about service members, Olivia—we lie.”

Nice call-back. Point one, Ben.

“First reaction I had to peanuts, my dad gave me some Benadryl and drove thirty minutes off base to have me monitored at a clinic that accepted cash. Didn’t want to ruin my chances.

When I enlisted states away, I just never brought it up at MEPS. There’s no single system for searching medical records—other than through insurance. There’s no way for them to check—despite what they tell everyone.”

I didn’t move a muscle. If he were playing some sort of fucked up Russian roulette, I’d be damned if I was going to lose in my own house.

“Are you dumb? Or just stupid? Why would you intentionally ingest peanut butter if you have a peanut allergy?”

My eyes darted to the bathroom. I measured the distance between me and the epi-pen in the cabinet—less than ten feet away. Simple. But that knowledge was power, and I needed some kind of leverage in whatever bizarre game Ben had begun.

“Not stupid,” his voice began to tremble; more than likely a side effect of anaphylaxis. “Just don’t have anything else left to live for. So now you gotta choose—get me that epi pen you have stashed in the bathroom cabinet, or let me die.”

“Pft. You think I won’t let you die, buddy? You would be the first accidental death of many.”

He didn’t miss a beat. He was so confident, it had almost been endearing.

“You think you can read people because you’re smart—I’ve lived. And I can see it on your face—you aren’t going to let me die in this shitty box, in your shitty basement.”

Photo by Isaac Quesada on Unsplash

---

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen someone go into anaphylactic shock in person, but it’s brutal.

His eyes glazed over almost instantly—first the lids fluttered, then locked open as that distant look crept in. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.

He collapsed, limbs splayed, chest heaving in desperate spasms. His skin took on that bluish tint—lips and fingertips darkening as oxygen-starved blood pooled.

I stood back, arms crossed, watching every microsecond of physiological failure play out. Yeah, yeah, go ahead, cry it out. Not what I expected either. Sometimes The Narrator fate has other plans.

His death wasn’t a total waste, though—he gave me so much invaluable data for RICM.

I didn’t bother with clean up in the moment, just sat and watched him for 67 minutes of total stillness. An arbitrary number, yet it felt... right somehow. I checked his pulse, let his arm flop back down to the ground, then climbed the stairs, flipping the basement lights off behind me.

---

In my office, I dug.

I dug deeper into Ben’s existence than I had ever dug into any other man. I had to shut it down before Ben and his past became an uncontrollable fixation.

There’s no logic in obsessing over a test subject that’s dead. That’s like grieving the lottery you didn’t win—you didn’t even buy a ticket.

I compiled everything I had learned about Ben: Moved like spec-ops, probable Delta-force based on combat style with Jukebox guy. I still couldn’t shake the feeling that killing Ben did more harm than good—a dangerous imbalance in my perfect system…

It’ll balance eventually.

And so, the basement had seen another soul pass on.¹

Photo by Tom Chrostek on Unsplash.

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Until the next story,

—The Narrator.

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