They all gave themselves to the keeper of the isndComing quickly to terms of all expression id

  -- "The Remembering (High the Memory)" - Yes (1973)

  Doctor Kosier leaned in, voice low but insistent. He had to make her see reason.

  "Director, I understand that this is your call, but I'm telling you, you are working Dr. Bishop too hard. I can see it in his eyes. Full rotation as a staff doctor, and you keep sending him to these medical conferences, emergency calls -- and it's starting to wear on him. He's in his first foundation year. He should have been rotated out two months ago. I mean, an FY1, being sent out on house calls and sent to conferences? I've never heard of such a thing."

  Luna pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yes, he's pushing himself. But you see how brilliant he is. Some people thrive under pressure, Dr. Kosier." Luna took a deep breath, frustrated. "But fine. If you're seeing signs of real strain, I'll see about making adjustments."

  "That young man," said Kosier, "may be brilliant. But you will burn him out at this rate. I've seen doctors push themselves too far before, Director. When that happens, it's not just them who suffer. God forbid he just throws away everything he's worked for and does something stupid like go into finance or w."

  "Craig Bishop, a wyer. That’s a scary thought," said Director Luna.

  ***

  "I have very good news for you, Craig." said Luna, in the morning briefing. "Doctor Kosier says that I've been working you too hard. So you're going to take a little vacation."

  Craig raised an eyebrow. This was uncharacteristic of Luna. And, well -- maybe it was true. He was working too hard.

  He’d been pushing himself more than usual in his hospital duties ever since the meeting with Frances Barton in Newcastle. He couldn’t shake it, couldn’t stop repying the conversation in his head. He might actually have to confide in Dr. Whitaker of his own free will. That thought alone was disturbing.

  Maybe he did need a vacation.

  "I've secured a temporary role for you as an on-call physician for an exclusive retreat owned by a billionaire phinthropist financier, on a private, tropical isnd. Sun and surf."

  Ah. A working vacation, then.

  He wanted to throw that back in Luna’s face. Normally, he would have. But he was just so tired. The fight wasn’t in him today.

  No quips. No snarky comeback. Just a nod.

  "So, spying?" asked Craig.

  "Of course. That goes without saying," Luna said, breezing past his exhaustion. "Your mission is to gather intelligence on who visits the isnd and uncover any evidence of illicit activities -- specifically, human trafficking. Track the personnel, their behavior, their connections to the financier. Observe patterns. Your medical status grants you access others don’t have. And of course, your patients may say things to you, assured that they have doctor-patient confidentiality."

  "Another medical ethics viotion crossed off the bingo card, I guess," Craig muttered. No joy in it.

  "Your goal is intelligence gathering, not sabotage," Luna continued. "We already have a pn to bring legal justice down on the financier’s head. We just need some not-so-legally obtained evidence to point the FBI in the right direction."

  Craig exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "And how do you know the financier is guilty?"

  Luna slid a thick dossier across the desk. The name on the front said Jeremy Ernstein.

  "Before 2004, Dorley Hall was a hub for human trafficking. When the new management came in, they kept the old receipts."

  Craig hesitated before picking up the folder. He already knew what he would find.

  "Jeremy Ernstein," Luna continued, voice even, "wasn’t just a customer. He was a preferred customer."

  Craig’s jaw tightened as he flipped through the pages. Photos. Documents. Names. The only thing he hated more than Dorley Hall and what it had done to him were the people who kept pces like it running.

  "When do I leave?"

  "Next week. Ms. Devon will have the details. You might also want to brush up on your SERE training. If things go south, you may have to try to get to a nearby isnd and survive in the wilderness before we can arrange an extraction."

  Craig let out a slow, exhausted breath. "Great."

  Luna smiled. "I really like this new attitude of yours, Bishop." She leaned in, just a fraction. "Keep it up."

  Craig closed the dossier and stood. His fingers lingered on the cover for just a moment too long.

  "Yeah," he said, voice hollow. "I bet you do."

  ***

  "Craig, how are you feeling today?" Dr. Whitaker observed the dark circles under Craig's eyes, the slowed gait.

  "Evil," said Craig. "As always."

  "Is that so?" said Casey Whitaker. "Because you don't seem like your usual boisterous level of malicious. It's like you've put your antipathy on the back-burner."

  "Well, I'm a bit tired. Got stuff going through my head. And I can't seem to shake it. I tried meditation, I tried some video games, I tried burying myself in work, I tried evil scheming. Did you know President Trump has completely dismantled America's pandemic response team? The one established by W. Bush in his first term?"

  "That's a bit of a non-sequitur, isn't it, Craig?" Dr. Whitaker said.

  "The connections made sense in my head," Craig sighed. "Anyway, and I really hate admitting it, I think I may actually have to talk to you about what's troubling me. Like... genuinely confide in you. Because you know, typically I know what's going on in my own head. I mean, it's my head. I should know. But ever since I ran into Frances Barton... I've been thinking about my old life at Dorley. And I can't stop thinking about it.

  Dr. Whitaker winced. "Yeah, I was just going over some of your old files. They really fucked you up good over there. In my opinion, Dorley made a huge mistake bringing you into the program. Should have never happened."

  "But they did," said Craig. "And now I'm here. Dorley Hall Two: Dorley Harder." He smirked, but there was no joy in it.

  "I don't think this is the right pce for you either," Whitaker said. "I don't know if there is a right pce. But taking your autonomy from you. Your control. All of that. They fucked up. That was never going to help you. They did you a massive disservice. I think they made you worse, not better."

  "I know. Rationally, I know that. And usually, for me, rationally knowing that is enough! But for some reason, my mind just keeps going back there. I... miss the torture house, of all pces. I miss Monica, I miss Paige, I miss Christine, I miss Vicky, and Jodie, and I especially miss--"

  Craig closed his eyes and id down on the couch. "It was real, you have to understand. I had to lose myself in the role completely. I... I was Zadie. And Zadie, caring for Pippa? That was real. It was just that Zadie wasn't real."

  "And what did Craig think of her?" asked Whitaker.

  "Who, Pippa, or Zadie? It doesn't matter. Craig used them both. Craig hid in the shadows, waiting for the moment to strike. Like he always does-- I'm sorry, Dr. Whitaker, but you've got me speaking in the third person now. How'd you do that?"

  "Psychological techniques," said Dr. Whitaker, "that I learned from Bugs Bunny cartoons. Let me ask you something. Did you like being Zadie?"

  "God help me, I know I did," said Craig.

  "Did you ever think, maybe you liked being Zadie, because you liked being a woman?" said Dr. Whitaker.

  "Of course," said Craig, matter of factly. "I mean, I'm obviously biochemically transfeminine. Didn't know it going into Dorley but it was pretty obvious by, like, a couple months in. I'm actually embarrassed I didn't figure it out sooner. But it was pretty obvious once they brought Vicky in. In fact, I think I figured it out just a little bit before she did."

  "Wait, you know you're a trans woman?"

  "Well, it depends on how you look at it. I still identify as my assigned gender at birth, but I probably have the genetic markers of--," said Craig. He stopped short, paused in thought, then sat up, looking at Dr. Whitaker like she’d just decred water isn’t wet.

  "Wait. You just figured this out? Are you-- no, hold on. How long have we been doing this? You’re supposed to be a professional."

  "Then why... why did you go back on testosterone? Why are you detransitioning?"

  "I told you. To give me that edge. To keep me alert, on my toes. I'm not an idiot, I know what dysphoria feels like. I'm weaponizing it. Using it against the world. The pain keeps my mind sharp. And men, well, we just simply get away with shit women can't. And that trans women especially can't. I may hate the patriarchy, but if I'm forced to live in it, I'm going to use it to my own advantage. My male body might be ugly, graceless, and lumbering, but so is a Challenger tank, and that thing crushes anything in it's path."

  Dr. Whitaker listened intently, but as the words left Craig’s mouth, something in her shifted. It wasn’t just that Craig was broken. She knew that. It was that he had, perhaps unknowingly, engineered his own misery. He wasn’t simply living in a world that chewed him up. He was making sure the world would never offer him anything else. Because the alternative? Happiness, peace -- those were too dangerous for someone like him. He could manipute his misery, control it, but anything outside of that chaos left him vulnerable. Vulnerable in ways Craig could never allow himself to be.

  Her thoughts sharpened like a bde. She didn’t say anything at first -- she couldn’t. She had to let the gravity of it sink in, the realization that the "bomb" Craig carried was already ticking in a way she hadn’t fully grasped before.

  "You okay, Doctor Whitaker?" said Craig. "You haven't said anything in a while." He looked over and frowned. "Did I finally break you? Isn't that my luck. The one time I wasn't trying to break you, and you break."

  "Yeah, Craig," she admitted. "You broke me."

  ***

  Little St. Isadore had once been a natural paradise, an untouched gem in the U.S. Virgin Isnds. But nature hadn’t stood a chance against Jeremy Ernstein. He had paved paradise, ripped out the native vegetation, and repced it with forty-foot imported palms -- postcard-perfect, identical, as artificial as everything else he touched.

  Why stop at raping innocent people when you can rape nature at the same time?

  Craig saw it all from the air, in Ernstein's bck, unmarked helicopter slicing through the humid sky. The journey here had been a procession of private excess -- first-css luxury from Engnd to a discreet airstrip, then a seamless transition to this hovering vantage point above what was, by all appearances, a billionaire’s pyground.

  From above, the isnd gleamed like a travel brochure: an opulent main compound, four patial guest houses, and a helipad sitting like a jewel in the center. White-stone pathways wound through meticulously ndscaped rows of palm trees, ferrying guests in golf carts from Olympic-sized pools to a state-of-the-art gym to a thatched-roof tiki bar overlooking a private goon. The beaches stretched in golden arcs, the waters an impossible shade of blue, the cliffs rising dramatically at the isnd’s far edge.

  And yet, for all its beauty, something was wrong.

  It wasn’t just the absence of a cellphone tower -- Craig had been briefed on that. No signals, no outside communication, just a single radio in the main building and a satellite link locked away in the Financier’s private office, inaccessible to all but him. It wasn’t just the over-sculpted vegetation, the curated “wilderness” hiding security cameras in every tree, and the security guards constantly patrolling the grounds.

  It was the feeling that this pce had been designed for secrecy.

  A prison where the doors were gold-pted, the cages disguised as luxury suites.

  The most opulent, outdoor, tropical torture basement on Earth.

  ---

  "Dr. Craig Brandon?" said the concierge meeting him at the helipad.

  "That's me," Craig responded. And for the next two weeks, it would be.

  "If you could follow me, we'll have you set up in the medical hut."

  They got into a small, battery-powered golf cart and headed to the other side of the isnd -- no more than a five-minute ride.

  "So, other than Mr. Ernstein and his guests," the concierge said, "we have a full-time staff of about seventy: guards, groundskeepers, undry, chefs, on-call boat captains..." The concierge reached into his inner jacket pocket and handed Craig a keycard. "This will get you pretty much anywhere on the isnd you need to be, except for the other guests' rooms and Mr. Ernstein's private office and quarters. Naturally, this job is about discretion. And of course, the golden rule of working for a billionaire -- 'what Jeremy wants, Jeremy gets.'"

  Craig was quite well briefed on what 'Jeremy wants,' so he just nodded, pying the role of the amicable, clueless doctor. "I'm sure it'll be fine. I'm just here in case anyone needs any basic medical attention over the next two weeks."

  The concierge opened the door for him, and inside was a small clinic, and well stocked pharmacy. He'd have to go over the contents of that when he got the chance.

  On the desk was a small walkie-talkie-like device, which the concierge handed to him, instructing him on its use. "We color-code them. Medical channel is green," he said. "This way we can get in touch with you, since we don't have phones on the isnd. Keep the radio with you at all times, but other than that, you're welcome to take advantage of the facilities during your off-hours, of course. Now, let me show you to your quarters."

  His quarters were in the nearest guest hut, modeled like a hotel suite or efficiency apartment. Well-appointed, in the tropical style, with plenty of cssic literature, a ft-screen television, and a remarkable ocean view. Sure, he was on call with Ernstein and on a mission with Luna, but he still pnned to enjoy his time here.

  That was the thing about obscene wealth, Craig reasoned. It wasn’t just that the rich could get away with things. It wasn’t all intimidation, hush money, and bribes -- offers that couldn’t be refused. It was easier than that. Craig had grown up comfortably middle-css, but the perks of being around the super-rich were something else entirely. You found yourself wanting to be their friend. Wanting to be liked. It wasn’t that you cked moral objections to what they did -- it was that you looked the other way. You didn’t ask questions because you didn’t want to. You didn’t want to ruin the good thing you had going.

  And so, everyone in Ernstein’s inner circle pyed along. They all gave themselves to the keeper of the isnd.

  He knew something simir had happened to Pippa, after all. Dorley had given her a home. A family. A sense of belonging. A new life. Hope for the future. Security. Warmth. Love. And the love was real.

  But even real love can be toxic.

  And so, she learned not to see the horror of it-- the pain Dorley caused, the lives it changed, and the people who mourned the lost. The total abandonment of every moral and ethical principle.

  And in exchange? Everything a trans woman could ever want, Zadie girl-- anything. Everything.

  "There's a map of the isnd on the kitchen counter," said the concierge, interrupting the deep train of thought that Craig had found himself wandering into. "In case you need to know where the dining hall is."

  The dining hall. That might be a good opportunity to observe the other people.

  "Thank you," Craig replied. "Anything else I need to know?"

  "Yes," said the concierge, his smile a touch too tight. "One more thing. If you see anything -- anything unusual -- it's best to ignore it. The staff here are very... protective of the isnd and its privacy. I’m sure you’ll find that most things are as they appear, but sometimes, people see what they want to see. We don’t want you to get caught up in anything... unnecessary."

  "Ah," said Craig. "Message received."

  ---

  After the concierge left, Craig started unpacking his things. He’d been warned there might be hidden cameras in his room -- whether that was paranoia or precaution, he wasn’t sure, but he had to assume he was being watched. And soon, he’d need to check in. The timer on his own little doki-doki-deathtrap was still ticking away. Luna had been generous this time, giving him a full month -- “just in case extraction takes a little while.” He still needed to stay on her good side.

  The thought of simply walking up to Ernstein, telling him everything, and asking for his help to remove it did occur to him. But after reading that dossier, he knew that no matter how personally he despised Luna and the Lonely Hearts Club, they were the lesser of two evils.

  After all, it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve how they treated him.

  Craig decided it would be best if it looked like he needed a nap after the long flight from Engnd. To be fair, he probably did. He toed off his boat shoes, palming the tiny device hidden inside -- courtesy of some quartermaster who had clearly watched way too much "Get Smart" not to include a “shoe-phone.”

  It was pure old-school, Cold War-era spycraft, from the time before everything ran on silicon. Any modern computer or electronic device would have been fgged instantly by security sweeps, but this? It was just a shortwave transmitter and receiver, powered by a watch battery, broadcasting in Morse code. No encryption, no fancy software -- just a set of pre-arranged messages.

  Craig tapped out: “.. ... -- -...” -- I.S.M.B. Insertion successful, mission begins.

  A few moments ter, the device vibrated in his palm. Reply received: “P.A.P.” -- Proceed as pnned.

  He set the arm for 45 minutes. Just enough time to rest. Not enough to get comfortable.

  ***

  After the short rest, Craig showered, got dressed, including his gsses.

  Craig didn’t normally wear gsses, but these weren’t normal gsses. This was old-school spy-tech with a modern twist. A pinhole camera in the gsses took digital photos when he touched the little connecting bar in the middle -- he could be talking to someone, and right in their face, take a photo, and all it would look like to them was Craig pushing up his gsses. No transmitter, of course -- just a simple camera. If Craig got back to Engnd with the gsses intact, they could review the photos at their leisure.

  He also brought his stethoscope, the "listening-device in the listening-device" that he had taken with him on the sojourn to Newcastle, though this time he knew the recording device was there.

  Before setting off, Craig had pitched a few spy gear ideas -- A blowgun disguised as a syringe, a forehead thermometer that could inject a small lethal amount of poison, a ser hidden in a scalpel -- but Luna just ughed in his face.

  "As if we’d ever trust you with weapons."

  Craig had tried to argue, but Luna cut him off with a smirk. "Besides, you didn't need a weapon at Dorley, did you?"

  Yeah. Fair point.

  Fully equipped and dressed in his best attempt at tropical leisurewear, he made his way to the clinic, straight to business. First stop -- cataloguing the medications.

  Absentmindedly, he started thinking the James Bond theme. Then he caught himself. Yeah, because nothing says “I’m not a spy” like humming the Bond theme in a sketchy facility. He needed something less on-the-nose.

  Now, the Pink Panther theme? That was harmless. Maybe even appropriate.

  "Duh-dun… duh-dun… duh-dun, duh-dun, duh-dun, duh-dun, duh-duuuun…" he muttered under his breath while skimming bels.

  And then, from behind him, a male voice.

  "Dunh-dunh-duhhn… ba-nump ba-nah… wah-wah-wah-wah… dunna-da bum-bum."

  Craig froze. Shit. Had he been found out already? Barton was right, he was terrible at this spy stuff. He turned slowly.

  It was one of the guards.

  "Hey, Doc," said the man, a shorter guy with an American accent. "Just came by for a band-aid. Nicked myself making a bagel. I’d offer a handshake, but, y’know." He held up a bleeding finger. "Name’s Luis. Luis Fry."

  Craig rexed-- just a little. "Nice to meet you, Luis. Craig. Craig Brandon. I literally just got here an hour ago, I don’t even know where the bandages are."

  Luis smirked. "The old doc kept them in the first drawer on the left. Say, you know what happened to him?"

  Craig shrugged. "No idea," he said, which was true enough. He opened the drawer--bandages, antiseptic, right where Luis had said. "Let me take a look."

  Luis held out his hand. Not a bad cut. Didn’t need stitches. Bled a bit.

  "Right, wash it with soap first. I’ll put some antiseptic on it." Craig grabbed a pster. "So, you like Mancini?" he added, throwing out casual conversation to cover his nerves.

  Luis gave a lopsided grin. "Yeah. Big fan of spy movies. Bond, Mission Impossible, Bourne Identity, Munich, Kingsman, even old Hitchcock stuff. You ever see Three Days of the Condor? Underrated cssic."

  Craig shook his head. "Haven’t. What’s it about?"

  "Bookish CIA analyst finds his entire department wiped out. Has to figure out why, and pretty soon it’s clear he can’t trust the CIA. Cssic ‘you’re on your own’ spy plot, but this was 1975, right after Watergate. Real paranoid thriller."

  Craig nodded, genuinely intrigued. "Who pys the vilin?"

  "Michael Kane, I think."

  "Michael Caine?" Craig asked.

  "Not who you're thinking-- Kane. K-A-N-E. Canadian, I think. Not a big name."

  Craig chuckled. "I always liked the vilins in spy movies."

  Luis hesitated for a beat before saying, "Yeah. Funny thing about that…" He gnced around, then lowered his voice. "This pce kinda feels like a vilin’s ir, doesn’t it? Straight out of Dr. No."

  Craig studied his face. Luis was joking-- mostly. But there was something under the humor.

  "Yeah, well, we are working for a billionaire who insists on absolute discretion. First thing they told me when I got off the pne was basically ‘don’t ask questions.’"

  Luis exhaled sharply through his nose. "Yeah. It’s… grating."

  Craig kept his voice neutral. "Grating how?"

  Luis shifted, as if debating whether to say more. "I dunno, man. It’s just… when you’re told not to see things, that doesn’t mean you don’t see things. And maybe it’s nothing. But when you start feeling like you can’t trust your own instincts? That gets under your skin."

  He stopped himself there. Like he’d said too much.

  Craig took a moment, then leaned back against the shelf. "You know, anything you say here is doctor-patient privilege. It won’t leave this room."

  Luis gave him a skeptical look. "Even if it’s not, y’know, medical?"

  Craig shrugged. "They’re paying me for discretion. And sometimes, even if it’s nothing major, it helps to talk it out. Spy movies. Sport. Dumb workpce gripes. Whatever." He finished dressing the wound. "Hell, for the next two weeks, think of me as less Dr. House, more Hawkeye."

  Luis cracked a smile. "Hawkeye from the early seasons, or the maudlin Hawkeye from the ter ones?"

  "Depends," Craig said lightly. "On whether or not you actually have something to be concerned about."

  Luis flexed his bandaged finger. "Appreciate it, Doc. Thanks."

  "Any time." Craig hesitated, then added, just offhand enough to sound casual: "If any of the other guys ever need to talk, my door’s open. No pressure."

  Luis gave him a long look, then nodded. "I’ll keep that in mind."

  Craig smiled. Screw Barton. Maybe he wasn’t as bad at this spy thing as he thought.

  ***