Primal Atavism

This story is a slower burn, with brother and sister not getting intimate until over halfway through, although there is sex before then. Scientific information and terms are embellished to serve the story.

Comments and feedback are appreciated.

Enjoy.

Dylan

Sun bleeding through the window rouses me from sleep, and I stay in the comfortable limbo between slumber and wakefulness, warm and cosy under the duvet as sensation returns to my body.

I'm enjoying a lucid dream, the reason I can't open my eyes just yet. I'm dancing with a woman at a party after we spent some time talking. I don't remember what about; her words teeter on the edge of my memory, just out of reach and soon to be lost forever. Her face won't be, though, nor how she makes me feel. To have caught the attention of someone so interesting and sexy, for her to be hanging on my every word and moving her body in tandem with mine... Sadly, it's something I've never experienced in the waking world.

A high-pitched whistling replaces the music, and I can't discern what it is. I look around the dancefloor to no avail, and when I turn back, the woman is gone. The whistling gets louder, and I look down to see steam rising around my feet. I open my eyes and the sound persists, leaving me confused until it peters out with a whimper, connecting the dots. The kettle's boiled.

Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I push away the duvet and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I stand, stretch, then make my way to the kitchen.

'Morning sleepy head,' Rachel says. 'Sorry if I woke you.'

'It's fine. You saved me snoozing away half the day.'

She smiles at me. 'Some things never change. Sit down and have some breakfast. French toast and tea, just the way you like it. I bet you haven't been eating properly at uni.'

'You're not my mother, you know.'

'Does that mean you don't want the French toast?'

'That's not what I said and you know it.'

I sit at the table and she put the toast in front of me, the delectable smell sending my saliva glands into overdrive. She ruffles my hair before going to pour the tea, an annoying sisterly habit I've long since given up asking her to stop.

'What are your plans for today?' she asks.

'Nothing much. Chill, I guess. Might read a bit then go for a walk.'

She grabs her laptop from the kitchen counter, and I know what's coming. I pick at my French toast, hoping that if I engross myself in the task hard enough, she'll drop it. Wishful thinking—Rachel's never been one to drop anything.

'Seeing as you've got no plans,' she says, 'will you take another look at this?'

She loads the relevant page, which she apparently bookmarked, and positions the screen in front of me.

With a performative sigh, I set my knife and fork on my plate.

'Don't be like that, Dyl! You don't have to volunteer. I just thought that given how you've been feeling lately, it might be a good option for you.'

'Maybe I'll take a look after breakfast.'

'Okay, that's all I ask. I'm going to take a shower, back in a bit.'

I finish my toast and glug my tea, then rub away the remaining sleep I missed the first time. With a puff of my cheeks, I push away my plate and replace it with the laptop. The article Rachel had been so excited about last night stares back at me. Putting off reading it, I click to bring up the company's homepage.

Pothos

, a biotech firm 'at the forefront of research into human sexuality'. Just being on the website makes me feel pathetic. I click back to Rachel's article.

Primal Atavism Trials Now Recruiting

I stare at the title for a solid minute, honed in on the second word.

Atavism.

I hadn't even heard of it until last night. I had to look it up, and I didn't—and still don't—think it rolls off the tongue. I gaze at it for so long that it looks absurd, like a child's gibberish or a spell from a YA fantasy novel.

The shower stops and, after a few hurried footsteps, Rachel appears from the corridor, body wrapped in one towel and hair in another. She starts moving things around on the kitchen counter.

'Have you seen my phone?' she asks.

'Do you have to do that?'

'What? I'm covered up. It's not like you've never seen a towel before. Ah, here it is.'

She shoots me a smile, leaving me to my grumbling as she as she heads to her room. Even the article is a better prospect than the thought of my naked sister, so I set myself to reading it in case she comes back.

Applications for an exciting new drug trial are now being received. It is hoped that the substance, H14-8992, branded as

Primal Atavism

, will be able to increase the competency of men when interacting with the opposite sex...

It goes on, but that's all potential applicants really need to know. Admittedly, I could use some of it.

When Rachel referenced how I've been feeling lately, she had been talking about my struggles at university. Despite her occasional irritating habits, we're as close as family can be—I'd even go as far as calling her my hero, given everything she's done for me. We facetime at least once a week during term time, and even though I tried to put on a brave face, she saw right through it.

Honestly, it stems from loneliness. More specifically, lack of intimacy. I'm not the most social animal, and most of the time I'm okay with that. But when you're surrounded by people who take to 'uni life' like a fish to water, missing out on those experiences can sometimes weigh heavy. When it comes to the opposite sex, let's just say my hand is far from a royal flush. I'm not monstrous or anything, but I'm no Adonis, and 'game'—whatever that is—isn't my forte.

Still, I went into my second year at the end of last summer with an optimistic outlook. I convinced myself things would work out eventually, and felt vindicated when I met someone a couple of weeks into the first term. We got on well, and for months I harboured romantic feelings, naively thinking she would feel the same way given time. My stomach still churns when I recall what she said to me before the Easter holidays. 'I have some news. I've been on a few dates with a guy, and he's amazing. I didn't tell you sooner 'cause I didn't want to jinx it, but he asked to make things official and I said yes.'

The perky way she said it made it worse, thinking I'd be happy to hear her good news. I don't know what being shot feels like, but hearing those words was the closest I've ever come. Things between us fizzled out soon after. They started dating, and she paid more attention to him and less to me, and eventually none at all. I understood, but it didn't prevent the hurt.

Hence Rachel showing me the article about the

Primal Atavism

trial. As much as her taking an interest in improving my love life isn't ideal, it's well intentioned, and the latest in a long list of ways she's looked out for me over the years.

She reappears from the hall, thankfully fully clothed this time. 'Did you read it?'

'The gist.'

'And?'

'And what?'

'Come on, Dylan, what do you think?'

'I appreciate the concern, but I don't think getting pumped full of drugs is the answer. What if it's dangerous?'

She looks at me askance. 'Did you read to the end?'

My hesitation confirms I didn't. She drags a chair next to me and sits down.

'Look,' she says, pointing at the relevant text. 'They're only at the preliminary phase. All you do is go to their labs, watch a presentation, and ask questions. Checking things out doesn't obligate you to do anything.'

'Rach...'

'You've got nothing better to do today,' she persists. 'I'm going into London anyway, so I can drop you off on the way.'

Knowing she won't let it go, I reluctantly agree—maybe my willingness to back down is indicative of my problem. I shower and dress, then we head out to Rachel's car. I'm in no better of a mood as we set off, so I try to distract myself from what I still think is a bad idea.

'Why are you going into London?' I ask.

'To treat myself to a new dress. Leish and I are having a girls' night out.'

'Ah.'

'You remember Aleisha, right, my friend from uni?'

'Vaguely.'

Rachel smiles. We both know that's a lie. The truth is that I fondly remember Aleisha because I've always had a massive crush on her. Being my sister's best friend, I see her at the flat occasionally, although the last time was almost a year ago.

I stare out of the window, watching the miles go by. It reminds me of family trips into London. The theatre was always a favourite, and although it was reserved for special occasions, some of my most treasured memories involve driving into the city and seeing a show. Looking back, I wish I hadn't taken them for granted as much as I did, and I know Rachel feels the same way. I look at her in the driver's seat, the woman who, without obligation, took both their places.

'Everything okay?' she asks, catching my gaze.

'Yeah, just thinking about trips to the theatre.'

She gives me an empathetic smile. It's been six years since mum and dad died in a car accident. I'll never forget the day I arrived home from school to see a police car parked outside. I thought Rachel had got into trouble at first, and I couldn't wait to get inside and find out what she'd done. When I saw her crying in the arms of a policewoman, I knew something was wrong.

'Are you Dylan?' I remember a second officer saying. His tone sent chills through my spine, and everything around me froze when Rachel wailed that mum and dad were gone.

Rachel was twenty-one at the time, about to graduate university. I was fourteen. That was when she became my hero. Alongside starting a new job, she organised the funereal, sorted out all the legal stuff I didn't understand, and then took me in. As a minor, I'd have ended up with a distant relative or gone into care if she hadn't, and she had no shred of doubt about her decision to do so. She's the greatest human being I know, and I couldn't ask for anyone better in my life.

'I miss them too,' she says, bringing me back to the moment. 'College, uni, they'd have been so proud of you, you know.'

'And you...' Trying to lighten the mood, I change the subject. 'So, where are you off to with Aleisha tonight?'

'I don't know yet. She said she's found a new club, so all will be revealed later.'

'Is she seeing anyone?'

Rachel gives me a sly look. 'Strange question to ask about someone you vaguely remember.'

'Just making conversation,' I lie.

She giggles good-naturedly at my expense. 'Even if she was your age, I'd tell you to stay away. I love her, but she'd eat you alive.'

Her words hit me like a gut punch. While I know deep down that Aleisha and I are a total mismatch, part of me clung to the possibility that a miracle could happen. Rachel snuffing out that hope once and for all only bleakens my malaise, and all I can think about are the type of guys she'd go for: handsome, athletic, confident—all the things I'm not.

'Forget about Aleisha,' Rachel continues. 'You'll find someone more suited to you. Maybe even this drug will help. Speaking of which...'

We turn off the main road into an industrial park of nondescript buildings, and the satnav chirps its final words to guide us to the right one. I make out the sign above the entrance as we park:

Pothos

.

Rachel cuts the engine. 'Here we are.'

I look at my watc. 'We're still a little early.'

'Look, you've got two choices,' she says, probably noticing my reluctance. 'Either go in there and learn about something that might help you, or follow me around the shops while I try on dresses.' She grins. 'And I'm

very

picky, and

very

indecisive.'

I'm not totally convinced.

'Does this one look good, Dylan? Are you sure? What about the colour? And the fit? It's not too booby is it? No? Well I think it's too booby... And that'll be about the tenth one I try.'

'Okay, I get it,' I say, opening the door.

'That's what I thought. Text me when you need picking up. Good luck!'

I close the door, and she honks the horn as she drives off. 'Thanks, sis,' I mutter.

She's always been good at blackmailing me with the threat of annoyance. But as I said, I couldn't ask for a better person in my life.

*

I enter the building to find myself in a large, minimalist lobby, where the company logo takes pride of place above a curved, pristine white reception desk. Straight away my palms begin to sweat—the receptionist wouldn't look out of place on a Victoria's Secret catwalk. Luscious blonde hair frames her symmetrical face, and her inviting smile jellifies my knees.

'Good morning, sir. How can I help you?'

I gingerly approach the desk. 'Um... I'm here for the

Primal Atavism

trial. Am I in the right place?'

'You certainly are. Please follow me.'

She stands and walks around the desk with flawless posture, the click-clack of her heels echoing through the empty lobby. They elevate her to my height and accentuate her gait, drawing my attention to her pencil skirt as she leads me to a waiting area.

'Take a seat,' she says, 'you'll be called on shortly.'

So ends our formal interaction. The sound of her heels fades as I plonk myself on one of six white sofas. A carafe of lemon water and several glasses occupy a table in front of me, and two flat screen TVs hang on the wall to my left. One shows rolling news, the other some sort of promotional material, both muted with subtitles.

There are nine other men waiting, having positioned themselves as far away from each other as possible. I scan their faces. A couple give me weak smiles, but most don't acknowledge me, and I can't help but ponder their reasons for being here. By the look of some, they share my motivations. Others, however, look competent (at least on the surface), and I suspect the allure for them is the prospect of taking their success with the fairer sex to obscene levels.

More people arrive, and I feel myself getting restless as the minutes tick by. I check my watch, tap my foot a few times, then check my watch again, comforted that it matches the Bauhaus clock on the wall in front of me. I hate my watch running fast or slow.

The familiar clack of heels draws near.

'If everyone would please follow me,' the receptionist says.

She leads us to a conference room on the other side of the lobby, where rows of white chairs face a projector screen.

'Help yourself to refreshments,' she says. 'Dr Monroe will arrive shortly.'

She leaves, and everyone tentatively approaches a table laden with pastries, fruit, juice, tea, and coffee. Forced together, people engage in awkward small talk before taking seats.

'Hi,' I say to the guy beside me.

He acknowledges me with a grunt.

'Why made you decide to come here?' I persist.

'The drug,' he mumbles.

I take the hint and say no more.

The conference room door opens, and in walks a man with greying hair and a salt and pepper beard. He looks to be in his forties, and like everything else in the building, he's stylish and well put together. He stops behind a table at the front of the room and picks up a clicker.

'Good morning everyone.' His voice is warm and friendly, ideal for putting an audience at ease. 'My name is Dr James Monroe. First things first, I'd like the thank you for taking an interest in

Pothos

, and for giving up a portion of your morning. It's people like you who motivate us to do what we do, and I'm excited to talk to you about a new and exciting opportunity.'

For some reason I'd expected a lab coat, but I suppose he doesn't need one to deliver a PowerPoint. Instead, he's wearing a cashmere sweater over a shirt and tie, along with black chinos and shoes. He looks more like a tech entrepreneur than a doctor, although in this case, they're probably one and the same.

'We believe that our new drug, H14-8992, or

Primal Atavism

, has the potential to change lives,' he continues. 'Regrettably, the modern world can be isolating, and it often fails to provide the intimacy that we, as human beings, need.'

A few people nod in agreement. Others fidget, I suspect willing him to get to the point.

'For many men, feelings of isolation and lack of intimacy stem from difficulty with women. Believe me, I've been there myself.'

There's a ripple of nervous laughter. I, for one, don't believe him.

'That's what

Primal Atavism

has been engineered to alleviate. "Atavism" means a tendency to revert to something ancient or ancestral. Buried deep within human DNA—within all of us—are dormant traits that we have long since lost as our societies have evolved. The forgotten trait that has brought us all here today is best explained as "allure"—that primal, visceral thing that drives men and women wild for each other. The function of this allure was—and is—to facilitate procreation, by enabling one to exude biological and social characteristics to be successful with the opposite sex. Here at

Pothos

, we've managed to isolate the male variant of this trait and develop a formulation that can bring it out of dormancy.'

After a further hour of graphics, charts, and a slick promotional video, Dr Monroe opens up the floor to questions.

A hand in front of me goes up.

'Yes,' Dr Monroe says.

'Um... I heard that in medical trials and stuff, things are tested on animals first... like mice. Does it work on them?'

'Good question. Mice are often the precursor to human trials, but because the trait we have identified is present only in human DNA,

Primal Atavism

is ineffective in other species. Those in this room who agree to test the drug will be the first to do so.'

'How do you know it's safe?' someone else asks, voicing my primary concern.

'Like with every new drug development, we cannot guarantee its safety—that's what human trials are for. What I can tell you is that in every computer simulation we've run, and in lab tests we've conducted on human DNA, no adverse effects have been observed.'

I can't decide if that puts my mind at ease. I raise my hand.

'Yes.'

'What do you mean by biological and social traits?'

'Speaking from a male point of view, there are several biological and social traits that improve success with women. Some are well known, such as symmetrical facial features, an athletic physique, and confidence. Others are less obvious, for example body language, scent, and creativity.

Primal Atavism

hones in on and develops these traits.'

There are no more questions, and Dr Monroe types something on his laptop. About twenty seconds later, the receptionist walks in carrying a stack of tablets.

'Natalie will hand each of you a consent form,' Dr Monroe says. 'Please read it carefully before filling it in. It will require you to divulge some personal information that is necessary for you to be considered, so if you do not wish to share this information, or you no longer wish to participate, you are free to leave. When you've completed the form, simply press "Submit" and return the tablet to Natalie. Thank you again for coming, and I hope to see you again soon.'

He departs with a smile, picking up a croissant along the way.

'Please hand your tablets in at reception once you're done,' Natalie instructs before following him out.

I look down and press 'Begin' on the screen. The consent form appears, and I scroll to the end. There are no questions I'm unwilling to answer, but I can't help coming up with reasons why it's a bad idea.

God, what am I

doing

? I have a chance to change my life for the better—literally in my hands—and all I can think about is walking away. Worse than any potential regret would be Rachel's disappointment. She'd never express it, but I know that's how she'd feel. After everything she's done to help me, I owe it to her to help myself.