The Serum Alternative (Now Public)

Friday Night

I sit in my lab, waiting for the latest batch of serum to finish. I pass the time by thinking about why I continue this project.

I pull my wallet from my purse and find a Polaroid I secretly snatched from one of my wife's albums. It's a picture of my wife, Linda Willard, and my stepdaughter Ashley, taken about six years ago, shortly before Linda's husband died.

My name is Synn Jordan, and I’m a futanari. Futanari are rare, less than 0.01% of the world’s population. Freaks, they call us. Just because we’re women with dicks and extremely high libidos.

I glance back at the picture. I thought I was lucky when Linda took an interest in me. I sigh as I put the picture away.

No one can truly love a futanari, I think grimly. Linda didn't take my name when we got married. She wanted to keep the same last name as her daughter. If I’m honest, I didn’t care. I thought I’d found a partner who would accept me.

I hear a high-pitched beep, pulling me out of my thoughts, indicating that the processing has finished.

I work in a lab of one of the planet's biggest yet shadiest companies, Neuraxis Industries, tasked with developing a serum that alters specific brain function temporarily, making the recipient extremely susceptible to manipulation. To put it frankly: a mind-control serum.

I've been working on this project for three years and the results are getting better by the week. After tweaking the formula this morning, I’m confident I've got it right this time.

I check the computer screen, confirming 100% alignment. Every single value on the result chart is where I want it to be. That had never happened before.

The mechanical lid opens up and presents me with the serum. This is it. The big breakthrough you've been working so hard for. Three vials of the miraculous ****.

My dream can finally come true!

As I sit there thinking about my accomplishment, I consider what I should do from here. I shake my head as I gather the serum into a case that will keep them safe. I grab the case and head home for the night.

The drive home feels different tonight. The case sits on the passenger seat, innocuous black leather concealing three vials that could reshape reality itself. My mind cycles through possibilities, each more intoxicating than the last. Three years of work. Three years of Linda's dismissive comments about my 'little chemistry project.' Three years of Ashley's barely-concealed contempt.

The house is dark except for the blue-gray flicker of the television bleeding through the living room windows. I let myself in quietly, setting the case down carefully on the entry table before moving toward the sounds of explosions and dramatic music.

Linda and Ashley are sprawled on the couch together, a pile of pizza boxes on the coffee table—empty, of course. Not even a slice saved. Linda doesn't look up when I enter, her eyes fixed on some action movie I don't recognize. She's wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, her brunette hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Comfortable. Dismissive of my existence.

Ashley notices me first, her black hair falling across her face as she turns. Those brown eyes— Linda's eyes— narrow with familiar hostility. "Oh. You're home," she says flatly, already turning back to the screen.

"There's no food left," Linda adds without looking at me. Not an apology. Just a statement of fact. "We didn't know when you'd be back. There's bread if you want to make something."

The casual indifference stings the way it always does, that particular breed of disrespect that comes from familiarity. Four years of marriage and I’m still the interloper, the replacement, the one who doesn't quite fit into their little two-person universe.

I think about the case in the hallway. About the serum inside. About how easy it would be—a drink, a minute, and everything could change. Linda could look at me with warmth instead of tolerance. Ashley could see me as something other than the woman who took her dead father's place.

Or I could wait. Test it properly. Be scientific about this rather than emotional.

The movie continues to play, neither of them particularly interested in whether I stay or go. Linda shifts slightly, making more room for Ashley, a subtle claiming of space that excludes me entirely. They're in their bubble, and I’m outside it, as always.

My hand unconsciously touches my pocket, as if feeling for the weight of the vials that are actually still in the case by the door.