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They’d been in Biosphere 2 for a matter of weeks, and already the factions between the eight of them were making themselves known. Ben Solo, the group’s life-support systems engineer, was the natural head of one faction. Rey Kenobi, an ecologist, headed up the other. The psychologist team had had briefed them on the group dynamics of Antarctic research teams; they'd all known this would happen.
Now Ben was looking at two years’ confinement with the smartest, most infuriating person he’d ever met. He hated how even the crew members who had worked closely with him to develop the closed system processes before the experiment began now leaned toward Kenobi’s side in arguments. He hated how calm she was during those arguments, while he found himself fuming and stomping off, out of control, unacceptable behavior in such close confinement.
She goaded him, and he was sure it was intentional. When his face heated up at the slightest sign of disagreement, her right eyebrow raised by increments. When he stormed off, she resolved things quickly in her favor, and when he’d cooled off enough to return, she always looked up to flash those bright, evil teeth in his direction.
He hated the trim of her waist in her crew jumpsuit, which looked awful on everyone else. (Ben was certain that he looked like a giraffe in it himself.) He hated the tiny shorts she wore on other days, and most of all he hated himself for finding them so distracting. He hated how Kenobi ate, how she dropped crumbs all over her plate and her lap—such a waste. His body craved those calories; in his depraved hunger he dreamed about licking those crumbs off her skin.
Some days he woke up and thought that day he could work with her; that day there’d be no arguments; that day he’d keep his shit together. But then at their meager breakfast she’d go on about new research goals that exceeded their mission mandate, that completely ignored the committee’s guidelines. His ears would burn at lunch as he picked at yet another dry, pale salad, trying not to rise to her provocation.
On the worst days—the days her victories over him lit up her face with that massive smile—he wished the complex had more privacy. He had at the very least to curb his destructive tendencies there; every piece of equipment, every plant, was essential. But he couldn’t raise his voice, couldn’t sigh, couldn’t talk in his sleep without every other crew member hearing every word. No secrets. Every thought, every movement of his body was public.
And to Ben most of all, it was clear Kenobi would be a problem.