Chapter Text
This room, just like all other rooms, is predictable. What at first appears a hodgepodge of chattering people quickly dissolves into order. Clusters of academics dot the rows of pleather chairs, each department banning together to save seats and gossip about who just got turned down by that one reviewer again or why Mathematics is currently not speaking with Chemistry. This in-group favoritism does not stop here, however, these smaller groupings branching into larger ones, the right side of the room, closest to the doors, are the physical scientists, and then there is an almost straight line of empty seats going from the front of the room to the back, cross over it and you reach the social scientists, similarly grouped by department, similarly chatting about successes and failures in attaining funding and how the tepid fifteen year feud between criminology and political science just heated back up with a passive aggressive email.
Vision technically is sitting on the correct side, about two rows from the other psychologists, but he does not mind the self-ostracism since sitting in the back of the room allows him to better observe the meeting unfold into a dance of egos and sharp wit. Or so he assumes, this is his first all staff meeting with the Marvel Institute, but it is far from his first academic gathering, and people have a tendency to follow patterns. Next to him, contrary to where she should be seated based on the flow of allegiances, yet in line with some of the literature on prosocial behaviors, Natasha slouches, one foot on the back of the chair in front of her, eyes rolling at the heated story coming from the front right corner of the room.
“Is there a special significance to the meeting today?”
She leans her head back and smiles at him, not unlike the snarl of a panther that has just happened upon a gathering a defenseless baby monkeys. “Oh yeah, people are going to be so pissed.”
Some people find negative events, well, negative, while some relish in the misery of others. Natasha is a proponent of the latter, the cutthroat nature of their job the perfect environment for her to thrive, something he has been envious of since they first met through mutual friends in graduate school. For what it’s worth, Vision has never been one for even casual schadenfreude. “Why is that?”
“Steve,” one of the main administrators of the think tank who also happens to be on a bowling team with Natasha, “said the board is threatening to cut funding if we all don’t start collaborating.”
Vision mentally scoffs, not really at the idea of collaborating since he intends to work closely with demography and sociology once he’s better established, but at the way the administration is speeding past all other avenues of empirically sound persuasion straight to the tactic most likely to cause defection. Perhaps he should send them a summary of the key findings in the area. “What are they going to do, throw our names into a hat and choose at random?”
“Please don’t give them any ideas.”
An authoritative tapping of heels silences most of the gossiping. The head of HR steps up to a podium at the front of the room, her well-tailored pencil skirt, white silk shirt, and fuchsia cardigan creating an overall persona of power as she clears her throat into the microphone. “Can I have everyone’s attention please.” At this point, there is nothing to argue about, so no one counters, voices dropping off into a wary silence. “Today’s meeting will be brief on my end,” a sardonic hooray comes from somewhere in the social sciences. She ignores it with aplomb. “If you recall, at our last companywide meeting, it was requested by our donors that you all,” patronizing tones are not an ideal way to get people on board, another thing he may need to add to the research brief for HR, “needed to embrace the trend of multidisciplinary research and give the Marvel Institute an even higher standing in the world today by providing even more cutting edge ideas.”
Natasha interrupts his attention with a whispered, “Ten bucks she’s about to tell us about another memo.”
He whispers back, “That seems a guarantee.” HR has already sent five memos this week ranging from appropriate attire for the workplace (someone had the audacity to wear flip flops on casual Friday) to cleaning out the fridges in the common space, to some useful ones like new grant sources and the changes to the workplace harassment policies. But it’s only Wednesday so there will be at least 5 more and Vision only takes Natasha’s bets if he has at least a 68% chance of winning. “I believe I will save my money.”
A shoulder nudges him, “You’re no fun.” Vision scoots an inch to the left.
“Immediately after this meeting, I will email you all a memo of what I am about to share.”
As usual, his calculations are correct, the ten dollars happily remaining in his pocket. “Being no fun for the win.”
“Shut up.”
The woman addressing the room straightens her spine, voice dropping into what she likely hopes is the best pitch for compliance. “The board of directors have mandated that every,” she pauses as grumbles begin to surface from all parts of the room, whispers of dissent and bemoaning of academic freedom, a privilege all of them in this room waived (for the most part) when they went into the private sector. She remains unfazed by the slow roiling of animosity, re-beginning and then ending the comment with her head still held high. “They have mandated that every employee must develop a multidisciplinary project with someone else working at the institute.”
Out of the grumbling sprouts the first open dissent, the head of Computer Science, a lean, well-dressed man, stands to offer his thoughts. “Listen, why don’t you all tell the board to shove their mandates where they belong, because…”
Natasha’s whispering distracts Vision from the end of the comment, yet again, “That’s the other Victor.”
“Oh.” On his first day he was informed that there was already a Victor working at the Marvel Institute, a man who is so vastly influential, revered, and hated that it might be in his best interest to dissociate from his birth name. Which wasn’t a huge issue. In graduate school he quickly took on the moniker Vision, not by choice, necessarily, but he did not protest the nickname. He hadn’t gone by it since getting his doctorate, determining Victor sounded more professional, yet now that he can watch the other Victor it makes complete sense why Vision was the one asked to use a different name. This Victor is impassioned, powerful, and utilizing the exact body language and tone to compel people to follow him.
Victor finishes his speech with a hefty, controlled punch to the air, “You will never pry my intellectual freedom from me!” A few amens! rise from both sides of the room.
“Well,” the head of HR grips the edges of her cardigan, tugging it closer to her body as she bristles at his tone, “no one is taking your freedom. You are free to choose the topic of your study and free to choose the person with which you will be working.”
Victor rolls his eyes and his whole body follows, “So this,” he raises his hands to add air quotes to the next word, “freedom you speak of is conditional?” The woman nods slowly, eyes beginning to look a little cornered. “Fine, then tell the board I already collaborate with Chemistry, Robotics, Engineering, and sometimes even with Physics when I’m desperate.”
“Yes, well, that is wonderful to know, and we thank you for your compelling work, except,” the cardigan is pulled even tighter as she prepares to drop what Vision assumes is going to be the talk of the hallways for a long time, “the board has set the requirements so that you must work with a colleague in a department that is more theoretically and methodologically different from your own. I have a list in the back of the room with acceptable multidisciplinary pairings.” If Vision had realized the handouts would be behind him, he would have sat in the back corner because at the moment every single person is staring at him, well, technically they are staring past him, but it feels the same. “A good rule of thumb is that you must work with someone who has an office in a different wing than your own.”
“This,” a second dissenter stands, this time from Vision’s side of the room, the fur stole slouching around her shoulders giving off the image of a widowed socialite more so than the world-renowned researcher she is, “is preposterous and a clear sign of distrust and animosity from the board, not to mention a bit draconian of a measure this early on into the initiative. How can we, as independent scholars, be asked to work under such shackles, thrive under the oppressive weight of what people with no understanding of empiricism think is best?”
Vision will give credit to the head of HR, face remaining stoic despite the (not completely unearned) vitriol slung her way. When her hands finally release the wrinkled hem of her sweater, her voice takes on the non-questioning tone parents pull out when all hope seems lost, “Yes, we are forcing you to work with someone new. Yes, we are limiting some of your freedom, but you all use the funding of our donors, enjoy the bounty that this company gives you, have all the newest technology and programs, and for once, you are being asked to do something out of your comfort zone. If you don’t want to do it, fine, but know that it means you will lose your development funds for the next quarter.”
Nat breathes out, “Told you,” in between this revelation and the next.
“We don’t care how big or small your study is, it can even be a pilot study or a grant application, but you will work together and you have to find your partner today before leaving this room. Have a nice day.”
She scurries out of the room, leaving them in stunned silence, a rarity with academics, until a mousy man with disheveled hair and a solid stoop to his shoulders walks up to the microphone. “Um so, yeah, we,” he waves his hand around the room to show them the army of interns standing at the doors with clipboards clutched in their hands, “will write down the collaborations you all set up. We only need your names, departments, and a three to ten word description of your idea. Thanks a bunch!”
No one moves, the part in the sea of chairs remaining firm as eyes begin to shift, assessing first if anyone is going against the orders and second, who might be approachable. Vision angles his knees confidently towards Natasha, “I believe we could find a compelling empirical question between our two areas.”
“I’m actually going to work with Sam.”
Dumfounded, Vision turns to see the colleague in question sending him a jolly little smile and a victorious wave, unable to fully reckon with the sense of abandonment swirling around his head. “But, but you are the only person I, I know…”
The factoid slides away with an easy shrug, “He and I have had an idea for a while, figured we would use this as our opportunity to finally do it.” Which is fine, Vision won’t stop people from collaborating and he, if he considers it logically, can better grasp how Sam’s research on identifying psychological risk factors in the military marries much better with Natasha’s research on advanced mechanized weapons than Vision’s own work in helping behaviors during extraordinary circumstances. It is a nice melding for them. But, all things considered, it still means that Vision is at a loss. “Just think of this as a way to finally meet people.”
“But I don’t—”
“You know if you had just come out for happy hour and actually met people, I wouldn’t have had to do this.” Predatory smugness rests easy on her lips.
He has only turned down three invitations, all for the sake of unpacking his boxes and organizing his apartment and avoiding the awkwardness of small talk. That is not something worth such a heavy punishment. “Perhaps we can work as a trio?”
Nat’s hair tap dances along her shoulders as she turns down the offer. “Steve sent the memo to me last night, if three people work together, all have to be from different departments.”
“Wonderful.” Vision joins the rest of the people in the room, sympathetic system in full gear, heart pounding and head a little woozy while he scans the faces around him, not recognizing any of the people on the side of the room he needs to pick from. “Do you have any recommendations?”
“I do, actually, come on.” Blindly Vision follows the red-head, weaving in between the chairs, trying not to make eye contact with any of the desperate faces that sail pass. “Hey,” he spent so much time watching the speckled floor tiles that Vision almost slams into Natasha’s back, “found your partner, as promised.”
In front of them sits a petite woman, her dark hair falling well below her shoulders in loose waves, the layers of her weathered black clothing blending in with the pleather of the chair. Unlike Vision’s own nerves, she looks impressively unperturbed. “Oh yeah?”
Nat steps aside and pushes Vision closer to the woman, “Meet Vision, from Psychology.” Then she disappears leaving him alone with his collaborator.
The woman’s gaze is steady and slightly unnerving. “Um...” Vision finds himself shifting on his feet, expecting her to stand and then realizes that it makes no sense that she should have to make herself less comfortable to greet him. A new purpose discovered, Vision lowers himself onto the seat two away from her, allowing the comfort of one empty chair for easier conversation. “Hello, I’m, um, Vision.” he sticks out his hand, gray matter flopping uselessly around instead of pulling up all the research he has read on how to make a strong first impression.
She grips his hand, giving it a solid shake and a, “Figured. Wanda,” before her fingers dive into the pockets of her sweater, and Vision’s, likewise, retreat to tangle in his lap. “So you a clinician like Sam?”
The most logical question would have been a broader, more open ended option like What do you study? for which he has a prepared 30-second elevator pitch he can ramble off in his sleep. He almost does it too, assuming that was the flow of the conversation. Luckily, he catches himself before his misstep, “No, I am a social-cognitive psychologist.”
“Which is?”
This is a very different elevator pitch, one he has not given in a long time. “Oh, yes, so it simply means that I empirically examine the way situations, external factors, and other people influence an individual’s behavior, beliefs, and thoughts.”
“Nice. Must be interesting.”
What had been perceived friendliness at the onset wilts slowly into a polite disinterest and Vision feels oddly more comfortable for it, slipping into his usual comments meant to eschew the common misconceptions of his field. “Please do not be alarmed, I am not reading your mind nor analyzing your every behavior right now.”
Her lips form a marginal curve, falling back into a pucker that matches the scrunched skin of her forehead as she studies him. “You know, I once had a roommate in college who was convinced I could read her mind because she misread my major. Even bought me a ouija board to help me do my thing.” Now it’s Vision’s turn to be confused, trying to figure out what she could study, since spiritual studies isn’t something to find at this institute. “Physics, Vision...I’m a physicist.”
“Oh,” a low, embarrassed chuckle comes out, “oh that makes far more sense than where my mind went. How long did you let her think that?”
“Based on the occasional emails we send, I think she still believes it.”
The instant Wanda offers an uncertain little smile, he can feel his own mouth mirror it. “Well, if you are not going to interpret my star sign, what do you do?”
“I primarily focus on quantum mechanics with a specialization in optics.” The explanation stops and Vision tries to nod encouragingly, faintly aware of quantum theory due to a rainy Saturday in grad school when procrastination clearly took on a desperate hue, but that’s not enough to really understand what she does or what their collaboration can be. “I do a lot with wave functions, entropy, and lasers”
“Fascinating.” This doesn’t help him any, lasers not a big methodology in psychology.
With introductions out of the way, they reach a standstill, staring at each other, well, looking at each other and then looking away, Wanda choosing to study the sticker peeling off the chair in front of her while Vision glances towards the exit. This is exactly what people are angry about--being forced to find a common ground when collaboration, in Vision’s experience, always goes better when it happens naturally from two researchers who have similar but slightly different theoretical views on life. Vision tries to place himself back to his day spent going down the quantum rabbit hole, attempting to find anything that might bridge the gap between his world and the woman in front of him. Except he has nothing. “It has been roughly twelve years since I took a physics class.”
“About ten for me since I had intro to psych.”
An unsurprising parallel, one he won’t let derail his thoughts, “From what I recall, quantum theory is all about predicting the movement and behavior of particles?”
“That’s the gist of it,” based on the way she says it, it seems that he is approaching the dark room of their collaboration with what might amount to an eraser sized flashlight on the last legs of its batteries. “Most of what I work with are unstable or ambiguous particle systems.”
This Vision latches onto, feeling his thoughts growing a bit brighter. “I strive to predict behavior, often in unstable or ambiguous situations.”
A few moments pass before realization erupts on Wanda’s face. “So quantum cognition?”
“If that is a real area.”
He’d like her, “I think so,” to be firmer, more excited, maybe?
“Well wonderful.” It is a start. With most collaborations, he has an idea of how the other person’s theories and methodologies differ from his and where they might meld. That is not currently the case. “I must confess that, other than a couple of review articles, I am not well versed on anything quantum related. Regardless, empiricism is universal and I am certain we could construct a relatively simple experiment where we examine traditional psychological theories of a particular behavior against, um…”
Wanda grins, finishing his thought. “Quantum probability. See who’s better.” He almost points out it’s not a competition, but holds back, uncertain how she might take the comment. “I think it at least sounds good enough to get us out of this room and let me get back to writing my grant.”
This seems doable and a mite exciting, though he can already sense a light panic at not understanding what he has agreed to. “I think we should maybe take some time to read up on the current literature on quantum cognition, perhaps send key articles to each other and see if that sparks any ideas. We can meet later today or tomorrow to hash out a workable study?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Three hours later, Wanda leans back in her chair, a low-grade headache knocking at her temples. The literature on quantum cognition is straightforward when it comes to the mathematical probabilities at play, what is troublesome is the often paradoxical findings and competing thoughts on human behavior. It’s not even the paradox that is frustrating, chaos is near and dear to her heart, a thrill running down her spine whenever she gets to watch the discombobulation of particles as they attempt to settle into their final reality. The moment where all realities are possible is her favorite. No, really it is the human behavior part that concerns her. The articles Vision sent along included experiment after experiment where people chose illogical actions that will harm others. Sure, occasionally there has been a study where they actually help, but it’s depressing to see confirmation of the state of human behavior. Growing up in a war-torn country and seeing the depths of human evil is part of what pushed her towards particles and molecules. That is an entropy she can enjoy, one that won’t set off bombs in apartments or shoot children in the street. She can bask in the glory of not knowing what the end result will be when no lives are at stake. How a man like Vision, who’s face just screams I’m so terribly sorry can study this is really confusing. Not as confusing as the fact that she has now read twelve explanations for the prisoner’s dilemma that all argue different things.
Wanda shuts her laptop and shoves it in her bag.
The building is divided into two wings, each wing then divided into six floors housing departments segregated based on closeness of discipline. It means she has to walk extra slowly from one side of the complex to the other so the scalding tea sloshing dangerously close to the edge of her mug doesn’t spill over.
She waves stiffly at Sam as she passes his lab, a little salty at the betrayal of her friends, and continues down the hall, glancing through the windows of each room until she spots Vision.
The psychologist is bent over his desk, face resting in his hand with the glow of the computer casting slanted shadows on his face. Wanda stands in the doorway watching him, trying to will him to glance up at her, but he only squints and moves closer to the screen. She shifts her bag behind her, switching the tea into her left hand. “Hey,” her greeting precedes the knock, both of which startle the man into a rigid stance. “You busy?”
Vision tries to reassert his calm, hands flattening the invisible wrinkles of his navy sweater. “No.”
“Awesome.” The expectation is he’ll invite her in, a researcher’s lab holier and more sacred than most people’s homes, only he doesn’t move, palms still attempting to dominate the phantom creases. What she doesn’t want to do is talk over the chasm of the lab, so she takes control, entering the room, a mixture of awe, jealousy, and fear forming at the spotless space. Despite the impressive cleanliness there is only one chair and he is currently sitting in it. “Figured we could talk, um,” the only available place is a table, her bag and cup coming to rest on the gleaming surface, “you know, make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Of course,” Vision waves her to come in farther, his arms crossing casually, and then uncrossing, seemingly trapped in a state of superposition about how to act in the presence of another person in his space. His polite “Please,” finally collapses his uncertainty into a stiff-backed position, with one arm on his desk and the other resting on his crossed knee.
Wanda accepts the invitation and perches on the edge of the table, legs swinging idly through the air. “So any thoughts so far?”
“Some.” This remark implies more is coming, so she waits, fingers curling around the edge of the metal table, trying not to stare too hard as he scoops up a pile of stapled packets. When Vision stands it is fascinating to behold, his body unfolding forever, her neck twitching at the instinctual need to crane up with his progress until he is at his full height, which even from her position on the table, is still much taller than her. Somehow she hadn’t noticed this before or how it seems to amplify the clear discomfort her presence is causing him right now. The pile of papers is lovingly placed about a foot from her, allowing her to see the tell-tale structure of peer-reviewed articles. “I have been attempting to not only understand the fundamentals of your area,” the exhaustion cutting his words makes her feel a bit better, worried that only she was struggling with the cross-disciplinary readings. “While also attempting to think of behavioral analogs to the ideas.”
This is what she was hoping for, her end of the project is pretty much set regardless of behavior, the theory relatively stable minus confirming certain things with him. “I’m all ears.”
“All right, so superposition,” Vision picks up a dry erase marker and writes the word in uniformly sized and spaced teal letters. “I believe I understand the gist of what Schrödinger—”
“I like to call him the cat guy.” The attempt at breaking the tension flutters to the ground where he momentarily stares, “It was a joke...” Now he provides a polite snort, turning back to the board so she can’t see the rest of his reaction.
Any annoyance or disappointment from her attempted levity is short lived, the uncapped teal marker in Vision’s hand waving as he speaks. “The whole thought experiment is based on superposition, that until a decision is made, all possible options exist together.”
“Correct, the cat can be both alive and dead until we pop open the box and collapse reality.” There is more to it, a laundry list of deviations from this basic component, but she doesn’t think muddying the explanation with qubit states or decoherence will be useful for their brainstorming.
The marker kisses the board again, his voice punctuated by the squeak of the silicone polymer, his ideas flowing into a visual while he speaks. “I’ve been trying to think of it with behavior and it could be like if I were to ask you this,” he underlines the question on the board, scrawled in the most perfectly legible writing she’s ever seen. “Are you happy? Until you answer the question,” a Yes and No join the phrase on the board, “you would exist as both happy and not happy.”
For a beginning example it is okay, though they will need a more nuanced approach in their own research if they ever want to publish it. “Yes, to you I would be both happy and not happy until reality exists and the superposition collapses. But, like the cat in the box, I personally would know my own reality, it’s just you, the researcher that wouldn’t.”
Her words are given careful consideration before he responds. “I hate to use this phrase, but…as a social psychologist,” a little leeway can be given in not categorizing him as a pompous, egotistical academic since he does seem genuinely distressed at sounding just like a pompous egotistical academic, “I am not certain I wholly agree with the assertion that people know their own emotions or even thoughts. For instance, we can shift the probability of your response by adding another question. Like, um,” Vision turns back to the board, hand busy writing out another yes/no question, “this.” Pointing at the question is overkill, but he does it anyway. “If we were to ask someone Are you currently hungry? and then ask if they are happy, we have now changed what their response could be because they are now potentially thinking about how ravenous they are,” which she is in fact considering, something that she wasn’t prior to the example and isn’t particularly happy to have in her mind since it also reminds her that she forgot to eat lunch today. Thankfully he doesn’t seem to notice the change in her own mood, still professorating towards the board, “and this happens even though the two questions are meant to be independent.”
Wanda tosses aside her angry stomach and slides from the table, joining him at the board, mulling over the marker choices he has and deciding on the red marker he keeps off by itself. “This is actually in line with quantum probability, specifically interference, where the probability of happiness changes depending on other factors. You all use classical probability—”
A very meek correction is given, “I am also trained in Bayesian.”
“Either way, both, for the most part, say things are commutative and order doesn’t matter. But we know it does. In quantum probability we take into account the order of events when we calculate probability.” For a peaceful moment, she considers the questions to be like waves, watching as the two exist together, undulating around and around until a reality is set. Then she writes it down, her slanted, questionably readable letters marring his pristine board. “This example would be what we refer to as destructive interference. Assuming the person is, as you put it, ravenous, it would eliminate the chance of happiness in the second question. On the other hand, if a person was either not hungry or comfortably full, it could be a constructive effect, where it resonates and boosts the happiness.”
“So, context matters.”
There’s a cunning smirk on his face when he says it, a tiny, unexpected danger entering his voice that she finds a little academically enticing. “Yes, it does, that’s one of the underlying components of quantum theory. We must examine the context of the behavior we are predicting, whether it’s particles, light, atoms, or even people.”
Vision steps back and leans against the table, studying the board with a casualness and ease he hasn’t shown yet, one she imagines he only has when working. “Now we are getting somewhere. My entire area of research is on how the context of a situation can shape behavior, especially in ways that seem irrational or counterproductive.” He seems the type to want to explain and control illogical actions, no one else would button their collared shirt all the way to the top otherwise. “Consider helping.” A far cry from food, which will hopefully stop her stomach from grumbling. “If you were to be walking down the street and saw someone lying on the ground, what would you do?”
“I, um,” it seems a trick, something she tends to assume is a characteristic of those who study human behavior or ethics, so she turns to face him more directly, leaning back against the white board and mirroring his casual stance, “would check on them.”
“What if there was someone already with them?”
Ethically she knows she should check, but she is also aware that, once or twice or a handful of times in the past, she has continued walking by such a scene. “I would likely slow down and assess if more help is needed.”
“One extra person and it changes,” the marker moves through the air as he talks, “we know that helping is influenced by myriad factors —the presence of others, the feeling of ability to help, the ease with which you can get to help them, whether you know the person, if they have similar demographics as you, if—”
This list is no doubt endless, especially with how his voice revs up with each new factor. Even if he seems nice, decently well-adjusted, and non-threatening, she doesn’t want to spend hours listening to this. “Are you saying you want to test quantum cognition with helping behaviors?”
“Not necessarily,” displeasure seeps into his voice, and then it twists into uncertainty, “well maybe,” and then slides into something close to defeat, “I really do not know, I’m just trying to think through it all.”
A fair approach to take but she also doesn’t want to drag this collaboration out longer than need be, especially since it will take valuable time away from her primary research. “Well, is there a theory you want to test?”
He shakes his head, capping the marker and placing it down on the table, careful to cage it in with his fingers so it doesn’t roll away. “For my part, it is easier to decide the behavior and then identify the most appropriate theory.”
“Okay.” The easiest thing to do is to just tell him they’ll go with helping and be done. She’ll check on him in a few weeks, see what he’s concocted on his end and then she’ll step in. Except part of her wants to use this opportunity to also throw a middle finger at the administration for forcing their hands and taking them away from what they are paid to research. She just doesn’t know if this man is the best partner for something rebellious. “What do you think about all of this, the forced collaborations?”
The question surprises him, mouth dropping open and arm lifting to respond, inadvertently releasing the marker to roll onto the ground and under the table. He bends to retrieve it, still looking a bit lost when he resurfaces. “I believe that multidisciplinary research is the future of all our livelihoods,” definitely not going to be the right partner, perhaps she should have gone for the political scientist that goes to every protest in the region, “yet they are not using ideal methods to encourage such collaboration and are essentially stirring discord that will not further their wants.”
Maybe Nat wasn’t crazy to have paired them up after all. “What if we choose something ridiculous to study?”
“How...so?”
Wanda shrugs, hands diving into the pockets of her sweatshirt. “I don’t know, something that’s kind of stupid but still theoretically applicable.” Apathy paints his face while a flicker of horror at the defacement of science dances in his icy blue stare. “You’re new, right?” Slowly he nods, arms crossing as he does so. “Each year there’s this unofficial award that we all vote on, we give it to the researcher who managed to publish the most outlandish study in a decent journal.”
His face doesn’t change but he does stand straighter, looking like he’s about to sprint out of the room, except his voice is borderline intrigued. “Like what?”
“Last year someone published a paper on how the fonts that protestors use on their signs invoke different emotions in their opponents.”
The topic dangles in the air, Wanda a patient fisherman waiting for him to grow curious enough to nibble. Vision’s fingers tap the inside of his elbow and then his shoulders drop. “What font made them the angriest?”
“Comic sans.”
He laughs. The sound starts loud, like he wants to give it his all, but then is cut short into a contained social politeness, presenting her a brief, joyous huff. “Well,” Vision collects himself, shoving his enjoyment away and fixing the unruffled hem of his sweater, “so long as we have a theoretically informed study, I will consider any suggestions you might have.”
Nothing screams out to her now, and even if it did, she wants to wait, look through the news to see how far she might be able to push him on this olive branch. “Let me think on it.”
He concedes. “We can speak more on it when you are ready.”
“There you are!” They both turn towards the door where Natasha stands. “I’ve been texting you for like half an hour.”
Wanda’s hands search through her pockets while she glances to an old, black-rimmed clock on the wall. “Oh shit,” no wonder she’s so hungry and no wonder Natasha is upset. “Sorry, it’s on silent in my bag.”
“Well, come on. Sam’s saving us a table.”
Wednesdays are $3 nacho night and the last time she lost track of time, the bar ran out of cheese and it took a week for Sam to forgive her. She rushes to her bag, tossing it over her shoulder and chugs her tea. “Let’s go.”
She’s a few feet down the hall when she realizes Nat isn’t next to her and also, with a mild pang of guilt, that she never officially ended her meeting with Vision. Both of these issues are being rectified by Natasha’s commanding tone, “Vision, I swear to God, if you don’t come with us, I’m never talking to you again.”
Condensation pools and drips along the surface of the electric blue drink gripped between his palms, a treat from Natasha for finally “being a human and joining them.” The other three are comfortable and amicable with each other, at least six inside jokes already lobbed into conversation and they have only been at the high top for ten minutes. “Okay,” Sam is technically his closest colleague. They are in the same department, they attend at least one weekly meeting together, but still a stranger. Regardless, every encounter thus far, including tonight, paints him as exceedingly nice, personable, and unafraid to take control of a situation, “tell me a fun fact you learned this week that is not work related.” Vision is grateful not just for the inclusive conversation starter but also for the parameter. “Wanda, go.”
“Oh, um,” a creamy cocktail sits in front of her, the array of rings on her fingers, which he had not noticed before, despite watching her write, clinking the glass each time she takes a drink, “I learned that Papua New Guinea has over 800 spoken languages.”
Sam’s approving, “Nice,” accepts the fact and Vision looks expectedly at Natasha, assuming any rational person will move the game clockwise. “Vision, my man, what you got?”
Vision freezes, mind suddenly blank of all the things he has read in the past week, attribution theory even oozing out and falling through the cracks in the tile floor. “Well…” what he had for lunch is the closest he gets to any sort of memory, leftover broccoli soup sloshing through his mind. “Broccoli is a man-made product, created through selective breeding of a common mustard plant.”
“Seriously?”
All three stare at him as if he has sprouted another head and, in this moment, he believes that perhaps he should have taken the risk that Natasha would never speak with him again. “Yes, same with cauliflower, kale, cabbage, Brussels sprouts…” Finally, their attention leaves him, contemplation manifesting in fingers gripping glasses and long, slow sips of alcohol.
Sam tips his pilsner in Vision’s direction, “You’ve changed my life.” A well-meaning and empty exaggeration. “Okay Nat, can you top that?”
The easy swill she takes always proceeds a victory, something Vision would welcome, gladly forfeiting the prize of attention and questions to her. “I was reading a news story the other day about how this couple decided to invite a bunch billionaires to their wedding, hoping to get free gifts from them.”
“Did it work?” Thankfully Wanda asks the question before he feels compelled to do so.
“Apparently, they got gifts from almost half of them.”
This has to be a function of the secretaries for said billionaires simply sending a gift in the belief this person must somehow be connected, because Vision imagines the secretaries would know any names that would deem an actual RSVP. “Do you think,” Sam’s drink is forgotten as he stares up towards the grubby ceiling of the bar, “you could just send an invite and get a gift, even without a wedding?”
“That would be fraud.” The moral correction comes out before his social mind catches it, three sips of life-endingly strong alcohol enough to lessen his inhibitions, apparently.
Despite the legal and moral point, no one else at the table seems bothered at the clear violation of federal and state law. “But they’re billionaires, what would one little wedding gift really do to their wallets?” Wanda seems friendly enough, intelligent, driven, and a bit uncomfortably rebellious. This all means he shouldn’t be surprised at her thought, but he’s still a bit scandalized at the complete disregard and even exhilaration in her voice when she speaks of breaking the law.
Then Sam doubles down on the suggestion. “Exactly. Unless everyone starts doing it, what harm does it cause?” And to think this man is governed under the same ethical guidelines as Vision. What would the APA think of such reckless disregard for the law? “But seriously, would it work?”
For the second time, Vision jumps in more quickly than he should and with a far more sardonic tone than he intends, likely due to the influence of his ruffled feathers. “Still very much illegal but anything can be studied empirically.” Once the words are out, he immediately regrets it, not wanting to spur this conversation any more. It is possible (desired even) they ignore him, Sam already seeming to disregard his addition as he leans towards Natasha. Whatever Sam says is drowned out by a prickle traveling up Vision’s spine, his fight-or-flight response activating at the feeling of being watched. Slowly he turns his head towards Wanda, who levels a discerning, alcohol infused squint in his direction. “Yes?”
“Could you repeat that for me?”
“I, um,” Vision isn’t sure why she’s asking or why he feels like he should change what he said. “I stated that anything can be studied empirically.”
As he finishes the sentence, Wanda’s lips tip into a wicked smirk. “What a ridiculous idea.”