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A bespectacled man sat at a desk in a dark room. A shaft of sunlight from a small, high window was the only source of light. The man wore a stark-white lab coat, and was completely bald. He was hunched over in his chair, all his focus zeroed in on the papers that lay before him. He picked up a manila folder which was labeled 'O.mniscient R.obotic C.ompanion' and scanned its contents briefly before carelessly tossing it in the wastebasket to the right of him.
'Waste of resources,' He muttered sadly under his breath.
The man's head snapped up as a harsh knock came at his door. He sat for a moment, confused at who could be at the door. Had he scheduled a meeting today? He didn't think he did. Maybe that damned secretary of his had gotten things mixed up-
The door opened and admitted another man, who was carrying a briefcase, through. The stranger strode up to the desk and extended a hand for the scientist (who was now more than a little ruffled) to shake.
"Doctor Clary, I presume?" Said the stranger, shaking the doctor's hand firmly.
“Yes, that’s me. Forgive me for being rude, but who are you and what are you doing in my office?” The doctor stated. “I was not expecting visitors today, and I had no scheduled appoint-"
"Yes, well, I'm making one, sir." The man held up a shining badge just long enough for Doctor Clary to read the letters ‘B.M.I.O.’ on it before it was swiftly tucked back into the stranger’s shirt pocket. “Sgt. Burns, head of the Bio-Military Interest Organization. Sit down sir, I believe I need to have a talk with you.'
Doctor Clary absorbed all this for a second, a humorless smirk on his face.
"Forgive me, 'Sergeant' but you can't just walk into my office unannounced, flash a badge at me, and expect me to roll on my back and let you do what you please in my lab."
Sgt. Burns cocked an eyebrow, studying the scientist for a second.
"Seven."
Doctor Clary frowned. "I'm sorry?"
"Seven. That's how many you've had, right?"
"I don't follow."
He leaned back in his chair a bit, staring at the wall behind Clary. "Seven projects. All experimental, all using dated tech, all trying to achieve the same thing." Burns flicked his eyes to the doctor.
"You've been trying to bring extinct species back from the dead."
Clary was more unnerved than ever now. "We've been attempting revival of species through cloning, yes. How did you-"
"The walls have ears, Doctor. Eyes, too, in some parts of your little operation here. And sometimes, when there aren't ears to hear or eyes to see, humans become more useful than any microphone or security camera."
"Are you suggesting that one of my employees is some kind of… some corporate spy? Come here undercover, to steal information for your company?"
"You're the one suggesting that, Doctor. And I said humans, plural."
Doctor Clary had put his arms out straight to lean on his desk as he stared at the wood grain, furious.
"So, what do you need to come here for then, hmm? Why announce the fact that you've been stealing information from my company? Did you come here just to gloat, is that it?"
Burns let out a bark of laughter. "Damn, you science types gotta loosen up, feel like I'm talking to HAL 9000."
He straightened up in his chair, leaning on the desk with his hands clasped in front of him. "No, Doctor, I'm here to make a proposition to you."
Clary hesitated for a second, weighing his options, before he made up his mind. "Go ahead."
"See, I know all about your little experiments here, Doctor, and they've all had the same result. Failure."
"I think you and I both know the reason for that, Doctor; your equipment's runnin' on fumes, and you're runnin' on loans you can't pay."
Clary jerked his head up to look at Burns, who made a waving motion with his hand.
"I have access to your grant receipts as well, don't worry about it. The point I'm trying to make is that soon you're gonna run out of money, and that ain't even the worst of it."
Burns pulled out a manila folder similar to the ones the doctor had out of his briefcase, flipping through it.
"Says here your last experiment had… whoo, that's quite a few OSHA violations, and that's just the A's. This next one, oh, there’s a picture! That is… a large explosion. That was at your old facility, before you moved, right? I still can’t believe you were able to get the rights to set up shop again here… unless you didn’t get the go-ahead. You didn’t, did you.’
Doctor Clary went still, his eyes widening as he stared at the desk beneath him. A bead of sweat started to roll down the back of his neck, and his mind raced as he tried to think of some solution, some escape plan, any way he could worm his way out of this. He'd done it before, he could do it again.
Burns continued, pointedly not noticing the Doctor's obvious distress, deciding to let him stew in his own panic. He pulled out another manila folder, this one much older, much more battered and faded.
"Oh now here's a callback. Your first experiment, MML1, was it called? Tryin' to bring back.. ooh, Wooly Mammoth, a classic. Tell me, Doctor, how'd that one end?"
Clary gripped his desk, taking a steadying breath. ‘Enough of this. Can you get to the point? What's the proposition you wanted to make, what do you want from me?'
'What do I want from- No, what do YOU want from ME?’ Burns said, growing angry.
'You've been making waves.’ He growled. ‘You’re makin’ big mistakes, and they’re getting noticed by people who won’t be so civil as to sit down and talk with you in your office. No, they’re more the types that’ll send their message via sniper bullet- straight through the frontal lobe of one of your coworkers. Or you, they don’t really discriminate, and you science types all look the same in those lab coats.’
He shuffled all the papers, putting some of them back in his briefcase. ‘My proposition to you, Doctor Clary, will help you, not hurt you. All I ask is that you do a favor for my people here and there, take on a project we’ve been struggling on, mess around with it a bit. See if you can get farther with it than we did.’
He pulled out a checkbook and pen, flipping through the pages. ‘In return for your work, we’ll provide a considerable sum of money to fund your projects. I’m thinking for the first project… a healthy 500 grand for the equipment, and double that when you get results.' He finished writing the check, holding it out for the now slightly slack-jawed doctor. Clary held it hesitantly, as if it was a bomb.
‘You’re just… giving me this. I haven’t even agreed to your little proposition yet.’
‘You have. Or at least, you have to. Either that, or my legal team goes to work. And believe me, they aren't afraid to get their hands dirty if it means you'll be serving a life sentence.'
He stood up, pushing in the chair and brushing invisible dust off his jacket.
‘Don’t worry about a definite decision for now, though, doctor. It’s already been made for you. What you need to turn your attention to-’ He bent over, digging a manila file out of the trash can next to the desk, then setting it on the table in front of Clary.
‘Is a focus on getting results.'
With that, he walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Doctor Clary sat there for a moment, staring at the door. He looked back down at the check in his hands, studying all the zeros written on it.
He was still for a few moments, lost in thought, before he seemed to come to a sudden decision. He picked up the file that had been put in front of him, regarding it in a new light.
'Omniscient Robotic Companion,' He said to himself.
'.......Maybe not such a waste after all…'
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[CREATE NEW FILE?]
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[NEW FILE CREATED]
[FILE TITLE: RADIATION ALTERED WILDLIFE]
[ENTRY ONE, DATE XX/XX/XXXX]
[Development of the petri cultures has...varied. Some die immediately, some die in the middle of the transmutation process, and some die seconds before they would have been in the clear for further growth testing. Despite considering every possible variable that could be affecting the microorganisms and causing malfunction, there seems to be no actual cause for the sudden deactivation of every single cell of every individual within the culture. They will show virtually no signs of degeneration, malfunction, or degradation, and then suddenly every function within every cell shuts off near simultaneously.
Simaltra says that it's being caused by some sort of hyper-focused pulse of energy, something to do with invisible waves being given off by the equipment. If it is true, then why can't any of our sensors detect these emissions? Are they some kind of energy that has somehow gone unnoticed until now? I doubt it. MacAitre went off into one of his conspiracies, talking about how the very site of this lab is destined to produce nothing but death, and we shouldn't push it to defy that 'rule of nature' or whatever. Honestly, I wonder if that man actually is a scientist. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out he somehow managed to get lost out here on a nature walk or something, walked in the front door, and got hired by mistake.
But I digress. My theory for the failed cultures? I think we're being given dupes. Duds. They're intentionally sending us subjects that are doomed to fail, so they have an excuse to stop paying us and buy up the company, like they've been itching to do for so long. Well, I'm going to go and talk to the director himself, and I'm going to have some VERY choice words for him.]
[END OF ENTRY]
[NEXT ENTRY] [POWER DOWN]^
[POWERING DOWN….]
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