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rainbowfic2014-04-03 12:26 pm
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2014-04-03 12:26 pm
Octarine #5, Xanadu #2
Name: kay_brooke
Story: David/Cleaner
Colors: Octarine #5 (he moved in a way that suggested he was attempting the world speed record for the nonchalant walk), Xanadu #2 (land of milk and honey)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas, Charcoal, Pastels (fororigfic_bingo prompt "slavery/Free Space")
Word Count: 851
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: The Corporation came.
Note: A piece I wrote for a prompt call in February, off a prompt from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
theemdash. Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
The woman who came to see him was younger than he had imagined. Mid-thirties at most, her dark brown hair pulled into a tight knot on the top of her head. Black boots and maroon business suit--that was interesting. Gabriel had been expecting a researcher at most, stiff and cold in their powder blue laboratory jackets, or at worst one of the day laborers in beige uniforms. Whichever one showed up would tell him how much he was wanted, and he had calculated two different responses: beige uniforms got the boot for being the insults they were, but he might actually listen to a researcher.
But this woman was executive class, allowed to wear whatever she wanted. He had not been expecting that, and he was taken aback for a few seconds, his tongue stumbling over greetings, before his mind kicked itself into shrewd calculation again: if they had sent an executive, it meant they wanted him very badly. Which then meant he could probably get away with demanding more from them.
It was, as the priests used to say, his lucky day.
Her name was Dora Prader--executives of course did not have to use Corporation names--and she had a crisp, hard way of speaking that Gabriel suspected she had cultivated in an attempt to cover a lower class accent. Also interesting. What had she done to be promoted so high?
But she was not there to talk about herself.
“We’ve heard of your research, Gabriel,” she said. It cloyed to hear his given name sit so familiarly in her mouth, but he needed to play nice at least for a little while so he let it go without comment. She refused a chair, instead pacing around his sitting room, openly peering at his things: old photographs on the mantle, plaques from a university that no longer existed, a china tea set that had miraculously survived from his grandmother’s days. She touched them, too, like she was laying claim. Gabriel’s fingers itched to close around her throat, but he had a sense that this day was the day that his freedom came to an end, one way or another. He wasn’t ready to die yet, at least not until he learned the terms of his enslavement.
“Then you’ve also heard of its repeated failure,” said Gabriel. Some might say recklessly, because why would anyone downplay their own value to the Corporation? But they had sent an executive, so he felt a measure of fearlessness was justified.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say a complete failure,” said Dora, turning to him with a wide smile.
“All of my subjects have died,” said Gabriel.
“But the procedures work.” She stood with her hands behind her back, leaning toward him slightly. “You’ve achieved the enhancements you’ve strived for, molded life itself into the image you wanted.”
“Except there is no life,” said Gabriel. “Calcium phosphate shock renders the cells unviable. If you want the molded dead, with all their useless enhancements, you’re welcome to the bodies.”
Dora smiled wider. “Your methods are poor and your finances worse. Of course you failed in practice. But.” She tapped the side of her head. “Here is the answer. Your ideas, Gabriel. They’re sound, and a generation ahead of where the Corporation scientists are. Come work for us. With your mind and the Corporation’s resources, we’ll bring life to your dead.” She held out her hand. “What do you say?”
It was tempting. He had been working alone in his tiny, dilapidated laboratory with its decades-obsolete equipment for far too long. But he also prided himself on his independence. He’d lived more than fifty years free of the Corporation’s shadow. They had told him, the few friends he had left: stop the experiments. If you don’t, the Corporation will hear. The Corporation will come.
“At least come with me to talk to my scientists,” said Dora. “Tell them what you’ve done, and let them tell you what they can offer. We can work out a compensation package in the comfort of my office afterward.” The last bit pointed, as if Gabriel was not aware of the hot, sticky air in his poorly ventilated house.
“First I need to know if there’s anything you can offer,” said Gabriel. “My equipment and methods are old, but does better even exist?”
The glee in her eyes was terrifying, and Gabriel realized he had played right into her hand. “Do you know what retroviral vector transduction is, Gabriel?”
He had never heard of such a thing, and he shook his head warily.
“It might be the answer to your calcium phosphate problem,” she said. “Come with me. Bring your notes.”
It was not an invitation this time. Slavery or death? Gabriel liked to think he was a principled man, but he had to admit he was curious about whatever new methods the Corporation had developed. He stood up from his chair, knees creaking, and gingerly took Dora’s hand. He’d see what they had to offer, and decide from there.
After all, killing himself was always an option.
kay_brookeStory: David/Cleaner
Colors: Octarine #5 (he moved in a way that suggested he was attempting the world speed record for the nonchalant walk), Xanadu #2 (land of milk and honey)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas, Charcoal, Pastels (for
origfic_bingo prompt "slavery/Free Space")Word Count: 851
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: The Corporation came.
Note: A piece I wrote for a prompt call in February, off a prompt from
theemdash. Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.The woman who came to see him was younger than he had imagined. Mid-thirties at most, her dark brown hair pulled into a tight knot on the top of her head. Black boots and maroon business suit--that was interesting. Gabriel had been expecting a researcher at most, stiff and cold in their powder blue laboratory jackets, or at worst one of the day laborers in beige uniforms. Whichever one showed up would tell him how much he was wanted, and he had calculated two different responses: beige uniforms got the boot for being the insults they were, but he might actually listen to a researcher.
But this woman was executive class, allowed to wear whatever she wanted. He had not been expecting that, and he was taken aback for a few seconds, his tongue stumbling over greetings, before his mind kicked itself into shrewd calculation again: if they had sent an executive, it meant they wanted him very badly. Which then meant he could probably get away with demanding more from them.
It was, as the priests used to say, his lucky day.
Her name was Dora Prader--executives of course did not have to use Corporation names--and she had a crisp, hard way of speaking that Gabriel suspected she had cultivated in an attempt to cover a lower class accent. Also interesting. What had she done to be promoted so high?
But she was not there to talk about herself.
“We’ve heard of your research, Gabriel,” she said. It cloyed to hear his given name sit so familiarly in her mouth, but he needed to play nice at least for a little while so he let it go without comment. She refused a chair, instead pacing around his sitting room, openly peering at his things: old photographs on the mantle, plaques from a university that no longer existed, a china tea set that had miraculously survived from his grandmother’s days. She touched them, too, like she was laying claim. Gabriel’s fingers itched to close around her throat, but he had a sense that this day was the day that his freedom came to an end, one way or another. He wasn’t ready to die yet, at least not until he learned the terms of his enslavement.
“Then you’ve also heard of its repeated failure,” said Gabriel. Some might say recklessly, because why would anyone downplay their own value to the Corporation? But they had sent an executive, so he felt a measure of fearlessness was justified.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say a complete failure,” said Dora, turning to him with a wide smile.
“All of my subjects have died,” said Gabriel.
“But the procedures work.” She stood with her hands behind her back, leaning toward him slightly. “You’ve achieved the enhancements you’ve strived for, molded life itself into the image you wanted.”
“Except there is no life,” said Gabriel. “Calcium phosphate shock renders the cells unviable. If you want the molded dead, with all their useless enhancements, you’re welcome to the bodies.”
Dora smiled wider. “Your methods are poor and your finances worse. Of course you failed in practice. But.” She tapped the side of her head. “Here is the answer. Your ideas, Gabriel. They’re sound, and a generation ahead of where the Corporation scientists are. Come work for us. With your mind and the Corporation’s resources, we’ll bring life to your dead.” She held out her hand. “What do you say?”
It was tempting. He had been working alone in his tiny, dilapidated laboratory with its decades-obsolete equipment for far too long. But he also prided himself on his independence. He’d lived more than fifty years free of the Corporation’s shadow. They had told him, the few friends he had left: stop the experiments. If you don’t, the Corporation will hear. The Corporation will come.
“At least come with me to talk to my scientists,” said Dora. “Tell them what you’ve done, and let them tell you what they can offer. We can work out a compensation package in the comfort of my office afterward.” The last bit pointed, as if Gabriel was not aware of the hot, sticky air in his poorly ventilated house.
“First I need to know if there’s anything you can offer,” said Gabriel. “My equipment and methods are old, but does better even exist?”
The glee in her eyes was terrifying, and Gabriel realized he had played right into her hand. “Do you know what retroviral vector transduction is, Gabriel?”
He had never heard of such a thing, and he shook his head warily.
“It might be the answer to your calcium phosphate problem,” she said. “Come with me. Bring your notes.”
It was not an invitation this time. Slavery or death? Gabriel liked to think he was a principled man, but he had to admit he was curious about whatever new methods the Corporation had developed. He stood up from his chair, knees creaking, and gingerly took Dora’s hand. He’d see what they had to offer, and decide from there.
After all, killing himself was always an option.
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