[devlin biotech]
(miriam thatcher)
Devlin Biotech.
The 4th through the 6th floor of the massive building was dominated by labs. The walls painted a cool grey while the floors were white tiled. Very rarely did executive venture to these floors […with the exception of Mr. Cavanaugh.] but assistants and other less prestigious sorts would sometimes make the sojourn. Scientists weren’t –like- normal people, and it is very likely why Miriam was always around the labs. Peering through the oversized plate glass windows, into steel tables and people in long white coats.
Of course she had an actual job to do – but most people in the 4-6th floor had no idea what that job was. Other than wearing well tailored business clothes that always managed to push the envelope of ‘professionalism’. For instance today she is wearing a grey corduroy skirt and a matching blazer. Below the untucked Valentino dress shirt is a pale blue and not QUITE buttoned as high as it might be.
Who the hell is that girl?
(danya)
The girl skirting scandal does, indeed, turn the heads and attentions of several sections passed through on her supposed mission. Scientists weren't like normal people - at the very least - and suffice to assume tongues would wag away gathered salivation in essence of that slender form's disappearence around a convenient corner. Such treasonous fantasies fill the lab-wrought mind. Mental escapades to alleviate the drear of repetitive tasks and countless sheets of mind-numbing empirical data.
Behind the door of sixth floor laboratory number 8A - there is no such reaction.
Perhaps it is because of solid walls sealing the inner equipment from such flaunted distractions. Perhaps it is because the sole occupant within the state-of-the-art room is not paying attention to anything other than the very equipment contained behind reinforced walls.
What do they do in there, anyway...
Danya's tall frame exonerates a silhouette of confidence and dedication. Head slightly bowed so that spiked tips of black hair create angles that catch oblique shines from overhead flourescents. Pen creating errant notes on steel clipboard cradled in crook of elbow. The tails of long, white, bleached and ironed labcoat dangle about the backs of his knees. Errant sway the only betrayal he has, in fact, moved at all in the past few minutes.
Broken cadence of occassional steps.
Examining the newest addition to the repetoire of the project's resources.
(miriam)
What are the bombs in that one?
What if the cure is worse than the disease?
There is a slim file folder held in her grip. The surface area of its stiff material pressed against the edge of the glass with splayed fingers. Besides the steady pressure of those faded blue eyes upon the occupants of the room 8B. Like a cat that the edge of the fishbowl, her head twisting in one direction or the other as if she could actually understand what was going. Strange thing about the girl is that she doesn’t really speak to any of the others.
Robert Stephenson [Bio-physcist par excellance – and not-so-closet geek.] from the fifth floor had finally worked up the balls to speak to the strange presence only to have her depart when their eyes meet through the glass. A voyeur – or something like it – self contained. Today Miriam wanders through the fifth floor while her boss is caught in yet another conference. Her heels make small noises against the tiles, and curiosity is a terrible thing.
Serve me up some pretty pretty people.
Serve me up somebody I can believe.
That sharp featured face turns toward 8-A with a quirked brow, her form twisting so that upper arm and shoulder pressed against the plate glass of 8-B. Lashes lower for a moment, and as if nodding to herself move off in the direction of the steel covered door.
(danya)
Notes made. Calculations scribbled in the margin. Stellar extrapolations gathered into a viral bloom of clustered bubbles spanning - infecting - the lower-half breadth of the page.
Perhaps the light shining in lagoon green depths resonates of a child with a new toy. Military technology subsidized, secured, and now offered to his own experimental whim in deals spun by corporate designs most fortuitous to the prized project at hand. Developing under the brightest and capable minds of Devlin's R&D teams. Developing under his leadership.
Such dangerous toys children have nowadays.
The clipboard clicks against stainless steel counter.
Free hand rises to comb through black spikes that had not yet dared move out of place.
Movement cascades to draw tension's rub of thumb and forefinger to the bridge of strong nose.
Perhaps it is time for a break.
(miriam)
And that is when…
When-when-when the handle to steel reinforced door twists [..had he some latent mental abilities?] turns the tumble releasing and the heavy pass pushed forward by a pale skinned girl, her features wax white under the sheen of florescent lights and the contrast of long black hair twisted up into a bun and stuck through with a pencil. Her fingers wrap about the edge of the door as she takes one step inside peering in the opposite direction even as the lean form slides within more fully. Serpentine. And then she looks to towards Danya her gaze fixing on his image.
“Right then.” Exhale. “Are you Doctor Spunazzi?”
There is no ‘Doctor Spunazzi’.
[…and the heavy door shuts behind her.]
Your not mistaken – that gaze has recognition within.
(danya)
Steel handle twists. Latches mutely release. Hinges glide on oiled buffer. The door sweeps welcome to the sterile room with breath of chemicals tainting incent recycled air. Machines quietly hum and process to the rhythmic patterns of clicking whir punctuated by all-but-silent blip. Somewhere in the background music plays, seeping from a stereo far too softly to compete with the sound of questioning voice whipcrack in the still atmosphere; far too softly to categorize.
"No."
Murmured.
Recognition mirrored.
(miriam)
"Then this must be the wrong room."
British accent.
Her voice is a sharp thing, exacting, [...unconsciously superior...] and undeniably foreign. And as if to bely the quiet press of those words the girl does not leave. The girl's nose wrinkles as she moves deeper within the lab her gaze alighting on all the different machines. That file still hangs from the edge of her fingers, vaugely reminiscent of a hall pass.
Three steps - and then she halts twisting on the instep of her shoues so that the softest [Shhh.] noise is made over nigh frictionless tiles. "Are you sure your not Doctor Spunazzi?" It would be a perfect play but front the slight quick at the edge of her mouth - and the curious stray of those pale colored eyes.
(danya)
Her voice is a sharp, exacting thing of superiority.
He allows it.
Her entrance and eyes wander in the utmost of curiosity.
He allows it.
For he knows there is nothing available for observation courting recognition which defines the activities that carry on behind the room's closed walls and doors. If there were - the entrance would have been locked. Short of tripping over well-protected and hidden powercords, there is nothing she could do to interrupt the locked in processing, anyway.
The sound of her instep [Shhh.] is punctuated by the removal of his badge [Clk]. Laminated plastic held out between the scissor of index and middle finger in equally casual drape tandem with her file folder. "I'm sure." She'd have to come closer to read it. She'd have to stand just before him to actually take it.
Temptation.
Danya V. Tretiak.
Senior Project & Research Chemist.
Biopharmeceutical Chemisty / Materials Science.
Pharmeceutical Research & Development, Devlin Biotech Inc.
(miriam)
Flicker-flash.
That gaze even while she wanders about the room. Not quite so stupid to touch anything - not that she would - not that she could. The girl didn't quite seem old enough to be at work during the day, a teenager and then when she spoke older. The card is held out and her eyes narrow shoulders drawing together, his face is a mask behind it. And her brows raise at his offer of the badge anyway...
Step. Step. Step. Of designer shoes that covered the careful placement of feet - the stretch of long legs and the hovering halt as he holds out the identifacation card - the pause a recognition of space. "Is that your cold fusion pass--" Sweeep, the reach of long arms their design hidden by the sleeves of the blazer, as the card is plucked [ Imagine a bird - the brush of wind the motion of talon. Wingspan.] from his fingers after a consession of space before that girl continues on moving behind him the card held up.
"Doctor Tretiak, I presume?"
She's not allowed to be here - all of this is by his whim.
Or is it?
(danya)
She is not allowed to be on the sixth floor without security clearence.
She is not allowed to be in laboratory 8-A without prior notification.
She is not allowed to freely wander about the equipment without his express permission.
And he allows it, still.
All by his whim. His amusement.
A press of some hidden button and surely he could assure the sweeping bird is resolutely caged and questioned.
She plucks the pass from his fingers, and the downward journey of his hand instigates another carefully mirrored effort. Her own badge snatched from where it hung upon her blazer within those steps briskly moving past. "I told you....." As soft as the indiscernable music floating from some unknown corner, dark eyes dropping to the laminated indentity twirled between fingers ".... Miss Thatcher...." Commentary upon her obvious youth."..... I am a chemist, not a physicist."
(miriam)
Miriam Anais Thatcher.
Personal Assistant to Ambrose Cavanaugh, VP.
Board of Directors, Devlin Biotech.
He speaks and she remains at an angle behind him her gaze fixed on some strange machine or the other. It might well be possisble to hear the smiled sound of her words while beleagured by that London-bred tongue. "So what is is it that you do in here?" Without the microscopes and small dishes, without the oversized q-tips and chemical colors - it seemed the room had no window because there was nothing to watch.
And then the sound of those steps coming closer as she settled her gaze in whatever he was writing [..looks like that stuff Ambrose types into reports.] along the back of nis neck before the ID card is dropped atop the clipboard. That long arm reaching past to retrieve her own.
(danya)
"Play the part of Senior Research and Project Chemist."
The words nothing other than admonishingly contrite. If he, too, wore the curved expression of a smile she could not see it behind him, only pluck it from the hushed sound of murmured tones as she so eaglery plucked away his nametag.
Did you actually read my badge past the letters of my name?
Finally, he turns. Smoothly guiding her badge towards the reaching tentacles of her fingers. The dark line of brow above deeply green eyes lifts expectantly. Challenge.
(miriam)
"As long as its a role."
She manages dryly - maybe she didn't read the Identifacation card at all. She was such a strange bird, that Miriam. Her lips clamp closed as he hands the small card back to her. Another equally lean form twisting upon his chair even while the clipboard remains on the table beyond.
His brow lifts.
[...hers is an echo of his.]
Faded [sofuckingsharp] faded blue gaze flickering over green ones when that feeling seetles against her causing the rhythemic pulse of lungs to halts and brows to knit together. He didn't have rage - he did not. And yet something about that gaze gets under the girl's skin enough that she does not look away.
Not. Yet.
(danya)
"What's it to you if it's not?"
Easily parried in the essence of conversational flow. Weight had settled comfortably in lean propped by the strategic plant of a single boot on the tiled floor. The other rests lethargically on a stool run, continuing the draped lines of skeleton and clothing relaxed in elbow's lean on stainless counter.
She doesn't look away.
Not. Yet.
The level draw of liquid veridian so serene in its holding gaze. Inviting, still, her inspection. Tempting, yet, her attention.
Eyes like that could read the scriptures of her soul without a sliver of effort.
Trapping, worst, her intruge.
(miriam)
Sometimes its real.
Sometimes so so bloody true.
...and sometimes you can fake it so good aches. Her soul if he could see it, would be an impossible thing. Worn on the sleeve of that low buttoned shirt, she is a lean creature, narrow hips and small chest. Beyond the rustle of hoisery the poised settle of shoes [...landed at his window.] Her head cants to the side as if the text of his intent were written sideways. "Scared?" Her lids lift with the light taunt, a vocal swipe at his causual langour. A slight provocation - an instigation of a moment's reflection.
go.
(danya)
"Have I reason to be?"
For some, reality and honesty is nothing more than a game of flashcards rotated and spun to the height of convenience. It allows semblance of control in the escape of unforgiving scrutiny beneath other's eyes. It sheilds an impossible and flitting - just like a songbird - soul. For others, much like the tall, black-haired chemist, such games are nothing more than excessive waste of meticulously hiding weakness.
She flutters just out of reach, this small and slender creature.
He remains exactly where she found him to begin with.
What makes you shy so readily away, little bird.
(miriam)
Or perhaps the flashcards were irrelevant details to the truth of impossibility. [We do what we want - to get what we need.] The ID card is finally clipped back onto her blazer, while shoulders roll back. "I'm not quite sure that a fair question, Dr. Tretiak." And the girl, so often removed, blinks back up to the man her nose wrinkling faintly.
"It would ruin the dance."
Something about the words - probably just the accent.
(danya)
"I disagree."
Discordance on the wings of breathy murmur. He speaks marginally louder than the distant hum of churning machines, almost lost in the symphonic waves of abstract electronica thrive-pulsing in the background.
Hummingbird's thrum beneath the songbird's scaling chorus.
"It merely sets the tempo."
(miriam)
"I didn't think I got to choose the song.But if its my prefernce..."
Ladies choice? Her gaze flickers toward the source of the music idly and then the strange bird steps closer back within his space. [...and they look at you like they don't speak your language..] She is close, and standing to her full 5 feet 9 inches, with the additional height of those heels. Not pumps but something far more modern the dark leather tracing the shape of her foot.
"--I like it fast." Darkly lashes lids lift briefly before the girl just laughing, a hand raising to her mouth. "Oh I'm sorry I couldn't quite keep that last line straight." long pale fingers reach over ro tap-tap tap against his bicep in signal to the slide past and [perched?] settle of form against the table top.
"Seriously, what kind of projects do you do?"
(danya)
"Fast?" Her covered laughter joined by the bare hush of back-throated chuckle tempered to closing space between them. "Or dangerous." His chin lifts, languid slouch granting some level of equality between them as she straightens a stretch on designer heels. The smile predatorily coy as she steps within his space, allowed to slide past to the tabletop rather than discover the folly of entering striking distance.
Liquid green flashes distal charicature of ghosted smile.
Surely teased in homage to their waltzing game.
Then shoulders flex white labcoat in a shrug. "Whatever Mr. Cavanaugh requests in relation to -" Hand pivots on elbow-axis, fingers tapping the discarded badge still waiting on the clipboard. "- Pharmeceutical R&D."
(miriam)
"If its not dangerous - why bother." The sounds of humor still edge her words, a rare thing for her - though Danya would never know it. Never know the true veracity of those words from the girl who exhales to shake off those last strains of laughter.
"Oh?" Both brows shoot up. "I haven't seen you at--" hesitate. "--Mr. Cavanaugh's office, are you new?"
(danya)
"I'd suppose the only remaining course of action would be to make it dangerous." Negligently mused as attention turns away to finally rescue his own badge from it's exile on the clipboard. Moments stroll resolutely by as adjustments are made beneath careful attention to assure the balance of tag's hang from lapel. He only continues once satisfied....
"Fairly." Do not think he missed her hesitation or what sounds lips had formed to make before thought intervened. How familiar... "I joined the Devlin team quite recently and spend most of my efforts in the labs. If -" Bladed smile to deliberately form the title she nearly stumbled past: "- Mr. Cavanaugh ever found need for me, he was more than welcome in my office."
(miriam)
"Oh yes? I'm quite ashiver in anticicipation." She says in response to his first words pausing to study his careful manipulation of the badge at his lapel. Only to lean across and flick at the perfectly straightened thing index finger snapped forward from the aegis of thumb.
"Well I'll be sure to mention our meeting to Ambrose then."
As a chemist there was a term for her emphasis, or the catch of his tease and her immediate [my-my-my a witty one...] response: Explosive. Or perhaps it is just the one and the other catching sparks off of words and gesture, waiting for the house to burn [ashes, ashes, we all fall..] down.
C'mon, where's the reaction.
(danya)
"I'm sure you will." Sedate in face of her explosive sparks. Serenity in the aftermath of flick's damage on the balance of his badge, fixed so easily with mild gesture of adjusting fingers. "As I'm sure you will take care of explaining just why you were snooping about in my lab without reason instead of turning right around to continue searching for....."
He leans over, confidentially, fingers hooking in the loose panel of folder still in her left hand to reveal the name she spoke of on entrance. "..... Doctor Spunazzi?"
There is, of course, no "Doctor Spunazzi." Abysmally dark eyes lift to the faded tones of hers - and do not move an inch away.
Where's your reaction, now...
(miriam)
Flick.
Flick.
Flick.
[..play with fire.]
She leans in thoughtfully, "Didn't you invite invite me in?" Her fingers are long and pale, had he ever touched her hands he would find them the opposite of the soft affectation of most office types. [Why HAD she come into his office?] Those precise fingers edge down the crease of ironed labcoat.
"I'm sure he'd be interested to hear."
(danya)
"I showed you my identification badge." Practically purred in such close quarters. "I allowed you to remain and wander without disruption for there is nothing which warrants such subversion within this laboratory." Tonight. "However...." Dulcet tones smooth into the muted music of laughter. "..... even though I was forced to discover your identification through my own means as you invited yourself into my lab, I have not yet made any inclination of my own invitation. Of your continued presence or perusal of the equipment and my notation clipboard. Of your conversation, pleasent as it is. Of your presently attained perch. Or -"
He had not touched her hand. He still does not, even now, when fingers lightly grasp her wrist through layers of expensive fabric and gently remove her own digits from sliding down the edge of his coat.
"- your touch."
Released, her extremity returned to her own space, his hand scales upwards to draw her attention towards the far corners and the small cameras concealed in their shadows.
"I'm sure he'd be very interested to hear the explanations should I suggest he review the security tapes in the morning."
Fire can lick as easily as burn.
(miriam)
Touch.
A funny thing because the girl blinks at the motion of his hand, yanks her hand backwards as his fingers move to close about her reflexes. She nods thoughtfully her nose wrinkling. Briefly as her gaze goes up to the cameras, you can almost see the measurements weighed, what she would say, what he would say - what body language would say despite the lack of sound. But something does cause her to hesitate - he can smell its not the gamble.
"Then you should've said so in the beginning."
And she slides from the table and tucking the folder under her left arm settles those hands deeply into the pockets of her jacket.
(danya)
Her jerked reaction removes her hand efficiently enough, his gesture segues smoothly into the discovery of cameras without inkling of startle regarding such reflexes. As through this entire interaction. He takes each successive advance of their game in smooth stride tempered by quiet confidence.
Colored with faint curve of amused smile.
"It would have ruined the dance."
Something in the modified yet parroted words - it surely could not be the accent. Born and raised in California, he does not have one to imply interesting caveats to phrase as hers enjoys. Sadist "I hope you are able to find Doctor Spunazzi without further problems, Miss Thatcher. Please be sure to give Mr. Cavanaugh my regards when -" If. "- you discuss our meeting?"
Dismissed.
(miriam)
Side together.
Move apart.
Eyelids lower briefly at his suggestion and the girl cants her head again as if the first time was not enough to fully comprehend the sideways scribbled writing. Still its strange the dance they just had almost as if it were a challenge, but without the violence. hEr lips press together as her right hand unconsciously moves to her brow in mock salute. Blink.
"Right. Enjoy your research."
Strange.
She takes her leave - and pauses outside the door after it closes.
[Intruige.]