[devlin biotech]
(danya)
Devlin Biotech Inc.
Subsidiary research facility of Merck & Co, Inc.
The fourth through sixth floor of the massive, main building were dominated by laboratories. Cookie cutter habitats, all tiled in matching white tiles, all painted in matching grey paint, all equipped with the crux of cutting edge technology. Rarely did executives venture so far into the veritable maze of upper floors, such forays left up to the ranks of various assistants, messengers, and scientists themselves.
Though, scientists weren't like everybody else.
Happily sequested away in their little domiciles, tinkering about expensive machines and jotting the otherwise pictographic notations in endless scribe, strangely content busying themselves in a clean room quite far removed from the conventional reputation of humanity. Men and women ruling their private kingdoms. Wearing crowns made of thick-lensed spectacles and majestic robes of starched, white, labcoats. Metallic clipboards taking the place of once-legendary coats of arms. Scepters have disappeared beneath the growing population of test tubes and titration sets. Somewhere, the line of science has blurred to fiction.
What do they do in there, anyway.....
It is behind the door of sixth floor laboratory numbered 8-A that there is something entirely different:
One hip pitches against the squared lip of a stainless steel counter, frame rising towards set of equally squared shoulders lazily slanted about metal clipboard cradled in elbow's crook. Head slightly bowed so that spiked tips of black hair create cubist angles serving only to catch the oblique flares cast by overhead flourescents. Occasionally, pen falls to paper, errant notations decorate the page of endless numerical graphs. Tails of long, white, bleached and ironed labcoat dangling about the backs of his knees, catching the rogue fluctuation of centrally controlled air and acting sole betrayal that he has, in fact, moved at all in the last few minutes.
(Natasha Kružíková)
Outside: the sterile meets the pristine.
There were benefits being subsidiary to a pharmaceutical giant. In the skill of the staff employed, in the range of work they enjoyed, in their benefits. In the location.
The location.
While fourth to sixth floors would be the domain of laboratory after laboratory, each like the busy scurry of white mice in a cage (albeit high-tech, highly comfortable, state-of-the-art ones), then the presentation to the outside world is there – at ground floor level in the foyer with a ceiling that lifts to at least third. Beyond become the warrens, here is the presentation of space, time, and plenty of it. Modernity, at its most sophisticated and expensive.
Gray and glass, and its accents of white and silver, the stone floor is polished and gleams one’s reflections as they walk across, hard rubber of soles unable to resist either the click or the faintest squeak in the contact. The desk of the reception and security being this elongated and delineated affair, solid and massive and with the sunk in plasma screens behind it – giving news the latest developments and news from Merck & Co, all ready for public consumption.
On two sides there are no walls, not where the entrance is located angled, and not to where the foyer in triangular shape. Simple, elegant glass extends up to the ceiling, where the graceful lines of the occasional cable and metal beam have been positioned to represent efficient yet artistic support. This late in the afternoon, light still shines through from the sun without, but the interior is cool within, and the treatment of the glass would deflect the majority of heat.
Expensive. Expensive. Expensive.
From the street outside, leaning against the Mercedes SLK that pulled up just a few minutes before, the solar reflection across her black shades obscures even further the scrutiny of the eyes beyond. They begin at the foyer, looking in. They rise, as if invited, to take in the rest of the Devlin Biotech Inc. headquarters, and the myriad of windows without, the mirror-like glass façade, and the proclamation of advanced technology. The forefront.
A smile crooks up along her mouth. Sardonically fused, but enjoying the view, nonetheless.
(danya)
There is something to be said about the expenses fruitfully ignored in the creation of a pharmeceutical giant. How on earth are people to trust the products if they do not assess some form of intrinsic value from the very facility within which each miracle pill is made. One can hardly be expected to take care of others if they cannot first take care of themselves.
That would be the very explanation for what happens next.
Music beings sneaking softly from an office lurking behind partially opened door. It carries across the room on manicured waves of centrally controlled air. Carrying all the way until it reaches the young man's ears. It would seem so soft, at first, that it could hardly garner his attention. The melodic mellow captions spoken by some wordless composition of EBM Trance. Barely carrying above the tick and click of various machinery but it's just enough to draw lagoon green eyes from the ream of clipboarded papers.
Eyes that draw to the clock hanging smartly along the eastern wall.
Few moments pass, as Danya elects to spend them translating music's linguistic refrain, the more aesthetically pleasing alternative to the expected "alarm" murmuring upcoming itinerary like some stereophonic secretary. Harmonizing chatter carrying on through the end of the song, and only then does the scientist withdraw into the office in order to turn the equipment off. Quickly re-emerging, long strides taking him out of 8-A's santuary towards the elevator at the end of the hall and the meeting rooms reserved at the bottom of six storey shaft.
Another glance at the clock. Seven minutes.
Plenty of time.
(nat)
The day is warm outside, by from the cool of the Mercedes stepping into the cool of the building foyers, Natasha barely had time to feel it.
A tall woman, she towers at six feet tall in the medium-height heels that she wear, their hard and clipped journey sounding across the polished floors. Today would find her in another dress, though one that does not suit her any less than the others she had chosen to wear. A suit, to fit the surroundings. Tailored against her lithe, long figure – a certain precision and edge in her walk. Its not completely executive, however, and she does not intent to paint quite that picture, no matter how much she would mould into her current surroundings. The suit jacket she wears has sleeves to the elbows, the cuff of a crimson shirt folded back against it in striking colour contrast. The jacket is also unbuttoned and loose but revealing of the fit of the shirt beneath, the open gape to glimpse pale skin at her throat, of a design slightly more razor-sharp fashion than conservative convention.
Along her waist, the wide open circles of the belt. Metal, slung low across her hips, and hidden at the back by the length of the jacket. Pinstripe subtle, silky gray on black. With the briefcase she bears, it at least suits her purpose. A woman who need not conform completely to a man’s world – just merely pay acknowledgment.
At the security desk she smiles at the young man behind it, the shades finally removed from her eyes to reveal the depths of brown flecked with gold. Hair severely dragged back into a French knot, drawing attention to the carved slant of her cheekbones and the width of her mouth, the cursory smile she gives still does not completely detract from features which would be lovely to some, and just seen as hard - harsh - to others.
A matter of taste.
[And of course… the rage.]
“Good afternoon. I’m Natasha Kružíková, and I believe Danya Tretiak is expecting me.” Accent marked Eastern European – specifically Czech – through a voice that is mild and low.
(danya)
"May I see your ID, please? Thank you." The young security guard seated comfortably behind massive desk is quick to ratify spoken name against laminated card against those listed as having appointments to rightfully enter Devlin's private building. A chosen line demarkated with a tic'd penstrike before he's flipping a clipboard about for Natasha to sign, her identification returned by other, outstretched hand. Another laminate with metal clip soon following as it pokes into the periphrery of her vision.... for some reason the young guard not too sure about allowing any part of his person too close to the pretty woman. "This pass must be visable at all times, even while you are in the company of Mr. Tretiak. If you would please follow me, he will meet you in Conference Room A."
The young guard seems loathe to leave the sanctity of that desk, the barricade between himself and what he cannot quite place about the woman's presence. It must be the accent. Feeling shaken off during escort making a left down at the end of main enrty hall. He only seems too happy to open the Conference Room door as a matter of etiquette, then quickly depart once she's passed within.
Waiting within, just as expected, is the tall kinsman. Dark green eyes draw from window's view towards the figure silhouetted by the opened door.
(nat)
It could be the accent.
It could be the thoughts floating through his head the tameness of a suit did not quite fit her. Perhaps something in leather, and with a bloody whip attached – and interestingly, not an inch (no, not one) of sexual arousal at the mere thought. Subconsciously (and he’ll latch onto this later), he just knows that this woman was more inclined to mimic the mating habits of a female preying mantis, before allowing even an index finger brush near her naked flesh.
Nevertheless, while Natasha knows every little thought process that flitters through his mind as he goes through the rote, goes through the security check, looks up to speak to her and hands over the pass. She has seen similar expressions on other faces and can read them like a book. Half her own expectations, confirmed by what that perceptive eye, and all she does is give that cordial smile – practiced enough to not seem frozen, not seem so completely insincere. The pass is clipped to her jacket.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, and follows him past the security check-point, into the elevator and then finally into the conference room itself. She steps within, her gaze sweeping across the room.
(danya)
"I trust you were met with a minimum of delays by security."
Only after the door clicks shut behind Natasha does the dark-haired kinsman choose to speak. Words carrying just enough to reach her eyes, and were they any softer the hydraulics on the Conference Room hinges would surely drown them out. He dares leave his post before the large communal table and step not once but thrice towards her personal, temporary territory.
Veridian gaze drops to the pass clipped upon her jacket, deliberately, before raising once again to her face. The curve ghosting across his lips in marginally more than polite salutation. Danya makes no effort to introduce himself. Between his own official identification and the matter he stands here before the ShadowLord now, he sees little cause to reiterate information she is undoubtedly well aware of.
Why risk such insult.
It would explain why he does not offer a hand for gratuitious shake. While he seemed brave enough to approach without formal invitation, the young kinsman is not stupid enough to press the invasion further by reaching towards the woman before she initiates such action.
That may very well get his hand bitten off.
(nat)
"Yes," she answers his question, the smile that had hovered on her lips with the security guard, surprisingly remaining there. In fact, there is little change in the face she presented that guard, to the face she presents kin - except for the sudden intensity that briefly flares in her eyes, reading his approach, his carriage, his own expression - before even that moment drops away.
She does not hold out her hand, instead, again, glancing around the room. She walks further in and past him, the brush of her rage like the static spike of electricity, penetrating the flimsy shield of clothes to entice goosebumps across the skin beneath. A mere jangle of the nerves. The briefcase is placed on the conference table that dominates a part of the room.
It is left closed, as she turns back towards him to comment mildly, "I admit to being somewhat surprised of your presence in Chicago, Danya. Milo Maevsky, the Shadow Lord elder, he was not aware of you, was he?"
(danya)
The young kinsman is confident enough to risk such close proximity to spiking Rage and far deadlier claws, yet he remains just this side of provoking actual confrontation. He would not be Senior Research Chemist at this age if he were not intelligent - now he proves he's also smart.
Worthy of the blood that fills his veins.
The fact he steps not from the touch of her Rage in passing is deliberate act.
Hands fold neatly behind his back, lagoon pool eyes easily following the woman's movements. She crossed threshhold into room's sacred heart, he merely pivoted on chosen axis. "Nor I he." A statement of fact. There is no room here for excuse, and rare would be the occasion any could expect such out of the scientist's mouth. "My presence has been established for well over a year."
(nat)
She inclines her head slightly, stills it there so it almost becomes a curious, inquisitive cant, those dark eyes set in the sharp planes of her face continuing their quiet surveillance. Beyond the acknowledgment of his words and that slight explanation, they give very little in response. His activities prior to now are, for the moment, no concern of hers.
"You shall not need to know him. He has moved on and an Elder of our tribe has yet to be determined for his replacement." Something about those quiet tones, about that steadiness of an explanation that was so unnecessarily given to the kin, could provide cues as to who that may be, more so than any other cues for speculation. The smile does not waver. "And I am hoping that you will be happy to have your presence known to myself and my packmate."
Like all things Lord, that was hardly a request. Hardly a suggestion. But she manages to coat it in something akin to. She could spare Danya the illusion, but she is interested in his response.
(danya)
Inclination of his own head, slightly, mirroring her canted response. However, his own gesture does not infer any spark of idle curiosity in movement's untimely pause. The information is assessed and utilized in cold neutrality. Milo was not known before, and any potential of that changing is dismissed without second thought, as if the Elder had - truly - never existed.
Such negligent shift of power would unnerve many.
Danya is not affected in the least.
"Then it is only fair to say I am hoping you and your packmate will be happy to have my presence known." Like all things Lord, that was hardly a request; even the simplest salutations turn to games of cat and mouse. His playing skills supported by the slightest curving smile. His confidence narrated by the dulcet tones levying his voice remain at opening murmur. It seems the tall kinsman never bought into the illusion to begin with.
No suggestion.
No illusions.
No quarter.
They have lived no other way.
(nat)
Ah, the beauty in the recognition of complete understanding. Suddenly that smile, now feral-edged, reaches her eyes, long-lashed and feminine - a fan for the bladed. They gleam. "Tell me of yourself, Danya. I was told of your employment here and how to contact you." She pauses, and the smile widens, sharply amused. It now adds meaning to an otherwise neutral tone, "And of your uses. But not really your past and your self." Unspoken.
Your desire.
Your need.
Your ambition.
Your wants.
Does she expect them spilled out before her? Hardly. This kin was proving more Lord than the other she had met who would spend her life in the shadow of one. If he would show his teeth, she would take it to learn more. And perhaps that shows in the stance of her tall, slender body as she braces against the edge of the table, palms down across the surface waiting and calm. Even beyond the cool expression on her face, habitual descent like a shroud. Ready for him to penetrate should he prove perceptive enough, or choose not at all - should he hold his cards close. Much like they all do.
This philodox could be a gamble.
Or a damn sure thing… for the right one.
(danya)
"I am a chemist."
The phrase is dropped before her like a sacrifice - or a grenade.
It all depends on the receiving hands.
"Publically, that means I am the Senior Project and Research Chemist for Devlin Biotech, Inc. I specialize in analytical chemistry, biopharmeceutical chemistry, research and development, and materials science." The position rattled off just as it had been in countless meetings before, words practiced to the point rececitation is rote and the sounds are nothing more than hollow air. It is nothing more than a title. Meaningless without a validating scrap of paper. Meaningless to a Garou that has no concern for the tenets of social lift geared towards comforting the herded masses.
So easily, Danya steps up to the game's next level. For now. Now his ghosting smile solidifies into a more recognizable expression. Coy spark dancing in lagoon green eyes, almost playful. The labrat steps closer until he's standing just beside the semi-reclining Philodox. While his body moves in such way that not even a dangling lapel comes into contact with her finely tailored suit, it brings his lips within mere inches of her earlobe.
Invitation accepted.
"Privately, that means I have the equipment. The resources. And most importantly the ability to manufacture and provide whatever it is you could potentially request throughout the course of our alliance. Quickly. Efficiently. Anything from chemically enhanced weapons, explosives, poisons, narcotics....." Listing muse is punctuated by the first sense of humor the kinsman truly shows, indulgent laughter truncated to singular sound somewhere within his throat "..... even salt water taffy."
His presence draws away, now that the secret has been bestowed upon her intentions. "Given, of course, the proper time and incentive for such things. Whatever may develop beyond the obligation of lineage dictating my actions as a provisionary resource is purely a matter of continued negotiations."
Cool. Concise. Directly to the razor point.
"Do you agree that is reasonable?" Black brow lifting a notch to inquire of her satisfaction with his answer.
Who is challenging whom....
(nat)
Is it a challenge? Her mouth merely draws into a smirk, and she remains lounging where she is. Lets not mistake the predator - and this one certainly has no need to assert. So instead, lightly replied - "I'm sure if it was not, you would have hardly stopped there, hmm?" She may not know him? But there is much to be read in that body, in that look, and in the reflections she has seen in her life.
Then her eyes flicker, brows drawing slightly together as she goes back to a point that had her puzzled. "What is salt water taffy?" The last word is stumbled over in that Czech accent, minute confusion piercing the veil of her face for a moment.
(danya)
"And risk disappointing you?" The smile sharpens, finitely, for but a spread of heartbeats. "Our line has never been very tolerant of failure or weakness in any form."
Never let it be said Danya's ambition blinds his recognition of place. Predator's cousin is not so far a step away from prey should certain mistakes be made. How strange it must be to witness such submissive confidence. He plays his cards very well.
"It is a confectionary treat. Chewy at first but dissolves as sugar with time." His head cants, in query. "Would you like to try some at our next meeting?"
(nat)
"So informative," she murmurs, and it would almost be to him - at least, its loud enough to reach his ear - as she straightens from the table. Heedless of the fall of her jacket, the slight fall of her clothes: her body half-turns to the briefcase so her fingers can latch through its handle. Her eyes, however, drift back to the kin.
"And I am sure you will not prove to be a disappointment, Danya. Not if you are in truth how you are appear." She seldom reads the unspoken in others wrong. A skill refined and honed by a life in a tribe that sought weaknesses to strike. Again that edged smile, it mirrors the sharpening of his - as brief, as telling, as she confirms. "But you are right if I have it wrong."
Approaching him, he is so close in height to her brother that at such proximity her head tilts slightly back – so natural from long familiarity. Some may be intimidated by height, certainly her statuesque frame would do so to others, but the same can hardly be said for her and she is almost certain it would be a lack of emotion shared by the kin. "How good are you with numbers?" she asks.
An inch closer still, and her breath could fan, so close well within is she of his personal space. Yet the philodox seems unmindful of that fact, nothing on her face suggesting its his cowering she wants, nor the expectation to get it. Merely measuring.
(danya)
Some are intimidated by stature and height. Others respond to the pressure of rank. There are others yet, such as the kinsman Natasha straightens before, that require a different source of power alltogether before enough incentive builds to submit.
This is why Danya allows the trueborn Lord to approach within so small a distance she could rip out his throat before ending the very breath she expells upon it. Flinching not with his body, nor even the slightest deference of dark green gaze. "Better than you will require."
(nat)
"Good. Then remember this one." She tells him the number to her cellphone, smile flaring once more as her eyes read his, and fading only slightly to maintain that habitual polite as she walks away from him towards the door. "Though try not to make a habit of assuming my requirements, hmm? I will call you."
Dark are her eyes, gold-flecked like the lure of a tiger's eye stone. There may have been a time when the warmth those colours seemed to naturally imbue would be still more than superficial remnants in that gaze. As it is, when they glint at him - and it could be a shade of approval, assessment, or some other hidden emotion - they seem to spark with a memory of that time. But she would know that from this meeting Danya would understand her much better than that, and rely on it.
Hardly a sheep in wolves’ clothing.
Hardly just a mere wolf.
“And you must meet my brother.”
The door is opened and closed quietly behind her, the sound of her heels along the floor without muffled and soon fading.
[end]
Posted by danya at August 14, 2005 12:00 AM