2008-04-04: Origin Project


Logan_icon.gif Shannon_icon.gif

Summary: "All sins have their origin in a sense of inferiority otherwise called ambition."

Date It Happened: April 04, 2008

Origin Project

Fort Lee, NJ - Labs - Pinehearst Research

There are offices, upstairs. A beehive of men and women in powersuits, of secretaries and PAs, and of course schedule coordinators. Meetings between CEOs, politicians, and everything in between. It's a different world, a corporate world, to the labs of other floors, where scientists can quietly do their work, send reports, and those more talented in dealing with the executives that need translations can write out the data into shiny reports, PowerPoint presentations, and graphs, and never have to worry about mingling with the people who, in a way, actually do the work.

Which why it might draw attention when the son of Pinehearst's CEO is swiping his all-access-for-everything keycard through the lock, the light turning green, that means go, and heading inside the main laboratory, pretty much unannounced. In a slate gray suit with a blue shirt and a tie to compliment both, Logan himself is of no surprise in appearance, a file held slackly in his hand and absently tapping his leg as he sweeps his gaze across the pristine, alien space of the labs.

Something is out of place in the lab today, which means that the person on duty is a little different than most people. For one, there's music. The kind of music people would expect to hear in a dance club and not a science labratory. One of the doctors on duty also happens to be dancing slightly, swaying her hips, short black hair swishing from side to side as she moves to the beat. A pen taps against a clipboard as results scroll along on a screen. Trial 2% solution. 1/10th pint blood transfusion.

2718 __
2719 __
2720 __
2721 __
2722 __

Double checking the numbers and the results, she sways a bit more, until one of the other labcoats coughs to the side, causing her to turn in the direction of the door. Oh. CEO son. With her pen, she taps the keyboard of one of the computers, and the music shuts off.

"Sorry— uh— Senator Petrelli. Welcome." On her labcoat a ID badge ids her as Dr. Shannon Goode. Pinehearst Doctor working for the greater good?

The music doesn't seem to bother the politician - in fact, it's a guiding help, turning his head towards the computer and the younger woman nearby, the corner of his mouth lifting in a vaguely amused smirk before it disappears again, walking on over as the house music cuts out. He swaps the file from one hand to the next so he can extend the appropriate one for a curt handshake. "Dr. Goode," Logan says, a glance at her nametag later, nodding once. "Just who I was looking for. I was told you're one of our lead researchers on the Origin Project." Not the most scientific of names, but it sounds good in pitches, and really, that's the only part Logan has to worry about and vouch for. Or so it should be.

The pen gets shoved into her labcoat pocket so Shannon can reach out and shake his hand, a little awkwardly. Interactions with people aren't her strong suit, from the way she doesn't quite look at him, and focuses on minor details. For the moment it seems like she's looking at his suit more than him, how neat and clean it is, how well cut. How proper. "Of course, uh… nice to meet you finally." That awkwardness comes across in her voice. "I didn't vote for you, but seem to be doing a good job." …wait, that wasn't appropriate at all. She releases his hand while the lab techs avoid eye contact. They do not know the crazy doctor who doesn't know how to talk to people. "What did you need to see me for?"

"Thank you." Appropriate statement or not, that's the response she gets, politely if dismissively delivered. Logan retracts his hand, slips both into the pockets of his jacket with the file he had carried down with him clamped casually under an arm. "I was interested in the work going on down here," he says, a glance towards the lab techs with their heads ducked and finding whatever data they're collecting to be incredibly interesting. "How everything is progressing with the project, what with so many things hinging on it. And all."

Like his credibility, his career, his ticket to Presidency, little things like that. Back alley deals with other congressmen and senators, government officials and military men. This would be so much easier without all the science involved. "Maybe you can tell me a bit about the progress being made."

"The numbers were pretty dismal for the first couple of trials, no matter what percentage we used," Shannon admits, going straight to business in a deadpan voice that seems far more comfortable. She sprouts off some scientific talk about the formula amounts, the additives that they included in each sample, but it doesn't take her long to realize what she's saying means absolutely nothing to the lawyer/politican who probably didn't do much in science.

"The newest trial is going a little better, though. Still nothing stable, but adding in a blood transfusion, from our personal stock seems to have staved off the more dangerous side effects, at least at the lowest possible percentage of the formula." Picking up her pen, she turns her clipboard around. "Two percent. We're still not seeing the expected results… uh— no increased reflexes or anything noticable really, but they're not…" What is the right word for this? "…Dead."

"So to sum up, the Formula doesn't kill people." Logan's chest rises and falls a fraction deeper with a sigh, and a fleeting, strained smile that doesn't have a chance at reaching brown eyes that study her without feeling. "Great." Save for, maybe, the lines at his eyes deepening in politely restrained irritation.

That file, something sealed in translucent file, is taken back into his hands and opened briskly, flicked through. "These are the last several progress report," Logan says, letting the pages fan by, brown furrowed as if he were reading the data. "And I'm reasonably sure we signed off on using the adrenaline-based drug— Ambrosia, we're calling it upstairs— for testing quite some time ago. I'm not seeing it or am I missing it, Dr. Goode?"

"We did, but— " Shannon paces a little away as she taps the end of her pen against the clipboard. There's a pause, she looks at the lab techs for assistance. They seem far more interested in their computer screens. "I wanted to get a stable test before adding that in, Senator." She looks back at her clipboard. The fairly successful test, at least in terms of not having big Xs next to the numbers.

Science tells her to wait. Politics tells her to hurry. And he's got a lot more presense than she does.

There's a dull sound to her voice. "Maybe this test group could be the one we test it on. Two percent formula, test group seven, no casualties so far… I need to figure out the dosage, and how often they'd need to be injected. But… we could start the additional treatment now."

Turns out that if you want something done, all you have to do is arrive and look important. Of course, Logan knows that already. That's half the job of politics. He rewards Shannon's good behaviour with a smile, closing the file with a soft and airy rustle of paper. "We need results," he says, taking a couple of steps forward to make up for her having paced away. "We need results if we want more than this to be our personal basement science project and nothing more. Do the additional treatment."

A smarmy smile. It doesn't take the socially adept to recognize that. Shannon doesn't step back any further as she looks at the rustling paper and the smile that he's giving her. "All right. I'll start the treatment on three subjects and then expand it beyond that once we get clear results…" The others will act as a control group, just like there's a bunch of people sitting in a room thinking they should become special and they just happen to be on the Zero percent version of the injection.

Done and done. The smile is quick to go once Shannon agrees, Logan only nodding once in satisfaction, setting the file down on the nearest flat surface for a moment as he then tucks his hand into his jacket, searching the inner pocket for something. "I have a request, also." What he extracts is a simple scientific glass vial, filled with what could easily be water from its thinness and lack of colour, but likely, is not. He pinches it between fingers, offers it out. "Not that you don't have enough on your plate, Dr. Goode, but I needed you to tell me…" He falters, for a moment, thoughtful as to his phrase, before simply finishing with, "What this is."

The vial is produced, and Shannon raises her eyebrows. "Clear liquid in a vial," she says stoicly at first, deadpan. Obviously not the answer to the question that the man wants. There's nothing resembling a joke in her voice, though, as she stuffs the pen away again and holds out her hand. "I'll need to examine it— figure out the chemical composition. What do you want? Just what it's made of?"

The vial is placed in her open palm, and Logan nods once. "It's one of two samples currently in my possession," he says. "No more and no less. All I need is your expert opinion on what that clear liquid is, specifically speaking. Then we can proceed for there." He picks up the file, turning to head for the exit even as he continues to speak. "If you can keep your documentation classified, that would be ideal. And remember the Origins Project is still your priority, Dr. Goode."

"Of course," Shannon says, without even really pausing. She moves away to open up a locked storage unit, with a number keycode, moves to label it so she can put it inside. "I'll file it under a classified project. And get to it when I have time between tests of the Origins Project." The good thing about science… it always takes time. Between Origins experiments and letting the machines play through the vial she's been given, it could take a while, but the tests could run simultaneously in many cases. "How do you want me to contact you when I'm done? Call your office?"

There's a soft beep as Logan swipes his keycard through the lock, a sound of vacuum and pressure as the door slides open. He glances over his shoulder at Shannon, and says, "Sure. Or come visit, we can do it face to face." That would go better with a smarmy smile, but the glass door is already hissing shut behind him, and he's well on his way down the hall.

"I'll … probably call your office," Shannon says as the glass door closes behind him. He probably didn't hear that part, but she says it anyway. With the label taped onto the vial, and it locked away in a private storage unit, she looks up at the technitions. "You heard the man. We have a test to run. Get the ambrosia out of storage and move it to testing room seven. I'll administer the first injections." All business, business she can handle. "I hope to see check marks on this clipboard by the time we're done." Cause Xs are getting rather old right now.

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