Post by Christian Moynahan on Sept 7, 2014 1:59:44 GMT -5
this will be ours
‘cause we’re the concept
and we’re the flawed
and we’re the answer
-Chelsea Wolfe, “The Waves Have Come”
Kilvayne Research Center #69
Cocks Head, Virginia, USA
The laboratory was nearly completely quiet. Somewhere above, a hard September rain was falling, and when it drove harder Christian could hear it from where it was. Even that, however, was usually drowned out by Rachmaninoff’s Vespers, often called the All-Night Vigil, which was a fitting piece for Christian’s work. He could hardly tell it, but it was about six in the morning, and he had been there since five P.M. the day before. He had not eaten; he was feeding off the energy flowing through the florescent bulbs giving light to the room. He was coming to terms with his ability, and the fact that it would never be the same again.
In California, at his office in the Ark Industries headquarters, Christian had been studying the work of his researchers on the energy project, and, in reading it, had a breakthrough; he immediately went to one of the most private Kilvayne Corporation’s research facilities to test it out. The Kilvayne labs had more equipment regarding the project available to him, and was known to only a handful of people. Maurelle knew where he was, more or less, and could reach him by cell phone. Christian could work in peace.
Cocks Head, an island just off the coast of Virginia, had belonged to the Kilvaynes for some time, or so Christian understood it. A clerical error had led to the name. The lab itself was outstanding, with every comfort a scientist needed, and every tool a scientist needed. Christian hardly considered himself a scientist, but he had found that he had a mind for these things. Sometimes he thought of them himself, such as with Project Dreamscape; other times, he drew inspiration from his researchers’ work. He may have been a CEO, but he kept his duties to doing work like his staff and keeping track of where the corporation was headed; he left the paper-pushing to his secretaries.
The project he was currently working on had to do with using hydrogen as fuel. Not being a scientist had its advantages; he saw things from the outside as well as the inside. His idea was to draw hydrogen from water. But how? It was not as simple as he had imagined; his first idea had failed, as had his second idea, and third, and fourth… Christian had no idea how many revisions he had made so far.
He was using a custom-built motor. It was the motor that was giving him trouble. He had to keep removing and changing out parts in order to make it work. He also had to make sure it was reasonably easy to use, and not give off any harmful byproducts.
He was the perfect man for that, he thought. Ever since the trouble at the National Mall, he had found himself impervious to many toxins. This was likely because there were toxins within him. They were quiet things, the toxins. They never truly revealed themselves until he tried to exercise his ability, at which point they decided to punish him with a major shock of paresthesia through his arm. He was still going through rehabilitation with Marshall. It was not easy going.
He ran his hands through his curly black hair. If he kept going like this, he was going to end up as frail as he had been during his fight to cure the cholera crisis, he thought. It was an exaggeration - he had spent weeks in a lab that time - but he decided to go upstairs for a break and perhaps a protein bar, at least after Vespers had finished. It was rude to stop classical music in progress.
Christian liked many types of music - from rock to rap and back again - but when he was in the lab, it was always classical music. It kept him focused; it played in the back of his mind while he worked. And so he kept working, jotting down quick notes on his repeated failures until the last movement of the classical work was concluded.
Upstairs, he found that the sun was rising. Pushing open a door, he stepped outside and breathed in. The air here was relatively clear. Relative, surely, to that of Los Angeles. Closing his eyes, he took in the sounds of the birds and the wind rustling his hair, and the feel of the first morning rays warming his pale skin. Then, far more relaxed and refreshed, he went back inside.
Returning to the lab with that protein bar, he ate “breakfast” and then set his mp3 player to a new piece. This time he chose an orchestral work, Tyberg’s Symphony No. 3. It matched the sunrise well. Meanwhile, he set back to work on the motor.
Checking his first notes, he wondered whether he had made a completely wrong turn from the beginning. He was thinking as a propulsion engineer. He had been one, in Texas, before being chosen as Ark’s replacement CEO. He needed to think… smaller. Consumer goods. Well, business-to-business goods, but the sort that would wind up being part of a consumer’s daily life. He wanted a hydrogen-powered car, and he wanted to draw the hydrogen from water. It was not impossible; nothing was, to him.
He drew up new schematics based on the original one he had made, based on his researchers’ work. Then he completely disassembled the model he had been working on. This time, after completely rewriting his equations, he put the parts - or some of them - together and realized he would need something else. Yet it was still early in the morning; he let himself lie down and take a nap.
When he awoke, the lab was silent. He checked his phone. 8:07 A.M.. He put his mp3 player in his pocket and started the Tyberg symphony again, then walked to the nearest automotive shop his phone had located. This required him to cross a small, gated bridge. What went on in the Cocks Head laboratory was no one’s business.
It was a small matter. Christian purchased the parts he needed and returned to the lab. There was a slight delay in that the manager of the shop recognized him - after all, he was the head of a hugely divisive corporation, yet also Time’s Person of the Year. But once he was out of that conversation, he made all haste back to the lab. An idea was forming in his mind.
This time, he altered the schematics a bit and made a few changes to the model. Finally, he fed a bit of water into the motor, and it came to life.
It was not that simple, of course. He tested for unwanted toxins. He measured the amount of oxygen expelled. He tested for every security matter he could think of, and found everything to be satisfactory. He had a working motor that could run on water.
Christian allowed himself to collapse into a chair. “Mi daza,” he murmured, closing his eyes. The whirring of the motor filled his ears. He would have to contact Lucius as soon as he could to tell him about this new development.
But he would simply enjoy the moment for now.
In California, at his office in the Ark Industries headquarters, Christian had been studying the work of his researchers on the energy project, and, in reading it, had a breakthrough; he immediately went to one of the most private Kilvayne Corporation’s research facilities to test it out. The Kilvayne labs had more equipment regarding the project available to him, and was known to only a handful of people. Maurelle knew where he was, more or less, and could reach him by cell phone. Christian could work in peace.
Cocks Head, an island just off the coast of Virginia, had belonged to the Kilvaynes for some time, or so Christian understood it. A clerical error had led to the name. The lab itself was outstanding, with every comfort a scientist needed, and every tool a scientist needed. Christian hardly considered himself a scientist, but he had found that he had a mind for these things. Sometimes he thought of them himself, such as with Project Dreamscape; other times, he drew inspiration from his researchers’ work. He may have been a CEO, but he kept his duties to doing work like his staff and keeping track of where the corporation was headed; he left the paper-pushing to his secretaries.
The project he was currently working on had to do with using hydrogen as fuel. Not being a scientist had its advantages; he saw things from the outside as well as the inside. His idea was to draw hydrogen from water. But how? It was not as simple as he had imagined; his first idea had failed, as had his second idea, and third, and fourth… Christian had no idea how many revisions he had made so far.
He was using a custom-built motor. It was the motor that was giving him trouble. He had to keep removing and changing out parts in order to make it work. He also had to make sure it was reasonably easy to use, and not give off any harmful byproducts.
He was the perfect man for that, he thought. Ever since the trouble at the National Mall, he had found himself impervious to many toxins. This was likely because there were toxins within him. They were quiet things, the toxins. They never truly revealed themselves until he tried to exercise his ability, at which point they decided to punish him with a major shock of paresthesia through his arm. He was still going through rehabilitation with Marshall. It was not easy going.
He ran his hands through his curly black hair. If he kept going like this, he was going to end up as frail as he had been during his fight to cure the cholera crisis, he thought. It was an exaggeration - he had spent weeks in a lab that time - but he decided to go upstairs for a break and perhaps a protein bar, at least after Vespers had finished. It was rude to stop classical music in progress.
Christian liked many types of music - from rock to rap and back again - but when he was in the lab, it was always classical music. It kept him focused; it played in the back of his mind while he worked. And so he kept working, jotting down quick notes on his repeated failures until the last movement of the classical work was concluded.
Upstairs, he found that the sun was rising. Pushing open a door, he stepped outside and breathed in. The air here was relatively clear. Relative, surely, to that of Los Angeles. Closing his eyes, he took in the sounds of the birds and the wind rustling his hair, and the feel of the first morning rays warming his pale skin. Then, far more relaxed and refreshed, he went back inside.
Returning to the lab with that protein bar, he ate “breakfast” and then set his mp3 player to a new piece. This time he chose an orchestral work, Tyberg’s Symphony No. 3. It matched the sunrise well. Meanwhile, he set back to work on the motor.
Checking his first notes, he wondered whether he had made a completely wrong turn from the beginning. He was thinking as a propulsion engineer. He had been one, in Texas, before being chosen as Ark’s replacement CEO. He needed to think… smaller. Consumer goods. Well, business-to-business goods, but the sort that would wind up being part of a consumer’s daily life. He wanted a hydrogen-powered car, and he wanted to draw the hydrogen from water. It was not impossible; nothing was, to him.
He drew up new schematics based on the original one he had made, based on his researchers’ work. Then he completely disassembled the model he had been working on. This time, after completely rewriting his equations, he put the parts - or some of them - together and realized he would need something else. Yet it was still early in the morning; he let himself lie down and take a nap.
When he awoke, the lab was silent. He checked his phone. 8:07 A.M.. He put his mp3 player in his pocket and started the Tyberg symphony again, then walked to the nearest automotive shop his phone had located. This required him to cross a small, gated bridge. What went on in the Cocks Head laboratory was no one’s business.
It was a small matter. Christian purchased the parts he needed and returned to the lab. There was a slight delay in that the manager of the shop recognized him - after all, he was the head of a hugely divisive corporation, yet also Time’s Person of the Year. But once he was out of that conversation, he made all haste back to the lab. An idea was forming in his mind.
This time, he altered the schematics a bit and made a few changes to the model. Finally, he fed a bit of water into the motor, and it came to life.
It was not that simple, of course. He tested for unwanted toxins. He measured the amount of oxygen expelled. He tested for every security matter he could think of, and found everything to be satisfactory. He had a working motor that could run on water.
Christian allowed himself to collapse into a chair. “Mi daza,” he murmured, closing his eyes. The whirring of the motor filled his ears. He would have to contact Lucius as soon as he could to tell him about this new development.
But he would simply enjoy the moment for now.
*Mi daza - Irish; "excellent, brilliant, fantastic"
