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“Another for you,” Winston’s ability to be gruff yet cheery was on full-display as he entered the lab, carting a whole dolly’s worth of boxes below one massive arm, and his smile was as large as he, if a bit apologetic.
Moira lifted her eyes slowly from the microtubes she was working with. Could she have looked up without glaring daggers in her supervisor’s direction? Possibly. But she didn’t have the inclination to do so. She watched as he slid the boxes onto the bit of empty counterspace she had left for “receiving” these shipments; she’d get them into the minus eighty after she’d finished this rack.
He’s your boss, don’t make a scene.
A boss for a job I don’t even want at this rate?
“You know,” Moira said quietly, her voice still carrying across the quiet laboratory, “If all Overwatch had for me was grunt work they could have hired an undergrad lab tech for a fraction of my salary.”
Winston dipped his head slightly, a sign of apology and empathy. He understood Dr. O’Deorain’s frustration—afterall, if he’d been brought on to make batteries out of pickles and potatoes he’d not feel much different than she, and she had in the past told him that’s exactly how she felt processing these specimens each week.
“I understand, Dr. O’Deorain,” he assured her, taking a short, heavy step toward her, and he sighed as he motioned back to the cases, “But you know these are . . . a special project for Command. It can’t be handled by any but the best!” He flashed a big, toothy smile to her in hopes the compliment might lighten the mood.
It did not.
He sighed again, finding it difficult to meet her piercing gaze. The way she’d stopped with the pipette raised was somewhat resemblant of an angry woman holding a knife, he noted, and he decided not to step any closer, “I know you feel, ah, under-utilized—”
“Under-utilized does not begin to describe it,” Moira huffed, turning her attention finally back down to her micropipetteing, “Constantly genotyping sample after sample, and for what? What? Some . . . genetic epidemiological research? An observational study I’m not even allowed to know about?” Moira huffed and ejected a pipette tip. She dropped the pipette on the table and stood, rounding the bench quickly and breezing past Winston to grab one of the boxes, “Grunt work.”
As she made her way to the minus eighty Winston followed, “I’d tell you if I knew, Doctor,” he assured her, “But even I don’t know. All we know is that An—Commanders Amari and Morrison consider this project of paramount importance to Overwatc—”
“Which is why we don’t talk about it in staff meetings,” Moira interrupted pointedly as she jerked the freezer door open, causing a rush of freezing mist to billow out. Truth be told she didn’t even think this conversation had a point anymore—She’d aired her grievances to Winston before and he had empathetically listened, and here they were again. Maybe it was just nice having someone to listen to her describe the indignation from time to time.
She opened the box she had placed at her feet. The contents were the same as the others, the same as every shipment she’d received since her date of hire. Racks and racks of microtubes of saliva and whole blood, each numbered and dated, all frozen but dangerously close to thawing by the time they’d made their way here.
“It’s fine,” She finally mumbled quietly, beginning to place the racks onto the sliding tray. She may have wanted to vent, but antagonizing Winston wasn’t going to help. She looked up then, still crouched over the racks and gestured to the near-empty freezer beside her, “It’s not as though it takes much time. In fact, I can usually process them all in a day or so, leaving ample time to work on my own proj—”
Winston held up a large, hairy hand and dipped his head apologetically once more, “Again, Dr. O’Deorain, while these samples are a priority we have no problems with you working on additional research that might be of assistance to Overwatch. You’ll just need to receive institutional approval, oversight, and have your budget approved—”
There’s no point in having this conversation again.
“I’ve submitted another budget proposal,” Moira said quietly. She knew it wouldn’t be approved, but it seemed an amenable way to end the conversation. The smile she turned to Winston was forced, “So let’s hope.”
“Let’s hope!” Winston’s demeanor changed suddenly as he cheerily chimed in, glad the air in the room suddenly wasn’t so stifling.
Moira suffered through the socially-acceptable pleasantries—Did she need more help with getting the samples into the freezer? No, thank you. Was there anything else Winston could do for her? No, thank you, she’ll be fine. Let Winston know if anything else is needed. Of course, thank you.
As the door slid shut behind him Moira welcomed the silence. She didn’t dislike Winston, he was kind enough and extremely intelligent. Not to mention he was a walking, talking example of the power of genetics research. But she couldn’t find herself to not be frustrated in his presence—After all, he was her liaison, the one who delivered the manifests and the samples for this damned chore.
She slid the final tray of racks into the freezer just in time for it to begin beeping it’s temperature alerts to her, and she pushed it closed with a loud click from the device and a loud sigh from Moira. She returned to her bench, picking up her pipette again.
This was her life. Receive the samples. Thaw the samples. Aliquot the samples. Genotype the samples. Check samples for signs of disease or defect. Report back. Receive more samples next week. It was simple, if mind-numbing. The first few weeks she’d found some fun in it by trying to guess the nature of this project itself—What population were these samples even being drawn from? Somewhere in the Americas, she’d deduced, based on ancestry markers. Mostly men, though some women. Often family units, but some individuals. Their genetic predisposition to this or that wasn’t consistent across racks, shipment, or the entire sample. Even probands could show wildly different traits than some family members in a way that Moira originally found fascinating.
But now it was simply tedious. She’d tried originally to gain approval for her own side research—she has several ideas she’d like to investigate. But they all made it only so far. After all, genetics fell under medical research, which meant her research fell under the purview of the head of the medical department, Dr. Ziegler.
To say Ziegler hadn’t seemed enthusiastic at her interview would be an understatement, and time and time again Moira’s proposals came back with denials. She kept trying, though, trying to tweak the methods or the aims to be more acceptable to the perfect angels upstairs. So far she’d found no luck.
She capped the final tube, tossed her gloves away, and set about placing the racks back into the freezer. Once the PCR was running smoothly she looked forlornly about the lab. Bit of a mess, she could clean. Or she could thaw another rack, it should be thawed and ready to go by the time this round was done.
She felt a sense of pride as she instead picked up an old paperback novel sitting on the bench where she’d left it. A small act of protest, she surmised, as she dragged a stool to the bench and began to read.
How much time had passed? The PCR was done, it seemed. But that wasn’t what drew Moira’s attention from her book as she looked at the small intercom in front of her. It had beeped. It never beeped. Only Winston came here, and he had already been here today . . .
She’d nearly forgotten to respond, but finally reached out and pressed the button, “Y-yes? What is it?”
“Dr. O’Deorain?” The voice from the speaker responded, “It’s Angela Ziegler, do you have a moment to speak with me.”
Moira’s heart beat faster, and a fleeting thought that perhaps Ziegler could read minds and had sensed Moira mentally complaining about her earlier had brought her here. She pushed the frivolous thought from her mind. Perhaps she was to be scolded for sending so many dead-end proposals?
“If this is about the lab budget, I included a rationale for every expense on the second sheet of the workbook,” Moira pre-empted the argument.
“N-no,” Ziegler stuttered, undoubtedly having had the wind taken out of her sails, “This is about a personal matter.”
What does that mean?
Moira stared at the intercom with consternation. What did that mean? Ziegler never even bothered to respond to Moira’s appeals on her proposals, just having some underling from medical send a form letter of denial. What on earth could a personal matter be from Ziegler of all people?
She’s probably here to fire you.
But didn’t she sound sort of nervous? If she’s nervous . . . she wants something? Moira’s mind was racing as stared incredulously at the intercom speaker, playing through ever possible scenario, She wants to use the Anaprep? No, that’s not serious enough to be considered a personal matter. Collaborate on research? Hardly, we don’t even do similar work. She wants something? Something personal?
And suddenly, finally it occurred to Moira, She’s asking you for a favor. This is it, this is your in. She took a deep breath, rolled her shoulders, and hit the door release, Just act natural.