Participants:
| Scene Title | The Wretched |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Doctor Alison Meier's search for the Formula forces her hand, and she takes a desperate action in the hopes of securing her own future. |
| Date | June 3, 2009 |
Pinehearst Headquarters, Basement Level 4 – Doctor Meier's Office
Shaking hands settle down from a sweat-covered brow, tiny droplets of blood exuded through open pores mixing with sweat in a stinging and painful affliction. Trembling fingers move down to a plastic case, opening it to reveal a pair of syringes, one taken out and cap removed between gnashing teeth, spit out carelessly to the floor. A pallid arm is bared by rolling up a sleeve.
The needle finds its way home, pressed into such a familiar sting as a bitter warmth spreads up through her arm with each beat of her heart as the plunger depresses. Doctor Alison Meier exhales a shuttering breath through her clenched teeth, eyes forced shut as her fingers spasm on the injected arm. A dry swallow comes next, and the needle is discarded into the red plastic wastebasket bearing a biohazard symbol.
Her chest rises and falls as breathing begins to regulate, eyes blearily settling on the other needle, as the process is immediately repeated, a second needle joining the vein and a second syringe joining its twin in the medical waste. Her eyes fall shut, fingers clenched into a fist on both hands as the throbbing behind her eyes finally stops, as the tingling, burning sensation beneath her skin eases, and the twisting knots in her stomach ease.
When her eyes open, she blinks away tears of fear and pain that come together as they always do. Her breathing hastens, and her eyes divert to the computer screen nearby, displaying one half of a formula, one half of a key to a normal life. Swallowing loudly, Alison rolls down her sleeves and wheels the chair closer to the monitor. Her tongue wets her lips, and she looks down to a metal case set next to the computer. Her brows furrow, fingers tremble, and then quickly move down to snatch the case up greedily between prickling fingertips.
Pinehearst Headquarters, Basement Level 4 – Research Room 12.
It's only when his door opens for the first time since breakfast that Doctor Zimmerman lowers his newspaper, folding it in half around the business section, laying it flat on the table with the headline A Cure for the Evolved on the way? written in bold text. A studious look is given to Doctor Meier and her orderlies as the trio comes walking into the room, and the old scientist cracks a confident smile. "Have you come to ask me what I would prefer for lunch, Ali? Perhaps you could let me out of my—"
"Restrain him." Alison growls out, and the orderlies stride across the room to Zimmerman's position, causing the doctor to bolt up out of his chair and flash a suddenly concerned look to the younger doctor giving the orders. Both hands fly up as the orderlies wrestle the doctor down to the table with a slam of his back against the Formica top.
Winded, Zimmerman's gasping pleas sound even more pathetic. "D— Doctor Meier," he demands in a rough tome of voice, his eastern European accent far stronger now. "Do not—don't act so hasty—whatever it is you wish to speak to me about—you don't need to do this!"
Alison looks down at Zimmerman with such conflict, a turbulent look of both trust and loathing filling her eyes as her brows slowly lower, and everything blends into nothing but rage. She removes the metal case from her jacket, popping it open to withdraw a syringe, tearing the cap off with her teeth from the cooled case, spitting it across the floor.
"Alison." Zimmerman practically groans her name as the orderlies push his arms down to the table, the other turning his head forcibly to the side, "Good God Alison what are you doing? Doctor Meier! Ali!" His words fall on deaf ears, all Alison can hear is the rushing of blood in them and the irregular beat of her own mutated heart.
The syringe drives into the side of Zimmerman's neck, plunger depressing hard and fast as she leans in, purring out a violent threat mixed with a tone of sweetness. "«I'm motivating you.»" Alison's German is her first language, and it shows with the grace that those barbed tones are delivered with, her breath hot on the side of the old man's face as he feels that seething hot pain shooting into his veins.
"«Now you know.»" Alison growls out, pulling the syringe from his artery to fall on the floor, "«This is what it feels like.»" Blood pulses through Zimmerman's veins, followed by an almost immediate wracking sensation from Alison's skin contact to his neck with her cheek. Her ability twists, bends and knots his genetic structure like a cat playing with a ball of yarn.
Lips pull back to reveal all-too-white teeth, and Alison's lips draw back into a feral expression as all Zimmerman can do is howl in pain as he writhes around on the table, thrashing in agony. The orderlies jerk back, letting him go as they feel an unusual warmth to his skin, wary eyes falling on doctor Meier.
Panting with heavy breaths, Alison licks her lips, teeth pressing together afterwards as she grimaces in the agonized doctor's direction. "Welcome to my world, Doctor Zimmerman." Her head cants to one side, "You have twenty-four hours to give me everything you know about the Formula, before your cells begin to degenerate and rupture." Her eyes grow wide, wild and mad.
Clutching his sides, Zimmerman hunches forward and breathes out a pained breath as he curls into a fetal position on the table. Alison's eyes follow his wracked motions, and her head tilts up, pupils merely pinpoints as she watches him contort in shared agony with her. "I used to respect you, I worshipped the ground you walked on…" One of Alison's brows twitch, and she turns her back on the doctor, shoulders tensed.
"Now the Formula is your only chance for a future as well, doctor Zimmerman." The orderlies watch on with confused, terrified expressions before backing away from Zimmerman to follow in line with Alison as she makes her way towards the research room's door. "Take your time and think things through," she murmurs, "But don't take too long."
"I don't want to make these men have to mop your remains up off the floor."