[pseudoclever]

Chapter 3

Zayne and Bella came to work well together. At first they didn't know quite how to react to each other, and their conversation was forced and awkward. Eventually they were both able to relax, and a budding friendship began to develop between them. This was in spite of the fact that they could only talk for about ten minutes out of every hour, while Zayne was unloading test tubes from the machine. The rest of the time the room was far too loud.

Zayne found himself coming to look forward to these little bursts of socialization more and more with each passing day. Bella was a fascinating woman, and he loved to listen to her talk - provided she didn’t lapse into her complicated mode of speech too often. But it always seemed that, just when things were really starting to get interesting, Zayne would come to the last vial. Whenever this happened, he would shut the centrifuge door, and once again the room would be filled with noise.

After the machine was online again, he would return to his desk in the corner of the room and pull out his sketchpad. Letting his thoughts wander, he would draw whatever came to mind. And every day, it was always the same thing – circles. They were fairly nice, as circles went, but he wished he knew why he was drawing them, and what they meant.

When Bella had finished running her tests, she would come over to his side of the room and pay him a visit. Although it was too loud for them to talk comfortably, what she had to say could be communicated with one gesture. Either a thumbs up, meaning he should load the batch of serum into the refrigerator, or a thumbs down to let him know there had been another failure. Sometimes, if he didn't observe her approach, she would gently place her hand on his upper arm to get his attention.

Zayne was becoming much less observant lately.

The Friday after she had been hired, the two of them were passing the time, chatting away idly. Things were going great, until Zayne quite unexpectedly ran out of things to say. Grasping for a topic of conversation, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Hey, just out of curiosity...what does this stuff we’re making DO, anyway?”

Bella stopped what she had been doing, and turned to look at him critically. “How long have you been working here?” she said.

“Ah, three months or so. Why, what does that have to do with anything?”

“And you’re just NOW asking that question? You haven't wondered about what all these vials you've been unloading are FOR?” She rolled her eyes. “I guess it's just a paycheck to some people.”

“Hey, that's not fair,” Zayne protested, trying to keep the indignity out of his voice. “It just hasn't come up before, that’s all. Besides, until a week ago I was here by myself every night, with no one to ask. Well, there's the security guard, but I doubt he'd know anyway.”

Bella seemed to consider this for a moment, pursing her lips. “Alright, I suppose you have a point,” she said. “I'll save you the grief. You really want to know?”

He nodded, putting down the test tube he had been holding and giving her his full attention.

“Okay. Well first, have you ever heard of a condition called Turner's Syndrome?”

“I...it sounds familiar. Maybe I saw a special about it or something when I was a kid. Isn't it some kind of disorder that keeps people from growing up? Like, in Peter Pan?”

“Close. It happens when someone – specifically a female – is born missing a chromosome. Most girls have two X's, you see. But women with Turner's Syndrome have only one. There are quite a few negative consequences, as you might imagine. Heart problems, diabetes. And they tend to be...short, and to not develop secondary sexual characteristics.”

The way she paused before the word ‘short’ caught his attention. Zayne had enough tact not to investigate the matter further. “So what? Does this stuff fix the problem by giving them an extra chromosome?” he said instead.

“Ah, if I remember, it's actually way simpler than that. Hold on, I have the brochure here somewhere.”

“Brochure?” he asked incredulously. “The drug has a BROCHURE?”

“You better believe it,” she answered, digging through her handbag. “The pharmaceutical industry is ALL about making money. You get doctors to prescribe it, you get parents of children with the disorder to ask for it, whatever. That's capitalism, kid. Ah-ha!” she pulled out a crumpled pamphlet, holding it up triumphantly.

Bella began to read, her voice comically puffy and official. “PT-2715 is a breakthrough drug currently in development by the good people at Palladian Technologies. It is intended to treat the developmental symptoms most often associated with Turner's Syndrome, as well as late onset maturity in females due to genetic and other factors.

“Taking advantage of cutting edge research in neuroscience, PT-2715 acts upon GnRH receptor sites in the brain, using non-competitive enzymatic action to cause rapid hormone release. In addition, the medication separately targets each organ in the endocrine system, allowing for quick uptake and utilization by the body. The result is the stimulation of the natural growth and development process in females, safely, reliably, and several hundred times faster than by any other method currently available. Side effects include blah blah blah, yachety-schmackety.” Bella snorted in disgust, and threw the document down on the table.

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” she sneered. “It isn't actually a CURE. It's just a band-aid. A twenty-dollar-a-pill, non-insurance-covered band-aid. Well, doesn't THAT just brighten my day.”

“At least it's something,” Zayne said, his voice barely above a whisper. He had never seen Bella angry before, and until then hadn't even considered it a possibility.

“Something?! Yeah, it's something alright! 'Don't fret ladies. You'll still have a terminal heart condition, hypothyroidism and be on kidney dialysis before your sixteenth birthday. But at least now you'll have BOOBS!'” She glared at him, daring him to disagree.

“I'll admit, this isn't anything close to the answer these people must be hoping for,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “But it's....” He struggled, trying to find the words. “…morphine.”

Her scowl dissolved into a look of begrudging curiosity. “What?”

“Have you ever had someone you were close to die? I mean, from a long drawn out illness, or old age. Not something sudden.”

She thought about it for a moment. “There aren’t that many…no, no I haven’t. Why, where are you going with this?”

“When I was eight, maybe nine years old, my grandmother got sick. I loved her. She was always so nice to me. Baked me cookies when I came to visit, took me to the movies. Nothing special, you know, grandma stuff. But it means a lot when you’re so young.

“Anyway, she had lung cancer. It was all those years of smoking, I suppose. To this day, whenever I smell Benson and Hedges Menthol, I think of her. My parents didn’t bother explaining the situation to me, not until I was much older. She was in her late eighties, and at that age there’s really no fighting against any serious kind of cancer. If it doesn’t kill you, the chemo will. So the doctors put her on a morphine drip. Put a button right in her hand, and if she was hurting she could press it and get a fix. It…made her comfortable. She got a few more weeks to be with her family, and then….” He trailed off, trying to keep some distance between himself and the memory.

“When they give you control of the morphine like that, they have a reason. You’re going to die soon enough anyway, and if you want, you can just keep pressing that button until your heart stops. That’s what happened.

“So, this is what I’m getting at,” he said, smiling at her unconvincingly. “Let’s say you’re one of these girls with Turner’s Syndrome. You know you’re going to die one way or another, probably soon. And there’s no real treatment. If it bothers you, looking like a little kid, at least you can do something about THAT. Maybe, I don’t know, have some fun before you go. That sounds stupid, but….” He flailed for a way to bring his point home.

“I understand what you're getting at,” she said slowly. “And I'm sorry about your grandmother. But with all due respect, it's really not the same thing. There's a huge difference between intense physical agony, and just being under-developed. God, what the company is trying to DO with this snake oil!” She stamped her foot angrily.

“Jesus, calm down,” he snapped. “Why the hell are you taking this so personal?” The moment the words left his mouth he knew the answer, and he wished he had known when to shut up.

“Isn’t it obvious? Look at me!” She waved her hands over her slight frame. “I’m practically a fucking midget. I’ve got next to no curves, and when I go bra shopping I have to head straight to the pre-teen section. They're trying to treat a condition that is essentially ME!”

“But wait a second. The description of the drug said that it works on women who haven’t matured for reasons other than Turner’s Syndrome. You could take it if you wanted.”

Bella’s eyes flashed, and the word 'hellfire' came unbidden to Zayne’s mind. “No, you don’t get it! There’s nothing wrong with me! I'm perfectly...I'm....” She sputtered incoherently for a moment, too overcome with rage to speak.

It took her only a fraction of a second to compose herself. “It has become painfully obvious that this conversation has become unprofitable, Mr. Williams,” she said, her voice empty of all emotion. “I suggest you complete your task, which has already remained unattended for far longer than is advisable. I will do the same. If I have need of your services, I will call for you.”

The clinical language again. It had been days since she had felt it necessary to bring that out against him.

He sighed. “If that's what you want. Let me know if I should load this batch.” She didn't respond. He went back to work, and finished emptying the centrifuge. Zayne closed the door, glad that its reassuring hum would soon blot out the oppressive silence that had filled the room. Slowly, he made his way back to his desk. He picked up his pencil, and sat for a long time tapping it rhythmically against the pad.

It seemed that the last thing on his mind was drawing, however. Over and over the scene replayed itself in his head. Why had he pushed her like that? Why hadn't he apologized? Besides those paltry regrets, there was something that didn't sit quite right with him. Bella had said that she wasn't bothered by her height. But she had sounded so angry when she described her body. And the way she exploded when he had merely suggested the POSSIBILITY that she could take the drug.

Zayne spent the whole machine cycle pondering the situation. When the buzzer sounded, he had yet to even touch pencil to paper. He stood, trying not to think about his wasted hour, and went to empty the device. Bella was still resolutely facing away from him, a rigid set to her shoulders. Easy enough to interpret that body language. The most recent tray was still sitting on the counter where he had left it, now marked with an “X” scrawled in her handwriting. Apparently she hadn't bothered to come over and tell him the batch was a dud.

He worked quickly, and after packing away thirty-five test tubes he carried the thirty-sixth over to Bella. She flinched slightly as he set it down next to her, but otherwise gave no sign that she had noticed him.

So that's how it's going to be. Well, screw her too, then.

He went back to the centrifuge, and slammed the door shut angrily. Hurrying over to his chair, he snatched up his pencil and immediately began to draw. No more sitting around brooding, he thought. This time I'm going to make it count.

Start with a rough outline...make it more of a rectangle than a circle. Good start. Two long cylinders coming from the bottom are legs, and the feet are ovals coming toward my perspective. Hey, this isn't turning out too bad. Above the rectangle, now we need a circle. Squeeze it at the bottom, there, that makes a nice jawline. More circles, ears and eyes, and some marks for an early version of the hair. Smooth lines, from the ears to the shoulders are your neck....

Zayne continued to draw, his attention focused like a laser beam on the most minute details of his work. He forgot his troubles, the aching of his hands, the room around him. The whole of creation was filled with nothing but his paper, his pencil, and himself. The picture was almost done...just a few more lines....

An explosive crash echoed throughout the room – the sound of breaking glass, a hallow plastic THUMP, and above it all a high-pitched shriek of surprise. Before he had consciously willed himself to do so, Zayne jumped to his feet. Bella was nowhere to be seen, but he thought he knew where the noise had come from. He ran past the isles of desks, turned a corner, and froze.

There was an overturned blue tray, shards of broken glass, and everywhere the sheen of a thick, yellowish liquid. In the midst of the wreckage was Bella. She was on her back, her hands clenched into fists, her goggles askew. And in her eyes there was a look of raw animal panic, the like of which he had never seen before in his life.