Michael (Cont.)
Doctor Naomi Mara had put a great deal of effort into making her office "comfortable." There were pictures of children on her desk. Presumably hers. They had her red hair and blue eyes. They lacked her severe cheek bones. There were framed-stick figure drawings on her desk. Presumably her children's. They featured a woman with a long spine and a black skirt. Her red hair curled over her head like a spaghetti strand, her blue eyes were all iris. Next to these on her desk were old Christmas cards, propped up to give season's greetings long after the season had gone, several enigmatic looking metal objects which might have been modern art or paper weights or both, and one of those needle-hand-print-feels-really-good-when-you-touch -it-toys. Adam fights the urge to pick it up as he walks into her office.
"You gave me a fright, Mr. Milligan. It's so lonely up here usually—I thought you were some kind of ghost." There's an alien quality to her voice. As if it were coming from deep out of the earth or being carried through a thicket of trees. It was a little like being whispered to.
"Sorry. Not a ghost."
"Obviously." She smiles. Her teeth are white and straight. "I'm Dr. Mara," she extends her hand, "Pleasure to meet you finally. Put a face to the files."
"Yeah, pleasure." Adam takes her hand. It's cold. "I feel like I've seen your face before."
"You probably have. I've given a number of talks on behalf of the Carver-Edlund corporation—some of them televised. I've also been published in a couple of different Journals—cover of Modern Psych—I've even been on Ellen. I'm almost a public entity." Her smile never breaks. "Why don't you take a seat in my office and we can begin with some preliminary questions. I'll explain a little bit about the Michael Project—then maybe a tour? If you'd like."
"Yeah, sure—that sounds great." Adam smiles politely as she gestures for him to enter. She motions for Adam to sit in one of two black leather chairs and seats herself behind the desk on a swivel chair which she doesn't swivel. In front of her is a manila folder thick with papers. She clicks the top of a ball point pen and opens it up to about the middle.
"Splendid. Let's just do a quick biography—double-check some facts—you were born—"
"September, 29th, 1990. I'm a Libra." He smiles. She thinks that information is extraneous.
"Graduated from high school with honors. Attended the University of Wisconsin for about a year—pre-med?" Adam nods. Yes, yes, and—yes.
"Estimated IQ 135. Then your mother passed away?"
Adam swallows. His throat is dry. "Yeah."
"It was a Gen-Mod raid?"
"Yeah. A ghoul, I think."
"I'm sorry." She looks up from her file and smiles mechanically. She extends her hand but doesn't touch him. "That must have been terrible. And messy." She looks back into the file. Adam's eyes darken momentarily before her voice calls him to attention again.
She says without looking up, "No known father. Difficult to test for inherited genetic disorders. No history of mental illness on your mother's side of the family though. Good." She's talking more to herself now than to Adam. She turns pages in the file by the corner. Occasionally she'll lick the tip of her finger to stop it slipping off. Adam holds his hands in his lap. He thinks about his mother. Her laughing. Her pouting. In High School when she would tease him about his hair. In middle school when she made him lunch he didn't want because all of his friends bought theirs. Those nights when she would get home from the hospital and put her feet up on the couch without even taking her shoes off and he would microwave her leftover Denny's but—she was already asleep. And he thought about her face—not a face—red and mutilated. Bile comes into the back of his throat. He swallows. It's gone. And he looks at Doctor Mara as she flips through his file.
"Everything seems to be in order as far as physiology. Let's talk a little bit about Project Michael. First, tell me what you know about angels."
"I guess just what everyone knows. They're super-strong. They're unkillable. Er, they put on a hell of a light show." He pauses. He thinks. "And they can fly."
Doctor Mara laughs as if cued, "I suppose that's the pop culture breakdown. Angels are a type of men-mod—short for mentally-modified—distinct from gen-mods—genetically-modifieds. They're one of only two-types of Men-Mod. The other being—"
"Demons."
"Bingo. As the kids say. Whereas there are dozens upon dozens of gen-mods resulting from the mutagenic properties of the initial cellular implants, angels and demons are the result of a more controlled alteration of the human being. Beginning with a systematic restructuring of the brain." She looks at Adam and smiles. "Now do you know the difference between an angel and a demon?"
Adam looks down. He knows this one. He licks his lips. "Demons are used mostly for surveillance—espionage. Angels are used mostly as tanks."
She laughs again. Everything he says is so funny. 'I wouldn't put it quite that way. But yes, Angels are generally more forthcoming about their intentions than demons—and stronger. Angels are essentially walking, talking, scowling, thinking, nuclear bombs. And because they're so much stronger, candidates to undergo Angel-Modifications must generally be more refined than candidates for Demon-Modification. The government culls prison populations for service as demons—I'm sure you heard about that on 60 minutes—"Adam kind of smiles, kind of nods, not too much of either one, "About Angels we are far more—selective." Adam wonders if he's being complimented, "This is where you come in. We believe you make a uniquely good candidate for angel-modification."
"Why do you think that?"
"Carver-Edlund runs government sponsored analysis of DNA samples submitted to various agencies—Sperm Banks, the Red Cross—You've seen this on 60 Minutes—and your DNA—has something—we don't know what—let's call it the It factor—which predisposes you to becoming an exceptional Angel. Combined with your academic record and orphan status—you're the Kobe Beef of Human meat." She laughs at her own joke.
"I'm glad I could help." Adam swallows.
"Of course. Now—"she reaches under her desk to remove two other files, each about as thick as his, "—about the Michael Project. If you know my face then I'm certain you'll know these two." She flips the folders open to the front page and slides them across the desk so that Adam can see two color photographs paper-clipped in. They're of two young men, one with fair hair and green eyes, and the other with shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes. Adam squints.
"They're the Winchester brothers. They're criminals."
"Terrorists."
"What about them?"
"It's widely known that Dean Winchester, the older is Ex-Hunter with the UFA. Average intelligence but highly trained. It is less widely known that prior to their assault on several members of the Carver-Edlund Executive Board and the US Government Sam Winchester was en route to becoming an Angel."
"Is that true?"
"No. It's rather inexact. Like you Samuel Winchester possessed an exceptional capacity for mental-modification. The boy tested into Stanford out of home school conducted in the back of a '67 Impala. We anticipated being able to do things with his brain which we had never before been able to do." Her boy has tightened a little. It is difficult to tell if she speaks with reverence or hunger.
"That's…cool. I guess." Adam mumbles.
"The procedure began quite well. The boy displayed abilities far above average. TK, the expulsion of demonic influence—he even experienced something like precognition—we're still sorting out exactly how it functioned biologically—but he could make incredibly accurate intuitive leaps and strategize accordingly. It was spectacular. But we lost control."
"He Jurassic parked you?"
Naomi doesn't get the reference. "He exhibited a dangerous codependence with his brother. Separated for extended periods of time he became emotionally unstable. Violent."
Adam licks his lips, "I thought you did Psych Evaluations? I thought that's why I was staying in Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends?"
Naomi doesn't get the reference. "We do psychological evaluations but—you must understand—the process is not outpatient, it's ongoing. And can be quite stressful. What's more Samuel's degeneration wasn't longitudinal. He experienced a total psychotic breakdown in a single day. Under the influence of his ex-pat brother."
"And you want me to—replace him?"
"No. We want you to find him and destroy him."
"Oh." Adam blinks.
"He's incredibly dangerous."
"So you want me to become…an Angel—"
"Michael."
"—and kill him."
She looks surprised. "Not kill, no."
"Oh."
"We could kill him ourselves if we wanted. We have the technology. We need you to do what only a powerful angel could do—wipe him clean."
Adam blinks. "Could I maybe have a more technical explanation?"
"The total re-construction of Sam's brain cost us and the US government. He represents a significant monetary investment."
"And you want me to—"
"If you accept our invitation, you will become the Angel Michael—powerful enough to go blow for blow with Sam—and you will use your power to eradicate every trace of Sam's personality. His thoughts, his memories, his feelings—what will remain is the pure physical specimen." She sits back in her swivel chair, "And using that we can continue where we left off." She thinks for a moment. "You might kill Dean though. Whether you do it or we string him up for treason—the boy's lost."
"Oh."
"Now I'll walk you through the process of becoming an angel—" She begins to move her lips. Adam tries to listen but he's distracted. He thinks about the Winchester brothers. He saw them on the news last year. He and some friends watched video footage of them attacking a Pent House in Chicago. They were in a bar. At the time he was worried he didn't look enough like the picture on his fake ID. He tries to remember the news reports. His eyes go crooked. Fire. Black smoke. A gun. He remembers a good-looking detective. Not detective. Special-Investigator? Black hair, square jaw. Voice like gravel. "The Winchester brothers represent a threat not only to the Genetically-Modified but to everyday citizens. They do not consider themselves terrorists—in their minds they're on a crusade." The voice fades out. Naomi is still talking. Adam tries to focus. But then there's Samandriel. In a wheel-chair. Was he exceptional? Not him. Whoever he was before. Did he get the spiel? Did they sit him down and tell him he was special—they needed him—he was "select." Samandriel's hair was the same color as his. Softer. Smelled like sweat. What did it smell like before? What shampoo did he use? Was he good at math? Did he like sour cream and onion potato chips? Adam imagines Samandriel sitting in his wheel-chair humming along to the Glee version of "Don't Go Breaking My Heart." Adam danced to that at his prom. Not the Glee version. The good one. Right before he made out with Kristin McGee.
"At the end of it—I won't be me will I?"
Naomi's bottom lip hangs open. Her eyes are wide. She was talking. "It's—complicated."
"Is "complicated" code for "not complicated at all?"
"In a sense," She chooses her words, "much of what you consider "you" will be—inaccessible. Your memories will be suppressed. Likes and dislikes. Bad habits." Her eyes go side to side then level with Adam's "But at your core you'll be a continuation of your pre-angel existence."
"To what extent will that continuation of my pre-angel existence give a damn about anything—I give a damn about—my mom—my—" His voice catches.
"Everything you hold dear to you now you will still hold dear." She continues decisively, "But you'll have a mission. We're going to make you better Adam. You Plus 1. Do you know how many people mire in uncertainty? In doubt? False hope? We're offering you salvation Adam."
Adam breathes. His shoulders relax a little. He thinks. "The process isn't reversible at all is it?"
Naomi pauses. "Not at the present time."
Adam swallows. "I'll think about it."
Naomi smiles. She means it to be reassuring. "That's all we ask. Now if you'd like a tour we can begin with the cafeteria. I didn't have breakfast. Then perhaps you'd like to see some of the labs?"
Adam slaps his hands on his thighs and stands up. "Sure. Sounds good. What's for grub?"
…
Adam picks the tomatoes off a half of a tuna sandwich. It doesn't make the bread less soggy. Naomi seats across a small plastic table. Her back is turned to him. She's talking to a man in a suit. Bald. Vaguely lionish. He glances at Adam glancing at him and smiles with his eye-teeth. Adam looks back at his sandwich. He squishes the bread and meat together. Think it's a fucking steak he tells himself. He's hungry. Sick of hospital food. It occurs to him that this is hospital food. He sighs and pushes his plate away. He surveys the cafeteria. It's a big room. Full of people. Hard to settle his gaze. There's a group of people sitting at a long table made of a bunch of smaller ones. At the head of the table is a woman, Indian, fire-truck red blouse. Sitting next to her is a man—European? Adam wonders if they know you can see his hand on her thigh. He looks away. Across the cafeteria he sees a moon-faced girl in nurse's clothes. She waves. He looks away. A girl with red hair. A guy, tall, skinny, he's got a glass of wine. It's 2:00 in the afternoon. Another girl with red hair. A guy with a Twix Bar. Two Twix bars. Adam's eyes circle the room and then start to circle back. One of the red heads is coming over. She sees him looking. She beams, she waves. He can hear the heels of her boots clacking. She's standing in front of him. She points to Naomi and mouths, "Need to see her." Her face exhibits Groucho Marx elasticity.
"Naomi?"
Naomi and the man she was talking to turn around. "Yes, Dr. Pond? Is Dr. Volkov ready for us in the Gen-Mod Lab?"
"Just about, ma'am. Trying to get everything spic and span and—"She throws her hands up emphatically, "Shiny! Hi," She turns back to Adam. "I'm Doctor Amy Pond. I work with Doctor Volkov down in Gen-Mod." She looks at his half-eaten sandwich. "Not a great sandwich?" She winks slyly, "Don't worry, I've got a box of bite-size Milky Ways downstairs." She laughs—it's such a warm little thing—"I'm always eating things I shouldn't."