Chapter 8: Artie
"Shall we take you on a tour of the labs, then?" Nicholas Duncan asks him, smiling broadly.
"Sure," Artie says good-naturedly.
Artie would really rather say no. Wheelchairs and science labs don't really mix. He learned this in high school. For one, everything is really closely packed together. He's an expert on maneuvering his chair, he's been doing it most of his life, but some places are more awkward than others.
Also, all the technical equipment? It tends to sit on tables and benches and counters. Which are hard to see over when you're confined to a wheelchair. His tenth grade science teacher always docked him marks because he couldn't read the meniscus of the beakers properly; it isn't his fault everything is above eye level for him.
But he's here on business, so he supposes he should tour the lab. That's what this whole deal is about. But still. He would rather say no.
"Excellent!" Nicholas exclaims, bouncing up from his leather high-backed chair.
Artie isn't really sure how to describe Nicholas Duncan. He's an older man, hair well into its grey stages. He looks feeble and frail, like a gust of wind might blow him over and shatter him. But the man has energy.
He's one of those elderly people who think they're a lot younger than they are. The ones you cringe at and are constantly following a step behind to make sure they don't tip too far to one side.
On the man's desk there's a picture of him skydiving. And the picture looks pretty recent.
"Come on, come on," Nicholas says, walking right past the cane leaning against his desk. His steps are surprisingly sure-footed. "You too, Grant," he says, looking at his son, Grant Duncan, who was standing near the giant glass window looking out on the city of Phoenix during the meeting. "You know those labs better than I do." Nicholas turns, looking at Artie and lifting a hand to cup around his mouth. "My son," he stage-whispers, "spends a lot of time in the labs chasing after pretty women."
Artie's eyes flicker over to Grant, who's looking at his father with a bored, unimpressed look on his face. Artie decides it's probably better not to comment.
"Come on then," Nicholas says, awkwardly hopping over to Artie and moving to grab the handles of his wheelchair. "Let's go."
He pushes Artie and his chair towards the door, pauses to open it, and then lurches forward, running at full speed down the hall, taking Artie along with him.
Full speed isn't actually that fast, the man is no marathon runner. But it is still much faster than Artie is comfortable rolling down a carpeted hallway that ends abruptly with an elevator. Artie's hands grip the sides of his chair tightly, wondering if the business deal will still go through if one of them gets injured.
Aside from the receptionist's desk they're rolling away from, Grant and his father are the only ones with offices on this floor. But Artie figures that's what happens when you own the company. You can have a floor all to yourself if you want.
Artie wishes he were as high up where he works as these men are here.
"Dad!" Grant calls disapprovingly from behind him. "Don't kill the man."
"Nonsense! Haven't killed a man since the war!" He does slow down though, bringing them to a slower and slower pace until they stop neatly right in front of the elevator doors. "See, safe as houses." He chuckles happily, "And it's not like I could do you any real damage, eh my boy?"
Artie assumes that's a jibe at his legs. He decides to ignore that and change the subject. "You were in the war, sir?" he asks, looking up and over his shoulder.
Grant appears and punches the call button for the elevator with more force than necessary. "No, he wasn't." He sighs. "My father has an over-active imagination."
"Imagination's as healthy as carrots, young man," Nicholas says to him with a twinkle in his eyes.
"You say that about money," Grant sighs.
The old man laughs, "I say that about women and sex too!" Artie's eyes widen but he keeps his mouth firmly closed. "Speaking of, Brenda!"
Artie maneuvers his chair to see what Nicholas is looking at; the receptionist is making her way down the hall, looking concerned.
"Mr. Duncan," she says, looking at Nicholas, "Your eleven o'clock is here," she says, nodding back towards her desk where someone is standing, waiting to meet with the old man.
Nicholas' eyes widen comically, grey eyebrows rising, as he lifts his arm to look at his watch. "Eleven o'clock already!"
"He's early," the receptionist says. "But if you take Mr. Abrams on a tour you'll run late."
"Fine, fine," he says, stepping away from Artie. "Grant, you can handle a tour on your own, can't you?"
"Oh course, Dad."
"Good, good. Alright then." He reaches to shake Artie's hand. "Was a pleasure meeting you, young man. I hope we'll be doing business in the future."
Artie gives the man's hand a good shake, "I hope so too, sir."
"Alright, I'm off. Toodles!" Then he takes off down the hallway. Not running this time, thankfully.
Once they're alone Grant says, "You'll have to excuse my father. He can be a bit… bracing."
"Energetic," Artie says as the elevator doors open and he wheels himself in.
Artie is currently at Duncan BioTech as a representative of his company. He works for a place that manufactures electronic equipment for all kinds of big businesses. His company and Duncan BioTech are working out a business deal, which includes a retrofitting of the Duncan research labs.
Artie himself isn't exactly in charge of the deal. That would be his boss. But his boss is a single parent whose son is undergoing cancer treatment, so he picked Artie to oversee everything since he's out of the office because his son is in the hospital. Artie was happy to accept the offer. It isn't a promotion exactly, but if he can manage this, it is sure to win him even more respect from his boss. And that could lead to a promotion.
He doesn't really want the promotion for the money exactly. He more wants it to have something new to do. He's been doing the same job for years now. He wants to move up and do something different.
The elevator dings and the door slide open. Artie rolls himself out, Grant walking next to him.
The first thing he notices when they arrive at the labs is just how very clean the place is. If Artie had to describe the labs to his boss, the first word would be clean.
The second word would be glass.
And the third word would be white.
The hallways are all painted white and are brightly lit. All the rooms have glass walls to see inside. The floors under his wheels are all spotlessly clean.
There are people walking around and working inside the glass rooms in various states of lab attire; some are in lab coats and goggles and gloves, some are in regular business attire, some are in casual clothes. One man's lab coat is bright yellow, Artie can see him working at a machine inside one of the glass lab rooms.
Grant tours him around the floor, pointing out different sections and research areas. Different wings of the floor are devoted to different projects. He says they'll only stay on this floor, but that this isn't the only research and development floor. On this floor, each of the rooms seems to have different functions. There are rooms that have counters and cupboards with glassware and hands-on research equipment, some have bigger data processing machines, and some are devoted just to any and all forms of storage. It's all very intimidating for Artie, who hasn't been in a lab since high school. And even then, that wasn't very impressive. McKinley High School was known for its athletics, maybe, but not its science department.
They pop inside a few of the rooms, and Artie can see that though the labs are high tech, not all their equipment is; some of their machines are outdated, if by only a few years. Which is exactly why Artie's here. Duncan BioTech is well off, but it needs a retrofit.
As they make their way down the hall, the rooms seem to change from laboratory research rooms to personal research spaces; with rooms that look like office spaces, with a desk and a computer or two. Other areas have rooms with banks of computers.
They're walking down the hall when someone's head pop's out of one of the rooms. "Grant! Hi!" the man says very loudly. In one of the lab rooms across and down the hall a little ways, Artie sees through the glass as a woman jumps and then drops down behind a desk.
"Adams," Grant says dully, looking at the man hanging in the doorframe. Behind the man, Artie can see a very neat office space. There's a desk with three computer screens, and in the background there are cabinets and a bookshelf lining the wall. Aside from the biology-related posters on the walls, the room could almost be one out of the building where Artie works.
"Hey," the man responds. He's got a mop of shaggy brown hair on his head, but he smiles at Artie. "Heard there was a tour going on. Hi," he offers his hand. "Drew Adams."
"Artie Abrams."
Grant sighs, but gives an introduction, "Drew is one of our newest researchers."
"And on the way to becoming the best," Drew interrupts.
Grant ignores him, "We don't normally hire people so young to work for us."
Drew cuts in again, "But I'm a genius, so they had to make an exception."
Grant turns from looking at Artie to looking at Drew full-on, "Do you have something important to report to me, or do you have work to get back to?"
"There's always work to be had, Grant my man," Drew says, wearing a goofy smile and winking at Artie. "And it's always good to see you." The way he says that sounds so very forced to Artie's ears.
"I'll bet. Is Bethany in her office?"
Artie watches as Drew seems to sputter, "Um. Well. Yeah, yeah she's in there. But she's in the middle of sequencing-"
"That will be all," Grant says, taking the handles of Artie's wheelchair and directing him down the hall – towards the room where Artie watched the woman duck behind her desk. Artie looks over his shoulder and waves at the man still hanging in the doorframe, smiling in amusement when he sees Drew making faces behind Grant's back.
Maybe this lab thing isn't so different from high school.
Grant stops pushing Artie's chair as they come to a stop outside of one of the private office spaces; Artie realizes it makes sense, they have lots of different areas to do all their research, but they're going to need space to sit and work with it and draw whatever conclusions they make from it.
Grant knocks against the door frame, "Bethany?"
Inside the office space there's a desk facing the doorway, two separate computer screens rest atop it, as well as a few scattered stacks of paper. Along one wall Artie can see low cabinets with glass doors – inside are all kinds of things Artie would expect in a lab, like glass vials and tubes. The top of the cabinet is a counter with workspace with a few random items – including a wooden duck - and above are shelves stuffed full of binders and textbooks. The other wall has a counter with two different microscopes, a centrifuge machine, and another machine Artie couldn't name if he tried.
There's a heavy sigh and then a muffled response of, "Yes?" The woman is under her desk. Artie can see her chair moving as she bumps into it.
"It's Grant. There's someone I'd like you to meet." He nods his head for Artie to enter and then he follows inside after.
The woman doesn't get out from under her desk.
"Bethany?" Grant asks. "Are you alright?"
"Mmm, yep! Just… uh… dropped… my pen?" She sounds a little unsure of her answer. Maybe she doesn't want company?
"If you're busy, we can come back later?" Artie offers, looking up at Grant for confirmation.
A blonde head pops up from the desk before the woman quickly jumps to her feet. "No, no. Sorry, I just… uh. Yeah. Hi." She smiles brightly at him. "I didn't realize Grant had someone with him. Hi."
"Artie Abrams, this is Bethany Manning, one of our top researchers."
"Hi," she repeats, smiling at him.
Artie freezes.
There is something so, so wrong with this picture.
Artie is about eighty percent sure that his mouth is hanging open, seventy-five percent sure that if he weren't in a wheelchair his legs would have given out, and one hundred percent sure he must look like he's seen a ghost.
Which he has.
Brittany Pierce is standing behind the desk.
Brittany blinks at him, her face growing confused. "Hi?"
Artie can't quite bring himself to speak, he's too buys staring. Brittany. He is staring at Brittany. Brittany is alive.
Brittany is alive and standing here, in the same room as him, looking at him like everything is fine and dandy.
But he's looking at Brittany, who's been missing for years, so clearly everything is not fine and dandy.
Grant seems to have realized something's not right. "Mr. Abrams, are you alright?"
Brittany chews her lip, "Oh God, do I have under-the-desk dirt on my face?"
"You…" Artie finally manages to spit out. "You're alive."
Grant steps further into his peripheral vision, a confused look on his face. "What?"
Brittany squints at him, "I'm sorry?" She looks over her shoulder, as if checking to make sure he's talking to her and not someone standing behind her. When she looks back she still wears a confused face. "Is that a trick question?"
Artie wonders if this is what an out-of-body experience feels like. He can see himself, staring at Brittany. He can see the look on his own face, his eyes wide behind his glasses, his mouth hanging open. He can see the way his head hangs forward a little, in awe.
He feels like he's floating, like the world just suddenly disappeared out from under him and his wheelchair. It's dizzying, and for a moment the confusion sweeps so heavily over him he wonders if he's going to black out.
The world rights itself again just as suddenly. And again, he's sitting here, staring at Brittany.
But Artie realizes something. It isn't that he's staring at Brittany. It's that Brittany is staring back, with absolutely no recollection of him on her face. She's looking at him like he's a complete stranger.
That's what scares him.
"What are you doing here?" he asks her.
She still looks confused by his questions, "I work here? I'm sorry, I don't… do I know you?"
His eyes widen farther.
"It's Artie," he says slowly, like maybe it's just that his words aren't making a connection inside her head. If he slows down she'll be able to process them better. She looks so lost, maybe if he tries again but slower his words will connect the way he needs them to. "Artie. From high school?"
Nothing is making sense right now, and generally Artie likes it when the world makes sense.
"You…" he tries, "You don't…?"
"I'm sorry, you must be mistaken," Brittany says to him, a sad smile on her face.
Artie has imagined seeing Brittany again, finally finding her, like he knows the others have. But he never imagined it going like this.
She opens her mouth to speak again, but Grant's phone buzzes. He takes it from his pocket and reads what's on the screen. "I hate to cut this short," he says like he isn't really that sorry at all. "But Mr. Abrams, your ride is here."
Artie has to leave? He has to leave, right now? Right now when Brittany is standing here in a lab coat?
"Shall I escort you upstairs?" Grant asks easily, like he's unaware of just how much confusion Artie and Brittany both seem to be swimming in.
Without waiting for an answer, Grant grasps the handles of Artie's chair and begins to lead him away. That's one of the few things Artie hates about his wheelchair, that people can dictate where he goes without his permission.
"Wait!" he starts, because he is desperate to figure this out, to know what's going on. Is it possible Brittany has a twin no one knew about? Separated at birth? Or is she in witness protection and is pretending not to know him? There has to be some sort of logical explanation and he needs to grab at it with both hands.
He wheels himself towards Brittany, who takes a hesitant step back, looking unsure. Artie realizes he can't just start bombarding her with questions like this, she has work to do and he needs to get back to the office. But he needs to understand.
It's been five years since anyone's seen her, he needs to understand.
Artie pulls a business card from his chest pocket and holds it out to her, hoping to God she takes it. "Call me, please," he insists. If this isn't Brittany and is simply some look-alike then he'll be making a fool of himself. But if it is her, or her twin, or she's pretending not to know him, or she's a spy or something ridiculous but it it's still her then he needs to see her again, to figure out what happened to her.
Brittany reaches out a careful hand to take the card from him, looking more like she's appeasing him than actually considering calling him.
"Please, Brittany," he forces out, making eye contact with her and hoping his desperation gets across to her, "Please, call me."