A/N: This chapter will be a bit shorter than the some of the previous ones, ladies and gents, but I've had to do a bit of chainsawing from a much larger chapter- hopefully allowing characters to breathe a little easier and developments to proceed a bit smoother. As always, you'll have to be the judge.
To Nami Swann: I'll be going easy on Nessa's scenes, so you needn't worry about being driven crazy. Although if Boq's truly free of her or not is another matter altogether... (maniacal laughter)
To mysweetthropp: I'm very glad you like my style of description and the balance between calm and terrifying included in my work so far- they're among my favourite aspects of writing. And I'm also very flattered you'd think I'd be a bestseller; at the moment, though, with work, schoolwork and fanfic currently taking up a good deal of my waking hours, I think it'd be best if I polished off at least one of them before I get into writing original fiction. For now, I hope you find this latest chapter up to standards, and with any luck I'll be able to take advantage of my break to finish the upcoming chapters a bit quicker.
So, without further ado, the latest chapter: think tanks, pottery, and my disastrous attempts to incorporate microscopic elements from the book. Read, review, and above all, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Wicked is not mine. I have it on good authority from my many secondary personalities. Plus, I can firmly attribute the term "pickling in the think tank" to The Thick Of It.
21/6/14: Corrected a few errors in tense.
Next morning, the newly-christened Mr Heart is escorted from the guest room by a duo of colossal security guards (both bears) and led deep into the cellars of the Asylum. Once they reach the very bottom of that ponderous stairwell, the guards politely inform him that he can't be allowed to see the route they take through the catacombs ("For sake of security," they'd told him), before unceremoniously slipping a hood over his head and dragging him bodily down the corridor. Heart briefly panics, suddenly convinced that all of this has been some insane ploy by Elphaba to have him murdered for breaking her sister's heart. But then some awkward semblance of logic trickles back into his head, and he realizes that if she'd really wanted to kill him in some particularly torturous way, she'd have been able to do so on the spot. So, doing his best to breathe normally through the thick black cloth shrouding his face, he gradually settles down and lets the guards carry him away.
As the minutes drag by and the path slowly twists and turns, he finds himself reflecting on what little he's been told about the organization he's been hired into: how secrecy is so paramount that none of the workers can afford to know each other's real names, and the mysterious projects he'll have to complete in order to prove his worth to the group. But what is this organization, really? What are these people doing down here, and why? Elphaba claimed that it was on behalf of the Wizard and Oz, but Heart's never heard of the Wizard keeping anything secret from the rest of the country; most of the time, he's ensured that everything he's done remained public knowledge. What could be so important that even the Wizard himself couldn't afford to tell anyone about it?
More to the point, why does Elphaba think that Boq might be of some help with it, whatever it is?
Under the hood, he shakes his head furiously. Heart, he reminds himself. Heart, not Boq.
It's still strange to think of himself as someone completely different, but he's taken Elphaba's warning to heart by now: he doesn't know how many of this organization's members are allowed to leave this underground base, wherever it is, but one word of him being alive and well will have Nessarose on the trail. And as mysterious and daunting as his new line of work is, he doesn't much fancy spending the rest of his life in Nessa's service, either.
The echoing footsteps of the guards suddenly take on a metallic note, and Heart finds himself being lowered into a chair; but it's not he feels the floor beneath him start to move that he realizes that he's actually seated on a small train car.
For the next forty-five minutes, he hears nothing but the clattering of rails and the guttural conversation of the bears sitting in front of him; wild twists and turns rock him from side to side in his seat, and occasionally a bump in the path will almost send him tumbling to the floor of the car, until a massive paw grips him by the shoulder and hoists him back onto the chair. Once or twice, he finds himself seized by the idea of getting his hood off, jumping out of the train and running in the opposite direction in search of some side-passageway leading to the surface. But these fits of optimistic insanity don't last long: after all, he doesn't know how fast this thing's moving, or where he'd find himself once he landed – assuming he didn't break his neck in the escape from the train… and besides, what would he do if escaped? Where would he go? His parents are dead, the rest of his family are no longer on speaking terms with him (or anyone else vaguely related to them), he's practically friendless except perhaps for his current patron, his employment prospects are dead in the water, and the only person in all of Oz who might take him in is the very woman he's spent the last few years trying to escape from. And as for Glinda, last night's performance obliterated all his hopes in that direction. He can't go on with the life he led as Boq; Elphaba made it painfully clear that it wasn't any sort of life at all.
He's committed himself to Elphaba's service now; it's time he grew up and committed himself to being Mr Heart.
After all, once he's learned not to introduce himself as Boq, there's nothing to stop him from being Boq in the privacy of his own mind, right?
Eventually, the train grinds to a halt. As if making up for lost time, the guards quickly haul him out the door and back out into the draughty passageway beyond; for perhaps five or ten minutes, Heart is carried blindly through another set of twisting corridors, too scared to ask how long it'll take for them to reach their destination. Then a door slams behind them, and without warning, the two guards prop him back on his feet and finally remove the hood.
"Good morning, Mr Heart," a familiar voice murmurs. "I trust you slept well?"
Heart blinks rapidly, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the light; he knows that Elphaba's in the room with him, but paranoia insists that he find out just how far away she is before he gets too comfortable. "Decently enough," he replies shakily. "Um, where are we?"
"Quite some distance under the city. You won't be familiar with the exact place, I assure you: in a city of the Wizard's design, there's no shortage of secret passages and hidden chambers to work with. Now, are you ready for your first day at work?"
I don't have much choice in the matter, do it? It's either this or get back to massaging Nessa's wounded feelings. Out loud, Heart mumbles in the affirmative; by now, his eyes have adjusted to the light and he's aware that he's standing in the middle of what appears to be some kind of locker room; dozens upon dozens of battered metal lockers surround him on all sides, and the rank smell of body odour and industrial chemicals fog the air. Other than Elphaba and the guards, there's nobody in sight. However, from somewhere nearby, there's the faint sound of churning machinery and arguing voices.
"Excellent. Now, do you have any questions you'd like to ask me before you begin?"
He hesitated. What could he say? What would he be allowed to ask about? More importantly, what would Elphaba do if he started prying too deeply?
The nervousness must have been written plainly on his face, because she smiled reassuringly and said, "Please, feel free to ask as many questions as you like; you've had enough time to build up an entirely library of them by now, I'd imagine."
"Why am I here?" Heart blurts out. "I-I mean, no offence meant, I appreciate the opportunity you're giving me, but I just don't understand why you've given it to me. I mean, you say this group's working for the good of the Wizard and for the good of Oz, so why do you think I'd be any good here?"
If Elphaba was in any way insulted, she certainly didn't show it. "If I might be blunt, I'm not looking for experts at this point; I have an entire roomful of experts and specialists already. What I need – and what they need too – are apprentices."
"In other words, you need an extra pair of hands." Brilliant, he thinks bitterly, right back to being someone else's dogsbody.
"At first, anyway: you don't have any recorded experience in any of the fields that are being studied here, so you'll be a general apprentice at first. Then, once you've found a tutor among my researchers and completed your first major project, you'll be a dedicated apprentice and you'll have determined your starting field. From there, who knows? Maybe you'll be a researcher yourself in a few years' time."
Mr Heart blinks, utterly bewildered for a minute. "You really think I'll get anywhere near that?" he asks, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.
"Anything's possible, Mr Heart. Remember, I didn't hire you as a guard, or as an assistant, and certainly not as a test subject. I've seen enough of your scholastic reports and known you personally long enough to understand that you have potential: you're dedicated and hardworking, but you're can also be very bright – provided you don't end up getting fixated on impossible tasks. But now that you have the freedom to make use of that potential, it's up to you to find a use for it. Do you think you can do that?"
"I'll… I'll try," he stammers.
"Excellent. Now, did you have any other questions?"
"Urm… just one. You said I don't have any experience in any of the fields being studied here. Well, I don't doubt that, but what fields are they? What kind of work do we do here?"
Elphaba opens her mouth to reply, but then pauses, lost in thought for a moment or two. Then, the smile blossoms across her face once again, broader than ever before. "Perhaps," she says, "It's more elegant and simple to show rather than tell. If you'd care to follow me…"
Just outside the locker hall, past the dilapidated block of showers and the door that apparently leads to the sleeping quarters ("A bunk's already been chosen for you, and your personal effects should have arrived there by now," Elphaba informs him), there's a long corridor leading to what seems to be a large, brightly-lit room, likely the source of the distant noise he's been hearing. With his guides remaining silent for the time being, Heart can only follow her down the corridor towards the light, hoping that whatever he finds down there will explain as much as Elphaba claims it will; eventually, the two of them step out onto a wrought iron balcony overlooking-
During those last few minutes before he'd nodded off to sleep the previous evening, once he'd finished rehearsing his new name, Heart had tried to imagine the organization he was going to join: back then, the most he'd been able to dream up had been a shadowy conference room of about ten to fifteen hired researchers that would meet once a month to discuss radical plans for the betterment of Oz and the Wizard, and then spend the next few weeks toiling away in one-room workshops on whatever work they'd been assigned.
What he's looking at right now is undoubtedly a one-room workshop; it's just that the "room" clearly used to be a warehouse. Hundreds of yards from wall to wall, topped with a high ceiling and framed with an intricate network of catwalks and gantries, there's enough room here to comfortably accommodate a small army. And just as well, because it's an army at work below him; honeycombing the floor of the ex-warehouse is a vast maze of cubicles, each one crowded with complicated-looking machinery and esoteric equipment: in one, dozens upon dozens of large glass spheres and prisms hover at least five feet off the ground, their innards clouded with miniature sandstorms; in another, electricity crackles between the tines of copper tuning forks, and a researcher in thick black goggles and a rubber apron utters a spell from a book held open in one gloved hand; in yet another, two researchers and a pair of harried-looking assistants preside over a huge industrial vat of bubbling liquid, stirring, testing and bottling it even as Heart watches. There are caged spiders, racks of test-tubes filled to the brim with multi-coloured fluid, stacks of ancient books so layered with yellowing maps that they look more like gift-wrapped presents, bundle after bundle of glossy black feathers (some with wings still attached), a collection of antique grandfather clocks, piles of dismantled rifles and revolvers, elaborate wooden marionettes with eerily lifelike faces, at least twelve severed hands in various states of decay that still manage to visibly twitch somehow, swirling masses of translucent images crowding the airspace above one cubicle like a mirage, and a whole host of other things that Boq can't even hope to identity – each one occupying a workstation down in the labyrinth of cubicles.
"Welcome," said Elphaba proudly, "to the Pottery."
"The th… what?"
"Some of the more enthusiastic researchers like to call it the Society of Redeemers, but the Pottery's much less suspicious-sounding; aliases win out in the end, you see. For all intents and purposes, this is one of the largest think tanks in all of Oz, and certainly the largest concentrations of scientists, magicians, inventors and eccentrics in the entire country. As for what they study here… well, you'd be hard pressed to find something they didn't study: if it can help Oz in the long run, if it betters the land, it's people and its leader, then it's worthy of experimentation and harnessing."
"But how… I mean… where can I fit into all this?"
"As I said, you're to assist as generally as possible until you can find a researcher willing to take you under their wing as a permanent apprentice. You see the people at work down there in the cubicles? They're the researchers. We have about sixty of them at present. Very old, most of them, hence why apprentices are so important."
"And the younger ones with green badges?"
"They're the apprentices; we've only got about twenty of them so far – nowhere near enough what we need, even with about forty lab assistants providing aid. Speaking of which…" Elphaba produces a large green badge from the depths of her cloak and pins it to the front of Boq's tunic. "There," she murmurs. "Now you're marked for upward mobility."
"Assuming I can find a tutor down there… and assuming I can finish this first project." And then, with a fresh jolt of shock, Heart remembers what the project entails. "The project," he whimpers. "How am I supposed to build my own corpse? What am I supposed to work with?"
"That depends entirely upon the subject and tutor you work best with. If it's method that worries you, we've got enough methods of faking death to keep you busy until your next birthday. If you want to create an illusion of your corpse, we have experts of optical and mental illusionism looking for students; if you want to transform an object into a facsimile of your corpse, there are at least twenty magicians down there who specialize in one kind of transfiguration or another; if you're thinking of making a corpse look like yourself, I'm sure one of the many experts on medical magic and surgical technique will be happy to work with you – provided you have the stomach for it; if you're thinking of crafting a dead body from scratch, the alchemists have a place for you among them. The methods are all here, Mr Heart; it's up to you to make them work for you."
"But… but what if I… how much time do I…"
"It's not a matter for concern, Mr Heat. Nessarose will be satisfied with the excuses I give her for at least a month or two, more than enough time you need to perform this most basic of projects. In the meantime, I think it's time you lowered yourself into the think tank, don't you?"
This time, Heart can't even muster the voice to stammer; he can only stand there, paralysed with nerves, mouth flapping open and shut as he tries to think of some excuse to stay up on the balcony and out of the milling crowd below. But then Elphaba puts a calming hand on his shoulder: "Relax," she whispers. "You'll be fine. There's nothing down there that can hurt you if obey the rules of the workspace and listen to what the researchers tell you. If anything goes wrong, I'll be watching to make sure no harm comes to you. Now, you run along; it's time you started your new life."
As if I needed anything else to make me feel like a kid on the first day of school, Heart reflects absently. But nonetheless, after taking a moment or two to pluck up his courage, he reluctantly turns descends the stairs towards the workshop.
The first thing he notices is that everyone here, the assistants, the guards, the apprentices, the researchers, all of them are clearly taller than him. He should have gotten used to it by now; after all, he'd spent almost his entire life outside of Munchkinland being noticeably shorter than everyone else and being mercilessly picked on as a result (as opposed to the life he'd spent inside Munchkinland's borders, where he'd been noticeably taller than everyone else and mercilessly picked on as a result). But after so many years spent in Nessa's service, he'd gotten accustomed to working for someone physically incapable of standing any taller than he was – in fact, it was one of the few things that had kept him from going completely insane. Now, it's back to being a dogsbody for people taller than him.
No sooner has he stepped off the staircase and into the cubicle maze, he's almost flattened by a horde of assistants and apprentices hurrying to the next errand. Once he's dusted himself off, he almost collides with another assistant pushing a trolley of cleaning supplies – and gets yelled at for his troubles. For his part, Heart can only stammer out an apology; as if being constantly intimidated by his taller workmates wasn't bad enough, now his fear of crowds isn't flexing its muscles too. And on top of every other demoralizing factor, he's now acutely aware that literally everyone else in the workshop has a better idea of whatever they're supposed to be doing. There's a purposeful walk on these people, a confident, self-assured stride that makes Heart's nervous little shuffle seem all the more craven.
And then he starts noticing the demographics: on top of being taller and confident than him, there's also something about the workers here that makes this workshop different from any other workplace in the Emerald City; more than half the researchers here are Animals, along with a good deal of the apprentices, assistant and guards. There's bears, wolves, iguanas, marmosets, tortoises, camels, alligators, eagles, peacocks, a veritable menagerie of what his fellow Muchhkins would have once called "Shouting Beasts." Back when he could still safely call himself Boq, he'd never been caught up in the same anti-Animal fervour as the rest of his countrymen – not because of any fine motives on his part, but simply because he'd never really had much of social life for the prejudices to bleed into. With most of his adult life dedicated to either Glinda or Nessa, the rallying cry of "Animals Should Be Seen And Not Heard" had been just a buzzing in his ears at the most. But now even he can't help but feel a bit unnerved: here he is, at work among an entire horde of Animals with only a handful of humans to break up the majority – and not a single Munchkin to be seen, either.
Needless to say, he spends the first half an hour almost on autopilot: he reads through the safety instructions, identifies the protective runes carved on the walls of each cubicle, he finds the staff canteen, the restrooms and broom closets… and of course, he provides whatever assistance he can. Most of this involves tidying up broken glass, carrying around equipment, and being addressed by the flattering title of "Hey You!" or "You There!" if the researchers are feeling polite.
But it's just as he's starting to wonder if he'll ever get any of these researchers to notice him long enough to even consider taking him as their apprentice, when he hears a hoarse voice shriek, "Mr Boq!"
For one horrible moment, he's sure that Nessarose has found him; the fact that the speaker is a) female and b) seating in a wheelchair almost has him sprinting for the exit. But then the haze of smog from the nearby cubicle finally disperse enough for him to see the figure clearly, and he realizes that unless Nessa's somehow aged fifty years in the time since the two of them last met, he's looking at a complete stranger.
The woman creaking towards him is so withered and shrunken with age she seems almost mummified: half-lost in the folds of a heavy woollen robe, her body almost permanently hunched over under the weight of her own years, her gnarled hands shaking near-constantly as she struggles to direct the wheelchair, she looks so cadaverous that Heart finds himself seriously wondering if this apparition isn't really a corpse brought back to life by one of the researchers. A good look at the woman's skull-like face doesn't help: almost completely bald, the cheekbones jutting, the eyes dark and sunken, the papery skin a ghastly bleached white… and where the skin isn't pale and wizened, it's pockmarked with running sores and livid purple buboes from some horrific illness. And while the death's head might not have a skull-like grin to match, that's only because the woman's mouth is covered by a breathing mask – which, Heart realizes, is directly connected by hose to an intricate set of machinery tied to the back of the wheelchair.
But as she draws closer, Heart can't help but feel a curious sense of recognition; even though his memories tell him that he's never seen or met this woman before, there's something oddly familiar about her. Perhaps she'd looked different around the time he'd known her, but it would have had to have been a very long time ago judging by the woman's age. More to the point, with all the pustules in the way it's hard to make any kind of comparison between faces.
"Finally," the woman gasps as she rolls to a halt, her voice slightly muffled by the mask. "I was thinking I'd never see a familiarative face again. Granted, I was hoping it would be the captain of the guard, but I suppose one of Shiz's least interesting alumni will have to do. Now listen closely…"
She leans in close, rolling the collar of her robe down her boil-spotted neck: there, past the intravenous tubes snaking out of her collarbone and into the depths of the machines behind her, a metal collar has been fastened around her throat. "You see that?" she whispers urgently. "Good. I need you to-"
But before she can continue, there's a loud buzz from somewhere behind her, and the woman immediately reels back in pain. "Oh for Oz's sake," the woman howls, "I wasn't going to tell him anything! I wasn't going to tell him anything!"
"You know the rules, Emma," a stern voice murmurs.
All of a sudden, there's another figure standing right next to the wheelchair: in sharp contrast to the writhing figure beside her, this new arrival still has her health and the use of her legs. Also, she's much younger – barely twenty-five unless Heart's mistaken. Judging by the plain white uniform, she's only an assistant and not a very imposing one at that; she's only a few inches taller than Heart, and so slight that the wheelchair could probably flatten her if it ever moved quickly enough, but it's clear from the look of terror on Emma's face that this "assistant" is in control.
"No speaking out of turn to new arrivals. No using inappropriate names. And no…" She reaches into the folds of "Emma's" robe, and after a few seconds of searching, extracts a pair of wire cutters from one of the pockets. "… and no stealing equipment," she finishes.
"I wasn't stealing it!"
"You were only borrowing it, then, I take it? You would have returned it once you finished getting your collar off?" The woman sighs disappointedly. "Back to confinement, Emma. I'll be along to oversee the next round of treatment once you're ready to behave like an adult."
Her dainty fingers move in a complicated gesture: instantly, Emma's arms lurch outwards as if on strings, before clamping down hard on the armrests of the wheelchair; at the same time, the wheelchair itself rumbles into motion once more, this time under its own steam. Swivelling on its wheels as if searching for the correct direction, it settles back down and sets off at a brisk pace towards the nearest exit, Emma screeching in protest as it does so; heedless of the noise, it weaves elegantly around the passing researchers and other personnel and speeds down the aisle, eventually vanishing behind the nearest of cubicles.
"Sorry about that," the woman murmurs at last. "You'd think she'd learn by now. Oh well, you can't teach an old dog new tricks, as they say." She thought about this for a moment, and then added, "Well, you can; it's just that you really don't want to see it try."
Now that Emma's out of the room, the matriarchal sternness in her voice is gone; now, she sounds much more casual – almost like any other twenty-something year old girl (not that Heart's ever had much experience with this). In fact, she actually reminds him of some of the other servants he's seen around the palace, but she seems much healthier and more confident than any maid seen in the Emerald City; her pose is more relaxed, her gaze more inclined towards eye contact, and instead of wearing her mousy hair in a tight bun, it's dangling in a single braid draped over one shoulder.
Then she remembers her manners, and a smile edges across her thin face. "I'm Miss Turnkey," she says at last, extending a hand. "Not the most original nickname I could have ended up with, but you know how it is down here."
Heart awkwardly returns the handshake, muttering introductions as he does so. "Who was that in the wheelchair?" he asks.
"Oh, just my assigned charge; Miss Emma's not one of the most cooperative research assistants we've had here, but so long as she's properly motivated and properly medicated, she's well worth the effort."
Mr Heart's brow wrinkles. "She's a research assistant? In her condition?"
"Well, not exactly. Her official position is research assistant, but the actual work she performs here is restricted to consultancy – for health reasons, of course."
"What's she suffering from?"
"Among other things, old age, chronic skin disorders, lung infections, liver deterioration, partial kidney failure, and a shitty attitude." Turnkey blushes. "Sorry. But that's the only thing I can call it. The trouble is, she also seems to think she can find better work elsewhere; so, as per Director Thropp's instructions, I need to keep reminding Emma that this job is the only reason why she's not spending the rest of her life in prison. But enough about that – how's your first day in the Pottery?"
For a split second or two, Mr Heart grapples with all the reasons why he shouldn't confess his problems to his complete stranger; but something about Turnkey's friendly smile presses an override button somewhere inside his head, and he finds himself nervously uttering the words, "Not good." He offers a sheepish grin. "I haven't been able to find a research to apprentice to, and I have no idea how I'm supposed to start work on this first project. I don't have any qualifications in magic or science, I've never even heard of what's being experimented on down here, and-"
"Well, that makes two of us. I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you: these old fogies need new apprentices, and they can't afford to be choosy with less than thirty potential students on hand: even if you don't know the details of the subject, they'll be happy to teach you them. As long as you work hard, show some appreciation for the subject, and make some progress in learning it, you'll do fine."
Turnkey thinks for a moment. "Do you have any interest in life science – biology, zoology, anatomy, biochemistry – that sort of thing?"
"I used to, back when I was at Shiz." Before Nessa had me employed on a permanent basis, he reflects bitterly.
"You know what, Mr Heart? I think I know just the researcher for you…"
"Mister Heart, is it?"
Not for the first time today, Mr Heart finds himself wishing that he'd just kept his mouth shut and tried to find a tutor on his own.
The researcher Miss Turnkey has found for him currently occupies the most unsettling cubicle in the entire Pottery: almost every single wall has been made into a display shelf for grisly-looking biological experiments – disembodied human arms with tentacles for fingers, enormous webs of pulsating skin, cross-sections of human flesh bonded with what looks like chain mail, even beakers of human eyes that turn to stare at them as they enter. The only wall that isn't layered with morbidly organic bric-a-brac is given over to a bulletin board of bizarre-looking diagrams and illustrations, most of them depicting the human body in various states of dismemberment. Finally, the plain wooden desk has been replaced with a stainless steel table, now occupied by a half-dissected corpse.
And yet, Heart might have been able to keep calm in spite of all that. He might been able to maintain composure…
…if only the researcher hadn't been a python.
Dr Coil is fifteen feet long, covered in glistening scales pattered coppery red and pitch black, and presently curled up on a large pedestal beside the desk; when they first entered, he was conducting the dissection via magic, directing the scalpel's path along the corpse's stomach with smooth, languid movements of his tail. Right now, though, he's taking advantage of the conversation to take a break and help himself to a quick snack.
Unfortunately for Mr Heart's nerves, the snack in question happens to be a live rat.
"So," he intones, as the rat vanishes down his throat. "You're looking for an apprenticeship?"
Heart tries not to imagine those enormous jaws closing over his head, and nods mutely.
"Do you have any qualifications in magic or any of the other fields being studied here?"
Heart can only shake his head, trying desperately not to let his embarrassment show: back in the days when he'd still been Boq and making the preparations for his time at Shiz, he'd actually worked up the nerve to enrol in magic class, but even if Morrible hadn't narrowed the intake to one student a year and even if Elphaba hadn't been there to claim the position, he would have even remotely broached Morrible's high standards. As for the rest of his university qualifications, he'd spent most of his days at Dear Old Shiz following Glinda's timetable as often as possible, so his majors and minors were all over the place at the best of times.
"Hmmmm. As Miss Turnkey points out, we are operating on something of a shortage of willing candidates; you may have to do for now. But we'll see how well you do in the following months; you've got a project to finish first. But tell me, what attracts you to my line of study?"
"Well, I always enjoyed life science when I was at university, sir."
"Hmmm. At least you have that much on your side; too many new arrivals end up drifting to subjects they have no interest in simply because they think it looks easy. Do you think that what I do here seems easy?"
"No, sir."
"Do you actually know what I study?"
"No, sir."
Dr Coil very slowly edges forward, the great spiral of a body unfurling as he slithers across the desk and over the corpse's legs; moving at an impressive speed for such a large Animal, he's within biting range of Heart's face in just under eight seconds, his forked tongue slowly flickering in and out, his diamond-shaped head swaying gently from side to side an almost hypnotic motion. His eyes are luminous yellow amidst the dark swirls on his face, the slitted pupils resembling insects trapped in amber for how little they move; they regard him with cold, predatory interest… and something that looks frighteningly like amusement.
"They called it the bastard art," Coil murmurs. "The mongrel science. The crooked work."
"S-s-sorry?"
"Mage-surgery, Mr Heart, mage-surgery. Of the sixty researchers at work in this facility, only five of us are practitioners of this form of magic; not because it's more potent than any other form of magic, not because it's any harder to learn, not because its spells are hidden away in some untranslatable tome of unimaginable power, but simply because nobody thought it worthy of recording. A hodgepodge mixture of techniques, part formal thaumaturgy, part folkloric enchantments, part meatball surgery – a mongrel breed of spells, they called it, as if the practice of magic should have a pedigree! Too visceral and too lowly for any formal classes on magic, it's long since been forgotten by all except for backwater village shamans and gutter-scholars… and Animals. Yet who was it who was sssssso eager for knowledge that ssssshe was prepared to sssssssteal my thesissssssss? Why, none other than the future headmistresssss and presssss ssssecretary – the future champion of formal magic herself, the hidebound little ssssssslut!"
He pauses, as if allowing his temper to cool. "Would you feel diminished for practicing a magic worked only by Animals, Mr Heart?"
"No, sir."
"Good. Our employer feels the same: Director Thropp has brought the five remaining practitioners of this long-forgotten art together for no greater reason to preserve it… and improve it. Of course, given that it is – as the name implies – surgery, the work of improving it and finding practical uses for it is guaranteed to be extremely messy. Tell me, Mr Heart, do you have a strong stomach?"
"… I-I don't… I mean, I-I-I've never… well, I've never had to dissect anything before, sir."
Coil very slowly slithers back onto his pedestal. "You seem to be coping well enough with the performance pieces I have on my walls. Perhaps it's time we found out just how well you respond to the sight of freshly-spilled entrails; there's an apron and gloves by the door…"
Much to his surprise, he doesn't vomit.
Even when it becomes clear that the job mainly involves helping Coil empty the corpse of internal organ, even as the corpse's stomach is scooped into a stainless steel bowl along with the lungs, liver, kidneys and intestines, somehow, his own stomach remains steady. Quite simply, he's too focussed on the work to even think of the smell of entrails or the feel of things squishing beneath his fingers; all he can think of is the weight of the organs in his hands and Coil's incessant whispering.
After that, he finds himself practically transfixed with fascination as Coil goes about magically widening the chest cavity, spreading ribs "to make way for the machinery Dr Mainspring wants implanted in this corpse." Then, the same process is repeated on the corpse's head; at first, he expects that he'll be asked to get a hacksaw and slice through the top of the skull, but instead, Coil simply runs the tip of his tail around the corpse's crown, whispering an incantation: a moment later, flesh and bone and brain separates, and Heart finds himself staring at a perfectly symmetrical hole in the cranium.
Once the brainpan has been cleaned out, the two of them shroud the corpse in a thick mantle of weird-smelling cloth. "Stasis fabric," Coil explained. "One of the many innovations the Pottery's researchers have concocted; it'll keep the body preserved until Mainspring and the automaton sculptors can get around to augmenting it."
He peers upwards at the distant shape of the clock on the outer wall of the Pottery, and mutters, "Lunchtime!"
"Already?" A quick glance in the same direction confirms that it's almost 12:30; somehow, the two of them have been working for three hours without even noticing the passage of time.
"What can I say," Coil remarked. "Time flies when you're having fun. Now, I don't partake in the caterers' services and my fellow patrons don't like to see me eating anyway, so I'm afraid I won't be joining you at the staff canteen; you run along now. Don't be surprised if you throw up, though."
"Is there something wrong with the food?"
"Oh, no; I'm told that it's not uncommon for medical students who haven't vomited during their first dissection to do so later, usually at mealtimes. Unless you've already seen blood and guts in large quantities before today, of course. Although one thing I guarantee: you will see more blood and guts before sundown. Just be back before 1:30, and we'll deal with some truly experimental use of mage-surgery."
"You mean you're going to make me your apprentice?"
"I'm thinking about it: you've got the temperament for this work, and you can certainly follow orders decently enough… but as for intelligence, that's certainly something I'll have to study you closely for. You'll have a great deal of reading material to get through – both in terms of magic and human anatomy – so I hope you don't mind sleepless nights and eyestrain, young man. Now run along; there's a rabbit in specimen containment with my name on it."
So it's with a certain degree of pride that Mr Heart finds himself staggering out of the cubicle and into the rambling corridors of the Pottery.
Much to his surprise, Miss Turnkey is waiting for him. "How did it go?" she asks, as she falls into step beside him.
"… Better than I thought it would," Heart admits.
"Why, did you think he was going to eat you or something?"
"The thought did cross my mind."
"Well, you can put your mind at ease: Coil's a teddy bear when you get past the weird eyes and the live diet – a true sentimental soul. Just don't let him hug you; he doesn't know his own strength."
"But he actually seemed a little-"
"-impressed? The researchers are desperate for apprentices, but they're not that desperate; we're not hiring complete idiots. Besides, from what I hear, Director Thropp hired you personally, and I've never been one to doubt her judgement."
From her vantage point on the balcony, Elphaba observes the apprentice and the assistant with no small amount of interest. Though the chance of problems arising as a result of their budding friendship remains comparatively minimal, it's still amusing to see the contrast between the two in action: Boq seems to treat his new name as a refuge from the problems of his old life that will inevitably pursue him (or so he believes), while Jave regards her change in identity as just another part of the job, and treats it with a great degree of levity.
Boq/Heart, Jave/Turnkey. They're odd fish, both of them. But then, just about all the Pottery's permanent residents are: scouring prisons, poorhouses and hospitals for new recruits is a tactic guaranteed to result in an eccentric workforce. But it's necessary: employing assistants and guards from the ranks of those who could find no work elsewhere ensures their loyalty; hiring experts discredited by the Wizard's regime and giving them a chance to put their theories to work gains both their allegiance and their genius. The trick, of course, is filtering out those who too unstable to be safely utilized, and admittedly, Elphaba has already found a few who get close.
Morrible – or Miss Emma, as she's now known – is still a long way from any sort of recovery. As far as her physical recovery goes, she actually seems even worse, if that's possible; mentally, she's argumentative, cantankerous and extremely prone to stealing equipment for her many failed escape attempts, but that's not entirely unexpected. So long as Jave keeps her from associating with any of her old colleagues, she won't be too much of a problem.
On the opposite end of the danger spectrum, there's Dr Lintel; on top of being egotistical, self-righteous and horribly prejudiced against Animals, he's about the most accident-prone man Elphaba has ever met: on his very first day in the Pottery, Lintel very nearly destroyed his cubicle out of sheer carelessness, and came dangerously close to slicing Dr Coil in half with a misfiring portal (an incident that had ended with Lintel joining Morrible on Dr Coil's list of grudge-targets). If it hadn't been for the man's undoubted genius, she wouldn't have bothered with the man; such as it is, his intellect is among the most innovative: among other things, his ideas for modifying teleportation spells are revolutionary, miraculous even by the standards of magic.
Of course, getting the man to concentrate on these theories is another matter. More often than not, the old fool loses sight of practicality and starts rambling on about how his older discoveries allow him to communicate with other worlds. Elphaba has no idea if any of these fevered rantings are true, but it's probably best if Lintel doesn't pursue them: knowing him, the first thing he'll do upon contacting another world is accidentally blow it to pieces.
But perhaps she's putting too much emphasis on the present; maybe it's time she invested more thought upon the future. After all, she has the apprentices to think of.
How will Boq, her newly-christened Mr Heart, contribute to their great work down here? Mage-surgery is a very promising art on its own; in the construction of a perfect world, it may very well be one of the most important instruments…