A/N - A big thank you to everyone who has read and especially to those who have left reviews. I hope all you readers continue to enjoy the story.
Once again, this is an AU story to the CollarVerse created by oflymonddreams, set not long after the end of the story Sixteen Days. Though I've shamelessly borrowed the setting, circumstances, and characters, this story has nothing to do with any other CollarVerse storyline.
I'm still struggling with formatting issues, so I apologize if things look wonky.
Thanks for reading!
Firsts
Chapter Two
Dr. Marten knew he was in the right place because the glass door was helpfully labeled "Diagnostics". Through the glass walls he could see an assortment of office furniture and a collection of construction materials piled neatly against the far wall, just underneath the window. As he reached for the door, Marten saw a slave nudging the construction junk with his foot.
The slave looked up when Marten entered. "What?"
Marten paused. "I'm Dr. Brian Marten."
"Oh. Yes. Have a seat."
Marten brushed the construction dust off one of the visitors' chairs and sat down. Apparently the confidence the slave had displayed at the presentation of his paper had not been an act. Marten sat, ready for the interview to begin.
Greg caught the flicker of annoyance that crossed the doctor's brow. This wasn't the way Greg wanted to begin his first interview, but it was too late to start over. Besides, if this free man wasn't ready to take direction from a slave, it was his fault for applying for the position. Greg pulled out Marten's CV from the pile that had been stacked neatly on the desk.
"Epidemiology. Lab work. Lecturer," he read. "What made you want to apply for a Diagnostics fellowship?"
Marten calmly met the slave's – Dr. House's – sharp gaze. "I met all the criteria for the position."
"I can see that, but why did you apply? What do you want to get out of your time here?"
"I'm interested in working on a new discipline. I have some wide-ranging experience and I feel I can bring a lot to the team."
Standard interview fare. House said nothing.
"I'm good at patterns," Marten said. "Epidemiology is all about patterns and I'm good at spotting them."
"Better," Dr. House said. "What else?" When Marten didn't answer, he snapped, "What else?"
Now it was Marten that glared. An interview was supposed to be a conversation between professionals; this wasn't going in any direction he had expected.
"I wanted to work with you," he admitted. "I was impressed by what you had to say at your presentation. I enjoy my work and I'd like to see what a fellowship in Diagnostics could bring to my future research."
"And what exactly would working with individuals bring to a study of populations? If I hired you, you'd be treating patients with highly unique presentations. Not exactly the stuff of useful epidemiology."
"That . . . remains to be seen. I may learn exactly that during my time here."
"You realize that Dr. Cuddy intends for Diagnostics fellows to pursue this discipline for the long-term. She might decide that my hiring you would be ultimately a waste of resources."
"It's possible," Marten conceded.
"And," Greg said, dropping the CV to the desk, "You aren't the applicant I want to hire. You should know this right now. Unfortunately, the applicants I want to interview aren't available right now, but Dr. Cuddy is insistent that I start doing the work she bought me to do." He grinned tightly. "To do that, I need a team."
"It sounds like we all have to take a chance, then."
Greg said nothing for a moment, then rose and offered his hand.
"Welcome to the team, Dr. Marten."
Alone again, Greg slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes. Interviews were uncomfortable on either side of the desk and he had fought against spikes of fear all throughout the brief conversation. There was no rational basis for his fear. Hiring would be based on his decision and Marten needed to understand from the very beginning that the hierarchy separating free person from slave that existed beyond the glass walls of Diagnostics ended at the department door. No, Marten didn't just need to understand that – he had to believe it.
The trouble was, Greg wasn't sure if he believed it himself.
As the Diagnostics department had become more and more tangible, Greg felt his old personality creeping out to fill the corners of his soul and, gradually, the office itself. As the space filled with furniture and the reference materials he had requested, the once-neglected office became filled with purpose, with direction. Now that the space had an identity - Diagnostics - Greg had an identity, too - the Diagnostics slave. Not, perhaps, the identity he had aspired to, but it was better than the futures he had envisioned during his time in processing.
The future was a terrifying thing for any slave; he had discovered that quickly. The treatment slaves were put through in processing broke down the human tendency to seek patterns and plan for the future based upon those patterns. Being kept in a constant state of terror and abuse, with no day unfolding the same as any other, and being subjected to treatment they couldn't understand or even anticipate arrested the slaves' ability to be aware of anything except the immediate present. Greg understood now that this wasn't just a matter of getting a slave to pay attention to whatever instruction they were given; this was a form of thought control. If a person's present was unpredictable and terrifying, their entire attention would be focused upon coping with present circumstances. No thought could be given to anything else.
Processing had broke him, just as it had broken so many others. Ironically, in the end the orders he had been given demanded that he recover his marked ability to think about the future in highly detailed, nimble ways. It had been no small struggle to bring that ability back to the surface. Doing so meant that he was now constantly aware of the damnable situation he found himself in. Other slaves could settle back into a semi-conscious state, reacting only when given instruction. Greg's new function required him to be aware of his surroundings all the time. He was also aware of the anger and resentment that sat heavily in his gut.
He was stupidly grateful for every scrap he'd been given since Cuddy had installed him in Diagnostics. Even as he savored the gift of clean shirts and a nylon cot still musty from storage, he was disgusted at his reaction. Travel size bottles of shampoo. Furniture from surplus. A blanket from the slave dorms he had so recently left. Even here, in an office being renovated with his needs in mind and surrounded by things meant to be used by the team he'd be personally directing, he couldn't get away from the fact of his slavery.
He was disgusted at wanting to kiss Cuddy's shoes for what he'd been given. He wanted to succeed but not just for his own ego's satisfaction. Like a child or pet he wanted Cuddy's approval because it was by her favor that he received anything at all. He needed her reassurance that she wasn't going to sell him or send him back to the basement with the other hospital slaves. Greg's rational internal voices told him that Cuddy had been nothing but committed to the course and had gone out of her way more than once to see to his needs. Rationally, he had all the mental faculties necessary to do this job. At the same time, the irrational voices reminded him that he had come to ruin by his own hand. He'd been judged incapable of taking care of his own life; how could possibly be trusted to take care of the lives of others? The dark voice of those irrational fears reminded him that he could still fall a long way, indeed. Not just to the basement level of the hospital with nothing to look forward to except long years of sanitation work, but sale to the kind of research institution housed in a building without windows.
Fear was making him anxious and jumpy. He had to get that under control or he'd blow his chance at making this work.
Pushing aside his maudlin thoughts, Greg turned his attention to the CVs still on the desk. He tapped them neatly together then tucked them into one of the desk drawers. While some of the furniture was from hospital and university surplus, the desk was new. One of the drawers still held the obligatory user's manual and Styrofoam blocks. Nudging aside crumpled shrink wrap, he found a sheet of paper with multilingual assembly instructions.
He smoothed the paper out the best he could and carefully began to fold it.
After the slave had shaken his hand and welcomed him to the team, Dr. Marten had been sent off to find a case. Not knowing where else to go, he strode off to the ER. The ER was where things happened quickly, so if he needed to find a case quickly, that was the most reasonable place to find one.
He didn't have to wait long. A troop of nurses wheeled a gurney quickly down the hall and into one of the ER bays.
"Collapsed at the mall food court; ambulance got her fifteen minutes ago. They gave her some epinephrine but she's still weak." One nurse began calling to the others as they got quickly to work.
"What's her allergy? Does she have a medic alert bracelet?"
"Nothing on her wrist, nothing in her bag." A glossy red handbag was tossed out of the way.
Another ER nurse tapped the young woman smartly between the breasts; groggy eyes opened. "Listen; you need to tell us what you're allergic to."
Marten stepped closer to hear the patient speak. "Nothing. I'm not allergic to anything."
"You've had an allergic reaction to something. What did you eat? Did you inhale anything?"
"No. No, I just had a burger and fries. I've been tested; I'm not allergic to anything." Her voice was tired but her words were clear.
A woman having an allergic reaction to something she wasn't allergic to. This sounded promising.
How will Greg react to his first Diagnostics case? Will Marten become a useful part of the team? Will the construction ever get finished? For these answers and more, stay tuned!