I stare absentmindedly at the computer screen, the numbers fading into fuzzy black marks as I drift into thought.
"The SOIs are in different units."
I'm too tired to be startled by Michael's sudden appearance at my desk.
"What?"
"That data you just analyzed. Your units are different. " He points towards the screen, an eyebrow raised appraisingly.
"Oh." I don't even have the energy to make excuses for myself.
"What's going on with you? You don't usually make such amateur mistakes." He folds his arms, watching me like I'm some kind of impostor who showed up instead of the real Elise.
I didn't get a lot of sleep yesterday, that's all. It's not like I was up all night regretting my decision not to train with Rumlow. It's more like I was up all night evaluating my life priorities. Quarter-life crisis, if you will.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just really tired from all of the administrative hassle from yesterday. I won't make any more mistakes." I return my attention to the computer screen and exit out of the SPSS window, opening the EEG files I'd received earlier that morning for a new subject.
I was hoping Michael would take this as his cue to leave, but he stays, much to my disappointment.
"Are you finding it hard to adjust to the new workplace?"
I glance up at the "workplace"… a somewhat cramped 500 square foot office packed with desks, computers and equipment. There are no windows—we're subterranean after all—and overhead fluorescent lights cast a faintly green tint on everything.
"By workplace, you mean "prison"?" I comment under my breath.
Unexpectedly, Michael chuckles.
Funny, yes. It's funny that Shield, a multi-billion dollar security organization with beautiful buildings, like the Triskellion, could have such pathetic research facilities right below one of said beautiful buildings. After the amount of trouble I had to go through getting security clearance to get in here, I'm not impressed.
"You seem to be getting along well with everyone so far, though." Michael comments.
I ignore him, opening the subject file on my desktop.
"Even the Strike team, apparently." He adds. I glance at him briefly. He's not smiling any more, just watching me closely.
"What are you talking about?" I redirect my attention to the computer screen to avoid his gaze.
"Are you acquainted with Brock Rumlow?" He tries to sound curious, but it comes across a tad too critical for my taste. Is it any of his business if I'm acquainted with the man or not?
"I was just surprised to see him talking to you in the sparring facility." He adds, running a hand through his light brown hair. "I always took him for the brawns type, so it was strange to see him pay attention to someone who isn't even in spec ops."
I'm not sure what he's implying here, but I feel faintly offended. I may not be in spec ops, but that doesn't mean I'm not worth talking to.
Whatever, I've had enough of his small talk for this morning.
"Listen, Michael. I really need to take a look at these files before the subject arrives tomorrow, and it's a lot of analysis, so…"
"I get it, I get it." He raises his hands in mock surrender, "I'll leave you to work."
He leaves without another word, and I can finally return to looking through the data files.
The subject is a 26 year old Caucasian male with no history of mental health problems or brain injuries. Apparently he uses a revolutionary robotic prosthesis which they've been able to sync to the nerve endings in his arm, allowing one-to-one mapping for accurate movement.
If it's true, I'll be extremely impressed. I'd love to get some cerebellum fMRI readings…
Then I remember the cautionary tone the head researcher had used as he gave me the files earlier this morning.
I know you're excited, but don't expect to get a lot of data out of this for your own research interest. Our priority is to improve the prosthesis for its purpose—it's a weapon. Pierce doesn't care about anything else.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed, but this is just the reality at Shield. So much of their research could be used to improve the lives of average people… but that work never sees the light of day.
When I joined Dr. Nikolav's lab as a PhD student, Shield was affiliated as research partners on the project I was responsible for. Accordingly, I was allowed to publish my work in public journals, but Shield withheld some of the results.
That's when I learned that this is how they operate.
The door to the lab opens and an unfamiliar man steps in, scanning the room briefly.
"There you are. Elise Summers? We need you present in the lab. The subject has arrived and we need to monitor his brain readings for irregularities."
"What? But he's not supposed to arrive until tomorrow." I pick up the folder of hard copy files.
"Change of plans. They want time to do a full physical." He sighs, and I infer that this isn't the first time these researchers have been inconvenienced by orders from higher-up.
Working here might turn out to be very interesting.