Just Another Day: Chapter 6
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DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
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11:56 a.m. Fifteen to Twenty Minutes Ago on the West Coast Time on Monday, May 14, 2012, in Silicon Valley at NuGenetix
Martin Sumners sits at his desk – a slew of papers strung out across the large surface – staring at a sequence of steps that he has documented. His attention is split between these documents, and the chemical formula on his computer monitor.
For the last four or five minutes, he has had the same quizzical look on his face.
Jaime Shemar sits with him at the large desk, her auburn hair with blonde streaks is tied up in a ponytail. Her wire-rimmed glasses – used primarily for reading – complete the classic developer look.
"I know what you're trying to do, Chandra," he has thought to himself countless times in the last minute. "I just don't know how you get there doing this," he states out loud, pointing his pencil at one particular element in the formula.
"Exactly," Shemar agrees. "It is an odd choice, for certain."
Chandra Jain, the lead developer for the project, picks this moment to return to the testing lab on the second floor at the NuGenetix headquarters building. She had been downstairs in the cafeteria, grabbing a few snacks and drinks for the quality assurance team, which is led by her very good friend, Martin.
The two friends smile at each other as she walks through the door, her hands full of goodies for the team.
"Here you go," she remarks, tossing a bottled water toward Martin, who catches it in mid-air easily with both hands before reluctantly redirecting his attention back to the formula on-screen.
Walking toward the desk, she hands a second bottled water to Shemar, not risking a similar toss toward the legendarily awkward woman.
"Thanks Chandra," Shemar tells her colleague, happily grabbing at the bag of potato chips being offered.
Chandra now moves toward the conference table in the middle of the room. Without a word, both Shemar and Martin Sumners move to the larger circular table, as does Raj Rastogi, the second-in-command developer to Chandra Jain. All know that Jain wants a debrief – and uses this debrief time to give everyone a mental brain-break from staring at numbers and formulas.
"Who wants to start?" Jain asks, taking a sip of water. It has been a better morning, with Martin suggesting that he and Jaime see some progress being made in identifying what is wrong with the current antidote.
"We decided that our focus has been looking to treat the memory loss directly," Martin begins, taking a bite of the energy bar provided from the cafeteria.
"And we decided that perhaps that is the wrong approach," confirms Jaime Shemar. "Instead of attacking this directly, as a direct symptom . . . what if the memory loss is actually a side effect of something else we are doing?"
"And you are convinced that the memories are still there, but being . . . for lack of a better term, blocked?" Jain asks again. They've had this conversation before, earlier this morning. But the lead developer is happy for any type of new direction to take. They have been at this for over three weeks now, with no success.
The last few weeks have been about eliminating what doesn't work, not focusing on what might work better.
"Hidden is a better term," Shemar replies. "Somehow, something in your original formula is acting like some type of hypnosis, suggesting that those memories are still there . . ."
"Just not accessible," Jain finishes.
"Beta blockers, anti-seizure medicines, anti-depressants . . . all are known to potentially cause memory problems," Rastogi agrees. "We just have to work this piece by piece, because somehow, our trigger that causes one to fall asleep, for lack of a better term, also has this side effect."
"Even treatments for thyroid or liver issues could be involved," Sumners remarks.
"But you are still just giving more possibilities and no probabilities," Jain replies, her frustration mounting.
"Not exactly," Martin interrupts with a smile, an idea brewing in his mind. "Damn, of course!" he almost shouts out loud. "I can't believe I didn't see this before."
"Jaime, come here for a moment," he adds excitedly, standing quickly and moving toward the large white board that is filled with formulas. He points to the board making his way to one of the formulas on the right side of the board when the first jolt hits, jarring the lighting and HVAC structures overhead, and knocking plants on their side. Suddenly, one hard jolt disengages the hanging light fixture over the conference table, causing the appliance to come crashing down on the table . . .
. . . and causing Martin Sumners – whose easily-frightened nature is all but legendary to his team – to crash land on the ground, now passed out after being 'suitably frightened' by the sudden earthquake, care of the drug they are trying to figure out.
"You have got to be shitting me!" Chandra explodes, both anger and despondent emotion evident in her voice.
"Oh my God," Jaime Shemar gasps, her hand over her mouth as the shaking continues, and she finds her way under a table, along with her colleagues.
"He's not going to remember this 'eureka' moment, is he?" Jaime realizes.
"No, he's not," Chandra replies sadly. "Dammit, no he is not."
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At the same moment, back in San Francisco, California in the Mission District.
Detective Jennifer Blackard is driving down 20th Street away from her small home. She has the later shift today, after a long night last night, and will drop into the station after grabbing a quick bite to eat at the local diner she enjoys frequenting.
The string of robberies at local night clubs – dubbed by the media as the 'dance robberies' – is finally over, with Detective Blackard and her partners, Frank and Dean, catching the perpetrators after a two-week run on the city night scene.
She smiles, thinking of the two men who are her seconds – wondering how similar they are to the infamous Ryan and Esposito that Kate Beckett and Richard Castle often talk about . . . and once again marveling that Kate referred to her two closest friends back in New York City – one who she refers to as a brother – by their last names.
As she did, and occasionally still does with one Richard Castle.
She chuckles, knowing how Frank Robbins and Dean Jimerson get such grief for their names, as somehow Frank and Dean always turns into Frank and Bean back at the precinct.
It is harmless humor, of course, but clearly has grown old on the duo.
She takes a quick gander at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. Her additional make-up only slightly covers the purplish swelling under her right eye, care of a punch she took from one of last night's perpetrators during the arrest.
"It's a good thing Sam doesn't see this," she smiles to herself. "God only knows how he would react."
She then considers her other friend, one Willie Crockett, who was always a friend while they were on the force together. She doesn't need divine knowledge to know exactly how her large friend would react if he could see her now.
Scorched earth, at a minimum.
No, she has to make sure that she doesn't see either of these men in the coming days, as she has no desire to have to talk either of them off a ledge. Not that she would be successful.
Glancing at her watch, she smiles, knowing that Sam is likely still across the bridge in Sausalito. She loves the idea of Sam making an investment – getting involved – with the good work being done there.
She has no illusions of the man who is slowly recapturing her heart . . . but she can't deny that somehow, she and her friends are having some impact on the man's . . . humanity, for lack of a better term.
And that of his enforcer, who, according to Kate, may actually have found a woman he may possibly, maybe, sort of be interested in.
"That would be a first," she thinks to herself. "And that would be so good. Willie hasn't been the same since Janice walked out."
She pulls up to the light, seeing the yellow hue, knowing she won't make it through. Tapping her brakes to stop at the pending red light, a stroke of fear strikes her through the heart . . . as she realizes she is not slowing down.
Her brakes are not working.
Her new brakes, installed less than two months ago, are not working. Which can only mean one thing.
Her brakes have likely been cut.
She honks her horn violently, hoping no one will come into the intersection, quickly pulling the stick to downshift into reverse – when she feels the first jolt. In front of her, a utility pole holding the traffic lights on the right side of the street falls over, slamming on the hood of her car, while another car approaching from the right of the intersection slams into her passenger side.
The last thing she remembers as her vehicle now spins rapidly out of control is to wonder how badly this sudden quake is affecting her friends across the bridge. Her now out-of-control vehicle slams into the brick building on the driver's side near the rear of the car, disabling the vehicle and bringing her to merciful unconsciousness.