05-31-2014, 04:32 PM
Verna almost doesn't want to see it. Seeing the wreck they made of the place would make it more real. But she follows the man when Detective Fuller wants to take her.
The murals on the walls clash with all the destruction -- these are her first thoughts. Images so beautiful as even incomplete works of art shouldn't exist in a place where all the doors have been crushed and the contents of rooms scattered.
Fuller did tell her that the place looked like it had been turned upside down. The dream is dead, and it's best to just get on with things. So she takes a breath and continues.
The first place Fuller wants to take her is the place she's never been. She lets him know that the lab assistants aren't allowed upstairs. She's never been there. Her inventories wouldn't include whatever files and storage her employer kept. The real work was always done below ground.
Verna does not know about the missing staked vampire. Verna does not believe in such superstitious nonsense.
She has managed to contain herself, to be as prim and proper as can be during the process of inspecting the warehouse. But the sight of the basement laboratory takes the breath out of her. They were meticulous about destroying everything.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, she pipes up: "I want to take the hard drives. I want to see if I can't at least recover our files. Your inventory would be in... that," she says, and points to the wreck of a desktop machine.
There are several rooms down here. A little kitchen area, a conference room, and the laboratory proper. They didn't seem to have much of a preference for what to destroy. It's all gone.
She walks with care over the glass-strewn ground over to a space that once was particularly special to her. It's the blackboard where Dr. Andrássy shared coffee and a remarkable breakthrough with her. And shared it in a real sense -- he wanted her input too. The blackboard has been ripped off of the wall, and lies flat on the floor. Carefully, she rights it again, leans it up against the wall. To Detective Fuller, the scrawling of heavily arcane math and strange symbols and diagrams would probably make about as much sense as the language of aliens. To Verna, they spark memories.
Here, they are calculating the energy required to prize carbon atoms from other carbon atoms in different geometric configurations. Here they are drawing out an explanatory diagram for the ratio of oxidizer to antioxidant needed.
"None of the important pieces seem to be missing," Verna says, staring at the blackboard. "They've all just been destroyed."
It lends credence to her theory that this was not just people looking for drugs. Who in their right mind would destroy all the computers? Even those on the lowest rungs of society (one might argue especially they) would think to sell the easily sold.
The police presence makes her feel safe. Whoever it was who did this won't be back while they're around. They hopefully wouldn't be so stupid as to add cop killing to their list of crimes. But soon the police work is done. And they leave her with a warehouse with no door and a basement full of broken dreams. The evidence has been collected, the pictures taken, and whatever happens to the place next isn't their concern.
It's Verna's.
Because nobody has called back. And no matter how many times she calls, her employers' phones are turned off.
She doesn't have access to the lab's finances, but she's not going to leave the warehouse wide open for anyone to come by and loot. Money has suddenly become extremely tight, with her job seemingly over, and with student loans and rent coming due. She could potentially afford a replacement door, though nothing like what was there protecting the place before. And even that would require that she forgo food for a while.
So she goes to the hardware store and buys something else: boards, nails, and a hammer.
When anyone comes back to look at the destroyed warehouse, they will find that the doorway has been sealed by someone who took a great deal of care and effort to make sure that the wood lined up straight, and the nails were spaced evenly. It's almost like a calling card for Verna's handiwork, to those who know her. Everything must be perfect, even when it isn't.
The murals on the walls clash with all the destruction -- these are her first thoughts. Images so beautiful as even incomplete works of art shouldn't exist in a place where all the doors have been crushed and the contents of rooms scattered.
Fuller did tell her that the place looked like it had been turned upside down. The dream is dead, and it's best to just get on with things. So she takes a breath and continues.
The first place Fuller wants to take her is the place she's never been. She lets him know that the lab assistants aren't allowed upstairs. She's never been there. Her inventories wouldn't include whatever files and storage her employer kept. The real work was always done below ground.
Verna does not know about the missing staked vampire. Verna does not believe in such superstitious nonsense.
She has managed to contain herself, to be as prim and proper as can be during the process of inspecting the warehouse. But the sight of the basement laboratory takes the breath out of her. They were meticulous about destroying everything.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, she pipes up: "I want to take the hard drives. I want to see if I can't at least recover our files. Your inventory would be in... that," she says, and points to the wreck of a desktop machine.
There are several rooms down here. A little kitchen area, a conference room, and the laboratory proper. They didn't seem to have much of a preference for what to destroy. It's all gone.
She walks with care over the glass-strewn ground over to a space that once was particularly special to her. It's the blackboard where Dr. Andrássy shared coffee and a remarkable breakthrough with her. And shared it in a real sense -- he wanted her input too. The blackboard has been ripped off of the wall, and lies flat on the floor. Carefully, she rights it again, leans it up against the wall. To Detective Fuller, the scrawling of heavily arcane math and strange symbols and diagrams would probably make about as much sense as the language of aliens. To Verna, they spark memories.
Here, they are calculating the energy required to prize carbon atoms from other carbon atoms in different geometric configurations. Here they are drawing out an explanatory diagram for the ratio of oxidizer to antioxidant needed.
"None of the important pieces seem to be missing," Verna says, staring at the blackboard. "They've all just been destroyed."
It lends credence to her theory that this was not just people looking for drugs. Who in their right mind would destroy all the computers? Even those on the lowest rungs of society (one might argue especially they) would think to sell the easily sold.
The police presence makes her feel safe. Whoever it was who did this won't be back while they're around. They hopefully wouldn't be so stupid as to add cop killing to their list of crimes. But soon the police work is done. And they leave her with a warehouse with no door and a basement full of broken dreams. The evidence has been collected, the pictures taken, and whatever happens to the place next isn't their concern.
It's Verna's.
Because nobody has called back. And no matter how many times she calls, her employers' phones are turned off.
She doesn't have access to the lab's finances, but she's not going to leave the warehouse wide open for anyone to come by and loot. Money has suddenly become extremely tight, with her job seemingly over, and with student loans and rent coming due. She could potentially afford a replacement door, though nothing like what was there protecting the place before. And even that would require that she forgo food for a while.
So she goes to the hardware store and buys something else: boards, nails, and a hammer.
When anyone comes back to look at the destroyed warehouse, they will find that the doorway has been sealed by someone who took a great deal of care and effort to make sure that the wood lined up straight, and the nails were spaced evenly. It's almost like a calling card for Verna's handiwork, to those who know her. Everything must be perfect, even when it isn't.