Well, that was easy – the line took twenty minutes, and the needle took all of three seconds. Down the hall, back the way you came, you are stopped, however, by an older, stern looking fellow in a black lab coat – he raises an eyebrow. “New, I take it?” He drawls. “Orientation is that-a-way.” He points down the hall, spittle flying from his lips. “I’m Doctor Morris, the manager for the southeastern quarter of the facility. I don’t know if you’ll be working under me, but there will be no dawdling in my zone. Hop to, new guy.” He struts off like he owns a quarter of the place.
“Heh, heh, heh…” Someone chuckles off to your right. “How’s it hanging, kid?” Another older fellow, black with long, graying hair, and a three-day stubble of a beard, struts out with a mop and bucket. His gaze is sharp, and he has a wide, pleasant grin. “I’m Mikah, I’m, well, it doesn’t take a college degree to figure out what I do around here.” He leans on the mop. “I can’t stand ‘em either, old Morris. Hardass squared he is. But don’t let ‘em get to yeh. The stuff they do here is too interesting to ever be slacking – I sometimes work overtime cleaning the cages for the hell of it. Stuff of dreams.” He swipes the floor down – and starts shooting the breeze about adenine and thymine, splicing and other shit. You pick up enough from your conversation to know that this man could easily qualify for working in research – but should you ask him why, he just shrugs the question off. “Well son, I won’t keep yeh. Hurry on to orientation – don’t wanna piss off the old guys. Seeya around.” He winks, and smears away a pile of god-knows-what at the base of an unmarked door.
