(no subject)

A.N.D. Laboratories. Present Day.
12:15 P.M.

It's a thoroughly modern building, the kind built with gently curved walls and arches and "natural stone", because studies have shown these sorts of architectural features serve to give the impression of solidity and foreward-thinking. Just like the windows: so many windows, both inside and out, saying to everyone "look how honest and transparent we are!" even while the paperwork suggests otherwise.

Wendy Watson filed most of that paperwork. If only she'd gone into science instead of art, studied chemical engineering instead of colour theory, she might have realized its consequences earlier. But she didn't.

"Jeez, Mom, what do you mean, 'What am I doing in a science lab?' Well I happen to be working with the top scientific minds in the country, Mom -- oh, hold on."

The truth is, Wendy is not working so much with these scientists as near them; a heavy glass partition helps keep her reception area from being overwhelmed by the sounds (and just as often, smells) of the lab area beyond. Though she doesn't know it yet, this fact will soon save her life.

She clicks onto the next line. "Thank you for calling A.N.D. Laboratories, Rescrambling Your D.N.A., how may I direct your call?" Click: transferred.

Back to line one: "This is a really important job, Mom! ... Well, as a matter of fact, yes! Lots of art school grads get science jobs! Hold on, hold on..."

As she works the phone she toys with a lighter. It's a worn silver zippo, featuring an engraving of an airplane. Her motions have the feeling of deep muscle memory to them: she rubs her thumb over the lighter's surface, flicking the top open and shut again. "Thank you for calling A.N.D. Laboratories, Rescrambling Your D.N.A., how may I direct your call?" She looks at the lighter without seeing it.

Click, transferred, back to line one: "Yes, mother, I am still dating 'that guy'. And his name is Ben. No, he is not a homosexual. He's in... film school."

Wendy is used to this conversation. She has it at least once a day, covering what Wendy likes to call the 'Big Three': Life, Work, Men. Each subject is touched on just long enough for her mother to drive home the existential guilt that can only come from Not Living Up To Your Parents' Expectations.

Wendy sighs. "Hang on, mom --" Click. ""Thank you for calling A.N.D. Laboratories, how may I connect your --"

THUD.

...Thud? she thinks.

Crinkle.

Crinkle?

The glass behind Wendy shatters and before she knows what she's doing she's up and over the desk, scrambling wildly, the lighter flying from her fingers. Her receptionist's outfit, while adorable, is not exactly designed for acrobatics and she slips on the tile, landing hard on her back. This gives her a great view of the... thing that has broken out of the lab.

It's huge, head scraping the ceiling, long tail knocking paperwork off her now-vacated desk. It's making noises like a trash compactor if a trash compactor could gargle. It's covered in eyes, and tentacles, and hands, and though the thought doesn't occur to Wendy until the monster reaches a – clawing? beckoning? – paw towards her, it seems very very distantly human.

"Contamination alert," states a soothing female voice over the speaker system. No kidding.

In her headset, the caller is still asking something about shipping fees for international bulk orders. Wendy barks, "Please hold!" and runs for her life. No good: a tentacle lashes out about her middle and drags her to the ground, drawing her back towards the monster.

Later on it will occur to Wendy that that should have been it: that should have been the moment in which her life flashed before her eyes. She should have thought back on the character-building years of her childhood; the inner turmoil and ultimately strength she gained from the loss of her father; how despite the harsh judgments, her mother did, in fact, love her dearly. She should have reflected on her bond with Ben and realized how weak it was when compared to, say, her relationship with her best friend and roommate Lacey. She should have, at the very least, taken some measure of solace in the fact that after her death, some of her paintings might actually sell.

But none of this came to Wendy. The only thing that flashed before her eyes was the letter opener.

In the long run, that was probably for the best.

She drives the blade into the tentacle again and again, causing the creature to thrash and scream out like someone had thrown gravel into that same trash compactor. A moment later there's a high-pitched whine and the monstrous limb explodes, sending Wendy tumbling to the ground.

For one dazed second she is stunned but impressed that she could have done such damage with a letter opener, but then she sees the shoes. The shoes on the feet of the man. The man in the uniform. The man in the uniform with the huge, smoking gun.

Um.

(no subject)

Jolly Fats Weehawkin Employment Agency
8:15 P.M.

It doesn't look like any employment agency Wendy's seen before. The reception area looks stark and rarely used, one long black counter like something from 2001: A Space Odyssey knocked on its side, serving to keep customers, i.e. Wendy, apart from the receptionist, i.e. the woman in a dress with its volume dialed up to eleven, giving off the same fierce vibe as every elementary school teacher Wendy ever disliked.

The woman's eyes snap up behind pink cats-eye glasses as Wendy enters.

"Wendy Watson?"

Wendy responds the same way she did to all those teachers. "Who wants to know?"

"Don't get fresh with me, missy, I'll split your lip."

She takes a moment to glance around. The walls are adorned with posters that look right out of the 50's; Wendy spots one that reads

TO-DAY
IS ANOTHER DAY
WORK!

"What kind of temp agency is this?"

"The kind that wants to put you in the satisfying and high-paying world of temporary employment," the woman replies, in a tone that suggests she is neither satisfied nor high-paid. "Now, you wouldn't mind taking some tests for us, right?"

"Tests?"

"What are you, paralyzed from the neck up? Move it!"

---

Thus begins two and a half of the strangest hours of Wendy's life.

---

It starts easy: words per minute. Though Wendy is left to wonder why she is made to work on a typewriter, and why the woman's stop watch seems to have no numbers, only flashing lights.

---

Putting the colourful blocks into their matching holes was equally simple, and actually kind of fun, until the woman glowered down at Wendy and she had serious flashbacks to that time in kindergarten when she knocked down Nicky Sanderchuck's castle and was forced to spend snack time alone in the corner.

---

The lie detector test probably would have made more sense if the woman had actually asked any questions.

---

The thirty minutes Wendy spends on the treadmill is actually kind of a relief. At least she didn't have to spend any more time in that awkward wooden chair.

---

For the next little while they watch silent movie clips. Wendy watches them with a huge apparatus strapped to her head. It is heavy, uncomfortable, and covered in wires. After a couple of short films she becomes bored and lets her mind wander. The woman ends the test shortly after, her stern tone implying that Wendy has messed up, big time.

---

Next they sit across a table. The woman draws cards from a deck, facing towards herself, and Wendy describes what she thinks the cards show. By this point she is exhausted and simply invents each answer, talking at great length, with elaborate gestures, as she gives her explanation.

---

Finally they simply sit in the dark. Perhaps it's some sort of psychological test. Maybe the whole thing was. At any rate Wendy stares the grumpy, unblinking woman down until she can't take the silence anymore.

"So, what's next? Target practice? Obstacle course? Cavity search?"

"Don't let your pie hole talk you out of a job, young lady."

Wendy rolls her eyes.

"Wendy Watson..." The woman glances up, to where one lonely spot of light illuminates a balcony. "Meet your new boss."

A figure steps forward and Wendy nearly falls right out of her chair.