Day 8

So I decided to make a blog on helping students study science, namely Cell Biology.  It reached 300 pageviews in 2 days.  This blog reached 300 pageviews in 2 months.

Science > fiction?

Nah.
---------------------------------------------------

VAILE PIANOIR did not know her age.  Where she came from, birth certificates did not exist, and there were no more family members to ask.  Not that she knew who to ask, considering her parentage and ancestry were also in the dark.  The fact was both upsetting and cheering at the same time: although it was troublesome to fill out forms and acquire identity cards, the lack of a certain age eventually began to feel like a lack of aging.

But at the moment, she did not feel quite so immortal.  Somebody had broken in and partially destroyed the underground laboratory in Averley.  She and Icard had put in their greatest efforts to keep his project a well-guarded secret.  Pianoir worried not that the intruder may have leaked information, but that information had been leaked to the intruder.

"So, my dear Emile, what do we know about this idiot?"

EMILE DUYER, the man behind her desk, did not speak.  He was mute and illiterate, the very model of a good employee.  Pianoir did not have to worry about prying eyes or loose tongues, but she took great care to keep his loyalty, for his handicaps could also be used against her.  She did not worry about this so much anymore, considering their twenty-one years of partnership from her initiation as a small-time intern to Director of Internal Affairs.

Instead, he added an unmarked manila folder to the already growing stacks upon the great oak desk, and flopped down on the chair, hands folded, legs splayed to the side.

Pianoir flipped aside the cover.  "Chevy Karussin, computer and bomb genius, what a devilish combo.  Do we know who he was working for?"

Duyer held up three fingers, and she turned to the third page.

"Cresco-Aerion, my old friend," her lips curling as she spoke.  "What do you want with ARKHOS?"

*     *     *

Icard wasn't sure if he lay on a bed looking up at a white ceiling or lay on the ceiling looking down at the white floor.  The events of the last few days had left his reason muddled and distraught.

In the aftermath of the shootout, he had limped outside, ignoring his computer's request for cleaning, to find the rest of his staff safely waiting at the evacuation meeting place.  Not a single one of them had called the police.  Most were speaking and gesticulating to amateur journalists and videocameras.  For a moment, Icard had thanked his foresight never to reveal the entirety of the project to anyone.  He then asked, and ARKHOS did, logging onto the internet to make a Google call to the police and hospital.  When the newsmongers began to buzz around him, Icard had sat down on the tarmac, stubbornly staring into space while he waited for help to arrive.

And when the world-weary nurses attempted to sedate him for shrapnel extraction, Icard had wrung them for a promise not to disturb or remove the small metal cylinder still clutched in his hand.

497 words.