injectblue (injectblue) wrote in repose, @ 2016-11-14 09:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, isaiah bishop |
[Narrative: Isaiah]
Who: Isaiah
What: Narrative
Where: Military Labs, Area 52
When: Now-ish
Warnings/Rating: Over-working dude
It was easy to lose track of time in the labs. There were no windows, nothing to indicate the passage of the sun. Hours faded into each other, and Isaiah worked. He noticed when his lab techs came and went, but there was usually someone around. Except for the very deepest hours of the night. Or at least he assumed so.
He noticed when one of them - what was her name? Jewel? Julie? - took it upon herself to ask if he'd eaten. And he definitely noticed when someone new (someone in camo with a badge reading higher clearance than Isaiah had) brought in a cot to set up in an empty corner of the lab and stood next to the lab bench with a styrofoam container that smelled of food. He was told (in no uncertain terms) that working himself to death was not a part of his contract, though they appreciated his work ethic. If he insisted on remaining in the lab, meals would be brought to him, and he would be expected to rest at regular intervals. Then the food remained while the man went away.
And Isaiah didn't think the man was actually serious. But what seemed like several hours later, he returned with another container, glaring at the one that remained on the edge of the cot, and edged himself between Isaiah and his work. "Doctor Bishop. You have been working for at least 48 hours, possibly more. If you cannot regulate your schedule, steps will be taken to aid you."
The tone made it very clear that the "steps" would not be optional. And might not be pleasant.
So he grudgingly obliged, getting to a stopping point in his work under the sharp and watchful eye of his new keeper, and then took both containers of food (even though the one was long-ago cold) and scraped them clean before putting his back to the room, pulling the olive-green blanket over himself, and sleeping.
The sound of the machines and the low voices of his tech were a background to a dreamless sleep, both so familiar that they didn't wake him until his body had taken enough rest. Once it had, he returned to his work. The meals kept arriving on what he assumed to be a regular schedule, the caloric value of the foods increasing gradually (without his notice as his thoughts remained focused on his work). The times between resting were uneven, but he did continue to use the cot.
Days passed in the same manner, and a tiny lens in an upper corner of the lab, unnoticed by everyone, observed and recorded it all.