Dr. Elinor Weymouth. (cogency) wrote in mnhttnprjct, @ 2010-07-04 01:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | !narrative, !plot, elinor weymouth, so much html fail |
NOW WITH LESS HTML FAIL, thanks new Gdocs. >:|
WHO: Cameos by many, but it’s mostly about Dr. Weymouth, Bitch At Large.
WHAT: Enter a vignette of one Dr. E. Weymouth during the week celebrating her birthday. Except, of course, it’s hardly about her turning the big 4-0. For all ye who enter these tl;dr halls, here is what you will find: anger, intrigue concerning the NYU fiasco, and maybe – just maybe – a tiny hint that something isn’t right in the state of Denmark Weymouth.
WHERE: Various and sundry locales around New York, New York.
WHEN: Between Monday, 28 June 2029 and Sunday, 4 July 2029. Thar be mad timestamps in this bitch.
RATING: R for language, assault, and general Bad Person-ness.
3 JULY 2029, 23:14 EST. Her nails are rattling against the teak inlay on the armrest. “Diego,” she hisses, and the smoke coils around the intercom, “could you drive any slower?” He tries to reply but she has no interest in listening to it, allowing static to overcome instead. “You’re in a fucking hovercar. Floor it.” This cigarette was not going to last long enough. 28 JUNE 2029, 21:45 EST. “Oh, but did you read the Times today?” It’s your usual small talk over champagne, tapas, the works. Her chocolate-covered strawberries were taking forever so Elinor summons the sommelier over for another flute while she asks for an explication. “I was a bit busy this morning. Apparently the assistant couldn’t get the mango just right. There are only so many cartons, after all.” The sommelier is no idiot and so she smiles when the flute goes to her lips and the bubbly runneth over. “Was it a front page announcing the annual anniversary of my presence on the earth? Because if so, I’ll have to text the assistant to get it for me on paper.” “Darling, that’s your present next year.” The table tittered, mostly on cue. “No, something about our good old alma mater, Ellie. Apparently, our old dorms are being sold to that… god, Amanda, who was it again?” “Oh, um, some not-for-profit. It makes hobo homes for those Midwesterners by the Cancersippi.” “Right! Yeah, can you believe that? The world these days, Elinor.” “Right.” Her response is dull, toneless. “Waiter? Where’s my wine?” 3 JULY 2029, 23:21 EST. “Why are we stopping?” “It is a stop light, ma’am?” the intercom says, bewilderment leaking out of the screen and mingling with the smoke plumes. “It is what one does at them?” “You are not doing what I say, Diego.” “Ma’am, running stop lights isn’t like speeding, I do not think—” “If you think that merely getting broadsided would hurt, then perhaps you haven’t seen me properly angered. Go.” 29 JUNE 2029, 08:05 EST. “Elinor, isn’t there a better time for this?” “No, there—what? What is this, Roberts?” The lab assistant wilts, almost opens her mouth to correct with Rodriguez. “You imbecile—I’ve already seen this. You don’t think I’ve already seen this? Just because I didn’t make you a little bitty note to put on the bottom of your stupid little report doesn’t mean I haven’t seen it. A note of advice: my time is at a premium, so if I look busy, don’t attempt to grab my attention because it means I haven’t the time.” The cell-phone line creaks in silence as her dispatch was overheard, only picking up when the only noise on her end was the clatter of her heels. “Elinor,” her brother says again, “clearly this isn’t the time.” “Excuse me, Chadwick, but I will decide here whether it is the time and whether it is otherwise.” The door slams neatly in the background, complete with a flick of the lock. “And I daresay if one of our investments is going astray, there is no right or wrong moment in which to discuss it.” “I thought NYU was officially off the payroll of the Foundation, Elinor.” His tone is dull, listless, perhaps peeved that his happy ending masseuse absolutely must wait as he listens to the berating tones of his sister. Picking up on this pleases Elinor; it’s the best news she’s gleaned for herself this week. “The president didn’t budge with your insistence on expanding the University’s influence more towards the sciences and so you cut, right?” There’s a rustling of paperwork. “Says so on the report you officially filed at the meeting last quarter that this was your intent, at any rate.” “Please, Chadwick – do read the fine lines, and not just because they’re technically my ‘employer.’ The withdrawal is effective once they rewrite the budget for the 2029-2030 academic year.” There’s rustling on her end now as she picks up the briefing from the board of directors’ meeting, leafs through. “Apparently that’s effective for their vote on the sixteenth. And if they really think that they’re going to jeopardize the Health and Human Services contract I’ve managed to net for us, they have another thing coming.” There is a pause on the other line; if Elinor was astute enough to understand these things, she would have sensed the eye roll embedded within the reply. “And this has anything to do with me how…? Clearly, you have everything under control.” “Naturally. It’s just that you need to know that I’m going to be home for the beginning of the holiday weekend is all – at least until the Regatta, since I managed to sponsor some chit from it. Is that clear, Chadwick?” Finally, there’s warmth at the other end of the line. “Quite. We’ll see you on Friday.” “Indeed.” Click. 3 JULY 2029, 23:29 EST. When she swoops out of the car, she makes sure to open the driver’s side door and drag Diego out by his collar. It’s mostly due to the credit of shock that she even manages to get the keys and the man remotely close to teetering sideways in the seat. “If you think you’re driving me home after this, you are sorely mistaken.” “Doctor, you’re entirely too,” a pause, “inebriated to even think about this.” “If you do not get out of my car by the time I am back, I will shiv your eyes out with these keys. And don’t think I won’t – Baltimore taught me things.” 3 JULY 2029, 23:35 EST. “What in God’s name—” “Didn’t Skyler tell you that I was coming, Evie? Don’t be so surprised.” “Oh, I don’t know,” Brauer spits, “maybe a week ago. The poor child didn’t even have half of a clue as to what you even wanted her to call about, much less why you thought it prudent to call me at quarter ‘til one in the morning. And while we’re at it,” the old broad hisses, standing up to make eye contact with her visitor, “the poor child’s name is clearly Sus—” “We’re not here to talk about the little people, Evie, so don’t get on your fucking bleeding heart liberal pinko high horse and lecture me what and what not to call Assistant #527. Like she cares. Hell, like you care. It’s not like you’re here giving whoever presses your panties every fucking day Christmas cards or anything – unless mingling with the commoners is a thing you do, in which case I do so apologize.” For the first time in what would become a countless onslaught that bordered on unconscious twitch, Eve Brauer pinches the bridge of her nose. “Although it’s well known that you love making a sport out of my mockery, Weymouth, I’m sure that’s not why you’re here at such an hour. So, go on: why must you insist on darkening my door?” Elinor surges forward, eyes more whites than iris, up-do teetering towards tumbling down with all due force as she grasps the edge of Brauer’s desk and takes on the expression of a rabid pit bull. It’s enough for Brauer to lean back; naturally, Elinor only continues to invade. “I hear you’ve been making real estate deals, Eve. Outsourcing treasured, iconic buildings on the University campus so that,” and her face crumples with legitimate disgust, the stuff that confronting leprosy is made of, “refugees can have a halfway house.” “It was a legitimately reasonable course of action that one of the members of the student body mentioned at the round table,” Brauer notes mildly, that slight smile tinged with a veil of superiority that is good at creeping underneath Elinor’s skin and settling where she doesn’t like. “One of many, might I add, to counteract your incredibly sophomoric threat of pulling funds if we didn’t concede an eighteen percent increase to building funds for Langone. Not to say that we wouldn’t have eventually thought of such a situation ourselves, but—well, one must concede to the minds of the future every once in a while.” “The future? The future? I’m sorry, did I miss the memo where our future involved investing in the irradiated and destitute?” The words come out of clenched teeth; Brauer’s desk is starting to show dents from Elinor’s fingernails. “When I stepped onto the board of directors and authorized the investment of the Weymouth Foundation in this University, my impression was that the University was not a charity but an institute of learning. And what now? Where is the pedigree in this place? New York University is supposed to instill prestige, not benevolence. We are built to take the world’s finest and instead we’re having an administration that insists upon taking in the ‘ideas’ of a bunch of hand-to-mouth brats that feel entitled to an education?” “Dr. Weymouth, with all due respect,” Brauer manages, “but we are a business.” “Quite right. And a business such as New York University will not do well to cater to the likeness of leeches.” The silence is the sort that lasts for minutes and hours alike. At one point, either woman is a mirror of the other, from scowl to crossed arms. This is why Elinor appreciates the irony in what is said next to the point of revelry, as all women who worship at the altar of schadenfreude and irony would: “I really was hoping that it wouldn’t come to this.” And, as promised, the joy (!): it bubbles up through the cracks of Elinor’s façade, through the twisted smirk on her lips. “Oh darling, me either. Really and truly, I do love a dirty fight when it’s on the same plane but – well, in the end, I need to get what I want and do what I must to get it.” Brauer almost looks as if she’s going to ask (to be able to ask) Weymouth what she means by this, but it’s a split second before a sudden spread of neutrality sinks into her face. Disgust melts into disinterest, wonder dissipates and turns to pliability. Elinor smiles, and it’s real for once. The real smiles make it easier to control, after all. “Darling,” and Elinor Weymouth’s voice picks up overtones and undertones it doesn’t usually possess, “I think you should sit down as we talk about this. I want you as calm as possible so you can listen to reason. Don’t you like to be calm when you listen to reason?” “Yes,” Eve Brauer murmurs, not wondering why her colleague sounds as if she’s speaking on auto-tune by command, “that sounds quite nice.” The seat is the only place she can go, after all. It is the only place that would be right to go. This standing was foolish. So was the frowning, really. “I am ever-so glad you agree. There is something else I need you to do, darling, now that you’re comfortable – well, you are comfortable, right?” “Oh, yes,” Brauer manages, a dreamy smile on her face. “Now, what would that be?” Elinor’s grin doesn’t look cruel from this side of the pheromones, the ethereal yet soothing timbre of her voice. “I need you to break off the deal with the not-for-profit and sell the land to the Department of Health and Human Services. And while we’re at it,” she added lightly, “I think you need to revisit your policy of eligible students for the 2029-2030 academic year. Speaking as an alumna, darling, I do believe that it would be more beneficial for the institution as a whole if you encouraged students that could… give back to the community a little more in a fiscal manner. No more of this charity case nonsense, yes?” “Of course not,” Eve Brauer sighs, chin in the palm of her hand. “This all sounds perfectly reasonable.” “Of course it is, dear.” Elinor stands up, reapplies her lipstick before leaving the room. “I’m so glad we could have this talk.” 4 JULY 2029, 00:07 EST. “I told you, lady – you’re drunk as a skunk and if you think I’m not taking the keys back, you got another th—” The good thing about these new lazer stun pistols is that the only thing less traceable than the wound is the sound that it makes. Diego slumps over as if the sudden sufferer of a heart-attack and Elinor only pauses for a second to check a pulse before she drags the body into the back and slides the keys into the ignition. After all, it would be troublesome to explain a homicide so soon after a shady business deal. 30 JUNE 2029, 19:00 EST. “Hello, Ellie?” “Royce? I.” This pause is different; Elinor was not expecting this. “Why are you calling?” “Chad said you were torn up because of the NYU deal and I just wanted to check up.” Beat. “And Monica said that you found out at the dinner party she hosted. Pardon my French, Ellie, but that’s just crap. Nobody should have ruined your birthday like that – I mean, it’s your fortieth, for Christ’s sake.” “Oh, Royce.” She smiles into the receiver, but it’s not the kind of smile one would expect from this sort of discussion. “Don’t worry a hair on your head about that. Nobody ruins my birthday, darling.” |