UnHolyPimpHand
Not LitShark
- Joined
- Jul 12, 2010
- Posts
- 539
((Collaborated Works))
Clark Peterson sat with the back of his chair facing the interior of his office, Gabriel Ortega CFO was still waiting for an answer, none too patiently. The trouble was, Clark didn’t have an answer. Knowing that he wouldn’t find the answer looking out his floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the ocean didn’t stop Clark from looking for it there.
“I just wanted to help people,” Clark sighed, turning back to face the unwelcome news that they were out of runway and further from FDA approval than when they’d started, “I told you it was too soon to take the company public.”
“Bullshit, Clark,” Gabe hadn’t slept in three days and was not letting Clark pin this on him, “you burned through our runway on legal settlements and endless studies that just led to more lawsuits. It doesn’t work—or more specifically, it doesn’t matter if it works because it’s unsustainable. The side effects related to production are too severe!”
“But what about the people we’ve helped—the kids we’ve saved?”
“They’re grateful, Clark—but they don’t work for the FDA and the FDA is who we need to impress.”
“But we’re improving—we’re getting better. One strong candidate could make dozens of treatments possible.”
“One is still too many, damnit! We’re talking about rendering someone sterile in their prime—”
“We still don’t know that those side-effects are permanent!”
“Even if they’re temporary! It’s people’s reproductive rights you’re fucking with.”
“Politicians have been fucking with women’s reproductive rights for decades. We’re just talking about one person—wo-man! Singular. A volunteer maybe…”
“You’re grasping at straws, Clark. I’m going to go clean out my desk.”
Clark turned back to the window abruptly. It couldn’t end like this… there had to be something he was missing. Clark wasn’t about to admit defeat—not now, with the goal so close…
“Emily, could you bring me the requests for treatment book?” Clark turned back and spoke to his receptionist through intercom.
“Right away, Mr. Peterson,” Emily answered through the speaker.
The answer was in that book… it had to be.
***
She sits in the hospital room; listens to the steady beep-beep-beep of the monitor. His eyes open and he smiles weakly, reaches up to brush his hand along her face, before it drops on the blankets. "Eva," his hoarse voice whispers. His hand's clammy, and she fights the tears as she holds his hand and those eyelids flutter back closed.
She weeps when they wheel him away.
Non-specific autoimmune disorder, doctor-speak for 'no idea what's wrong' - only that his immune system's attacking his body. Once, his lungs, causing pneumonia, another time his kidneys, one consumed and the other barely functional. Their time together is delineated by trips to the hospital, learning the first names of the entire hospital staff.
She’s watching him through the glass when his doctor asks for a word; pulls her into a room and closes the door. “We both know he’s at the end of his road,” he says, voice bleak as it trails into the distance. “There’s not much that we can do now. I absolutely hate to suggest this, but there may be a drug, “ he sighs, and pauses long enough that she thought he’d never continue.
“ReNova just got FDA approval. Extremely limited low rate production, just enough samples to pass the certifications; production ended for unknown reasons. It’s a miracle drug, though. I had a patient with multiple organ failure, similar to this scenario; within a month of regular dosage he regained all functionality of his organs and made a full recovery. It was truly a miracle.” His awe is palpable as he recounts the experience. Then, his face falls. “Unfortunately, Zephyr Corp ceased production and he relapsed once the medication ran out.”
*-*-*
“Please understand, Mrs. Cohen, if there were anything that could be done, I would be behind it whole-heartedly. The reason I began Zephyr was to help people like your husband, but the process is just too costly—and I don’t mean money,” Clark was standing, facing away from the distraught, soon-to-be-widow.
The sunset had stained the vast horizon blood red and the clouds were capped in purple off into the distance. Helping people had been great, but Clark might miss this view most of all when the IRS came to seize this building.
“We published findings as a medication, which the use of ReNova is a part of it—but that’s an oversimplification that we spread as a means of protecting certain confidential practices. You see, the lion’s share of the work that happens here in correcting auto-immune disorders is carried out by nanomachines. I know, it sounds like science fiction—but the reality is that we’ve perfected the actual science of engineering certain strains of protein with the ability to repair DNA coding errors at a molecular level—and though the process has been proven to work in clinical trials, the acquisition of these proteins has proven… prohibitive. I regret to say.
“So while I’d be delighted to sell your husband mountains of ReNova, I’d only be selling you false hope without access to more of these proteins—which we have been expressly prohibited from producing more of.”
Clark finally turned back from the window and sat back at his desk. His Armani suit was perfectly tailored and matched down to the socks and the gems that he wore in his cufflinks. His watch looked like something from the future.
“I understand your desperation, but short of… really extraordinary and likely unpleasant measures, there’s nothing more that I can help you with. Please…” Clark gestured toward the massive pivot-door, carved from a single piece of cross-cut Teak wood.
Inwardly he wondered if she’d dressed like that intentionally, was she inviting his gaze? Was she willing to betray her marriage to save her husband? Clark wasn’t sure, but he also knew better than to be the one to suggest it.
Clark Peterson sat with the back of his chair facing the interior of his office, Gabriel Ortega CFO was still waiting for an answer, none too patiently. The trouble was, Clark didn’t have an answer. Knowing that he wouldn’t find the answer looking out his floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the ocean didn’t stop Clark from looking for it there.
“I just wanted to help people,” Clark sighed, turning back to face the unwelcome news that they were out of runway and further from FDA approval than when they’d started, “I told you it was too soon to take the company public.”
“Bullshit, Clark,” Gabe hadn’t slept in three days and was not letting Clark pin this on him, “you burned through our runway on legal settlements and endless studies that just led to more lawsuits. It doesn’t work—or more specifically, it doesn’t matter if it works because it’s unsustainable. The side effects related to production are too severe!”
“But what about the people we’ve helped—the kids we’ve saved?”
“They’re grateful, Clark—but they don’t work for the FDA and the FDA is who we need to impress.”
“But we’re improving—we’re getting better. One strong candidate could make dozens of treatments possible.”
“One is still too many, damnit! We’re talking about rendering someone sterile in their prime—”
“We still don’t know that those side-effects are permanent!”
“Even if they’re temporary! It’s people’s reproductive rights you’re fucking with.”
“Politicians have been fucking with women’s reproductive rights for decades. We’re just talking about one person—wo-man! Singular. A volunteer maybe…”
“You’re grasping at straws, Clark. I’m going to go clean out my desk.”
Clark turned back to the window abruptly. It couldn’t end like this… there had to be something he was missing. Clark wasn’t about to admit defeat—not now, with the goal so close…
“Emily, could you bring me the requests for treatment book?” Clark turned back and spoke to his receptionist through intercom.
“Right away, Mr. Peterson,” Emily answered through the speaker.
The answer was in that book… it had to be.
***
She sits in the hospital room; listens to the steady beep-beep-beep of the monitor. His eyes open and he smiles weakly, reaches up to brush his hand along her face, before it drops on the blankets. "Eva," his hoarse voice whispers. His hand's clammy, and she fights the tears as she holds his hand and those eyelids flutter back closed.
She weeps when they wheel him away.
Non-specific autoimmune disorder, doctor-speak for 'no idea what's wrong' - only that his immune system's attacking his body. Once, his lungs, causing pneumonia, another time his kidneys, one consumed and the other barely functional. Their time together is delineated by trips to the hospital, learning the first names of the entire hospital staff.
She’s watching him through the glass when his doctor asks for a word; pulls her into a room and closes the door. “We both know he’s at the end of his road,” he says, voice bleak as it trails into the distance. “There’s not much that we can do now. I absolutely hate to suggest this, but there may be a drug, “ he sighs, and pauses long enough that she thought he’d never continue.
“ReNova just got FDA approval. Extremely limited low rate production, just enough samples to pass the certifications; production ended for unknown reasons. It’s a miracle drug, though. I had a patient with multiple organ failure, similar to this scenario; within a month of regular dosage he regained all functionality of his organs and made a full recovery. It was truly a miracle.” His awe is palpable as he recounts the experience. Then, his face falls. “Unfortunately, Zephyr Corp ceased production and he relapsed once the medication ran out.”
*-*-*
“Please understand, Mrs. Cohen, if there were anything that could be done, I would be behind it whole-heartedly. The reason I began Zephyr was to help people like your husband, but the process is just too costly—and I don’t mean money,” Clark was standing, facing away from the distraught, soon-to-be-widow.
The sunset had stained the vast horizon blood red and the clouds were capped in purple off into the distance. Helping people had been great, but Clark might miss this view most of all when the IRS came to seize this building.
“We published findings as a medication, which the use of ReNova is a part of it—but that’s an oversimplification that we spread as a means of protecting certain confidential practices. You see, the lion’s share of the work that happens here in correcting auto-immune disorders is carried out by nanomachines. I know, it sounds like science fiction—but the reality is that we’ve perfected the actual science of engineering certain strains of protein with the ability to repair DNA coding errors at a molecular level—and though the process has been proven to work in clinical trials, the acquisition of these proteins has proven… prohibitive. I regret to say.
“So while I’d be delighted to sell your husband mountains of ReNova, I’d only be selling you false hope without access to more of these proteins—which we have been expressly prohibited from producing more of.”
Clark finally turned back from the window and sat back at his desk. His Armani suit was perfectly tailored and matched down to the socks and the gems that he wore in his cufflinks. His watch looked like something from the future.
“I understand your desperation, but short of… really extraordinary and likely unpleasant measures, there’s nothing more that I can help you with. Please…” Clark gestured toward the massive pivot-door, carved from a single piece of cross-cut Teak wood.
Inwardly he wondered if she’d dressed like that intentionally, was she inviting his gaze? Was she willing to betray her marriage to save her husband? Clark wasn’t sure, but he also knew better than to be the one to suggest it.
