ArchivedLogs:Informed Consent
| Informed Consent | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2015-11-08 "{Assistants. Techs. My goodness, the luxury.}" (Part of Flu Season TP.) |
| Location
<NYC> Rasheed's Lab - Toure Pharmaceuticals - Brooklyn | |
Gleaming and polished and state-of-the-art, this lab is spacious and well-equipped. There are a number of workspaces, some with biosafety cabinets, some with holographic or conventional combuter terminals. A number of storage cabinets sit against one wall; spectrometers and other equipment are found around the counters. Rasheed has been in here some while, now. He looks like he has not slept in some time, dress shirt rumpled, eyes shadowed. The holographic terminal he is sitting at has on display several MRI scans, at which he is currently making notes. The lab itself requires a security escort to get through to -- but those arrangements have been made, today. Not that he looks particularly /expectant/. No doubt he /is/ expecting company -- but his focus, at the moment, is mostly just on the terminal in front of him, thin shoulders hunched in his characteristic stoop. Nodding his thanks to the guards who bring him to the door, Bruce enters looking just a touch wide-eyed and frazzled. His wavy black hair looks a mess, his complexion sallow, and his eyes bloodshot behind thick black-framed glasses. Beneath a camel-colored linen sports jacket, he wears a dark purple poplin dress shirt, perfectly pressed but with the top button undone, and charcoal plain-front trousers. He carries a laptop bag slung over one shoulder, a tablet in the crook of the same arm, and a steel Stark Industries travel mug in the other hand. Spotting Rasheed, he opens his mouth, abruptly closes it again, and waves (with his beverage) as he shuffles over. Once he finds a surface that looks safe for setting down his mug, he produces a stylus and activates the holoprojector on his tablet but scribbles rapidly on its screen--so old fashioned. His words show up in real time as luminous floating blue letters (in typeface and not handwriting) in the air before him at chest height: 'Hello, I'm Bruce Banner. Thank you for hosting this on such short notice.' Lucien is not far behind Bruce, dressed more casually in grey corduroys, a crisp green button-down, a dark leather jacket over top. He thanks the guards in quiet French, trailing into the room behind Bruce. He has a thermos of tea in one hand, a black laptop bag in his other. "{Good afternoon,}" he greets Rasheed in quiet, clipped Spanish. "{I see you are still alive.}" Matt trails his brother by only half a step, his shoulders tight and his jaw firmly set. He wears a black t-shirt with a detailed blue line drawing of a house, a tunnel spiraling deep into the ground beneath it, and faded old blue jeans whose overlong cuffs extend past his black canvas sneakers to drag on the ground. He has an olive drab Blue Sun Corporation messagenger bag slung across his torso, and is clutching a glossy paperback copy of /Accelerando/ by Charles Stross. He pointedly avoids looking at Rasheed, but gives Bruce an appraising glance and a shy almost-smile. "{Nice to meet you, Dr. Banner,} he says, his French distinctly Quebecois, as he offers his hand. "{Matt Tessier.}" Rasheed's swift glance up from his work looks oddly startled, dragged up from his reverie as though confused by the sudden presence of People where before there had been only Work. His dark eyes open wider, blinking a little owlishly before they refocus on the others. "Ah..." The stoop to his shoulders grows. Fractionally. He types rapidly against a holographic keyboard, the words appearing in midair. 'Under the circumstances, it would have been foolish to delay. Thank you for coming. B is' there's a small delay in his typing. Only brief. 'Very proactive.' Bruce starts when the Tessiers enter, then, turning, offers them a wave as well (this time with stylus in hand). He retrieves his mug for a long sip of what smells like very strong coffee. 'Bruce Banner. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.' He accepts Matt's proffered hand, forgetting to set his stylus down first. Then, looking from him to Lucien. 'And you, Sir...?' He sets the tablet down so that he need not occupy both hands while communicating. 'B is quite right to be proactive, as should we. We didn't have time to go over our relevant specialities, but I am a biochemist with a background in R&D.' "Lucien Tessier." This comes with a small inclination of his head, a small twitch of his lips. He offers his hand, after Matt does. His handshake comes, rather reflexively, with a nearly indetectable whisper of calm, soothing, twining itself in to Bruce's brain chemistry. "{You won't find my name on any of the papers, last time. And I would very much appreciate --}" His eyes have tracked, now, back to Rasheed. Just for a moment. Then to Bruce again. "{-- an extension of that discretion again. I rather enjoy my life outside of this room. I would like to be able to return to it.}" Matt was in the process of pulling his own thermos from his bag, but, catching sight of what Bruce writes, shakes his head. "{Oh, I'm just the subject,} he explains, vivid green eyes snapping to Rasheed at last, though still not bothering to commuicate in a manner accessible to him. "{I have the drug-resistant strain of the disease.}" He casually swipes Lucien's tea instead of expending the enormous effort of getting his own. Rasheed has largely turned his attention back to his brainscans, through the others' introductions; the Tessiers, clearly, he already /knows/. He does type up his own introduction here, though, regardless of the fact that even a cursory amount of research into the zombie plague would turn up this information. 'My background is in neurology. I have considerable experience in treating neurodegenerative disorders, including assisting in developing the drugs Avicennan and Galenin to treat a strain of this disease two years ago.' The tension in Bruce's posture eases just a fraction when he shakes with Lucien. "{A pleasure to meet you.}" He nods. "{I would, of course, absolutely respect your privacy--both of yours.}" This last with a small nod at Matt, as well. Then, resuming his writing, 'I am familiar with Dr. Toure's work from the previous outbreak, and have brushed up on the relevant literature over the past week.' He pauses, eyes defocusing for a moment as though examining a heads-up display only he can see. 'As soon as we've thrown together privacy and consent documents for Mr. Tessier and any other subjects, we should get symptom profiles and samples. Do we have staff?' His free hand waves in the air vaguely. 'Techs, assistants, and such?' Lucien inclines his head, setting his bag down at a workspace of his own. "{My background is not in science at all; in my work life you can find me on stage. The drugs that treat the plague were modeled, two years ago, off of first watching me work with infected individuals. I have the ability to read and rewrite neurochemistry, to a rather fine degree of precision.}" After a pause, the admission: "{I am, myself, infected. My mutation quite effectively suppresses the symptoms. As far as I can tell, the disease is not progressing, but I do not trust I am not still contagious.}" This part, he repeats in Spanish, before huffing out a very soft laugh and reverting to French: "{Assistants. Techs. My goodness, the luxury. Last time around we had a half-dozen of us crammed into a basement, and no food.}" Matt's eyes track Bruce's writing in the air as he nurses his (well, Lucien's) tea. At the passing mention of informed consent, he slaps one hand over his mouth, guffawing, and nearly chokes. "{That...seems like a good idea,}" he concedes, fishing his own tablet from his bag. "{As for support personnel, I'm sure it would be trivial to acquire them. Our current situation is somewhat less desperate than...}" He nods at Lucien's description of his team's working conditions two years ago. "{That.}" The rest he actually swipes out on his tablet screen, in English, 'In the interests of everyone not dying, though, I'm willing to give an interview and samples now rather than later. I trust that you will not abuse my confidence in you.' There's a tightening across Rasheed's shoulders, at Matt's laughter. A small wrinkle that deepens the crow's feet around his eyes at the younger man's writing. He does, though, nod, in answer to Bruce. 'In abudance. Quite a number of the company's research staff is at our disposal. They are taking this as seriously as we are, I can assure you.' He glances up when Lucien speaks, brows lifting in surprise. 'You escaped infection last time. Does your ability treat the symptoms automatically, or does it require your attention?' Bruce pushes his glasses up onto the ridge of his nose as Lucien explains his role. He leans forward slightly, his eyes keen with interest. 'Excellent!' His stylus moves, quick and fluid. 'That actually answers a few of my other questions about modeling the illness.' He nods, rubbing the stubble on his chin with the backs of his knuckles. 'Very good, very good. I have certainly particiated in projects almost entirely devoid of support staff for no other reason than shortage of funds, but having them is in every way preferable. Now.' He raises thick black brows at the Tessiers. 'I think that we should first establish any notable deviations in signs, symptoms, and so on between those infected with the old and new strains. We will need someone doing active clinical work to follow up with patients who have received treatment. And, since you're here in any event...' This with a slight bow at Matt. '...we may as well start with you.' | |
