HORIZON LABS
“Do you know the funny thing about a stab wound, little creature?”
“Please… help… me… why are you doing this…”
“Hush, now, little thing. Just listen a moment.”
“...”
“Good little dying thing. The curious thing about a stab wound, sweet meat, is that if it weren’t for the pressure of your beating heart, it wouldn’t be so much of a threat to your almost corpse.
You ever poke a hole in a water bag with a knife? If you do it near the top, not much water comes out - hell, the top is usually where you pour the water in. If you do it near the bottom, then the weight of all the water above it pushes down, weighs on it, forces it out.
Imagine that, little meat. Imagine your body as that water bag, your heart as the weight pushing down. If your heart refused to beat, the blood wouldn’t be forced so deeply out of your body. A little would spill, of course, but it’s the fault of the heart that keeps you dying. It’s the fault of the pressure, of wanting to live, of wanting to push through, that keeps you beating, beating, beating towards death. You climax towards death because your heart keeps beating your blood out of your body.
The heart doesn’t know, of course. The heart just beats, struggles to stay alive, pulls other blood in to push it out the wound. As far as your heart is concerned, it’s doing what it always did. Pushing the blood around the body. But if only your heart refused to beat, then you might survive. Ironic, isn’t it?
So what if the heart refused to beat, little one? What if the heart refused to beat. What if the heart… refused… to beat…”
“...”
“...”
“Hm… Shame. Seems the heart gave up too early.”
---
Miguel arrived at Horizon Labs without incident and back in his normal clothes. A beige-brown jacket, black pants, nice shoes. He had a job interview, after all.
The sunglasses didn’t come off, unfortunately - he was too photosensitive for that - but he’d just have to explain that to the clerk during the interview. Some would think Miguel wouldn’t be very worldly, given that he grew up mostly on an island off the coast of Manhattan and never strayed far from home until his 30s, but he had still met plenty of people, he knew a thing or two about other cultures, other places. He knew how people worked, more or less. He’d met over a thousand of them before he was 2.
“Name?” said the receptionist as Miguel arrived at the desk.
“Miguel O’Hara,” he said, trying to keep his mouth as closed as possible so they wouldn’t see his fangs.
“Mhm, I see. Just take a seat, we’ll be right with you.”
A few moments later, a man stepped cleanly from a door next to the desk. He was tall, thin but in a way that made him appear powerful, slicked-back blonde hair. He was young, but not youthful in demeanour.
Miguel knew when someone was overconfident or cocky - he had been himself, enough times. This man was confident because he was right, most of the time. Miguel didn’t need his extra senses to know that.
“Mr. O’Hara!” said the man, stepping forward and extending a hand. “Tyler Stone, pleasure to meet you.”
Miguel stood up, and took his hand, making sure to retract his claws as he did so. That was a sensation he still had to get used to.
“Please,” he said, his voice a little rougher than he expected, “call me Miguel.”
“Alright then, Miguel. Come on in,” the man turned and waved over his shoulder, only glancing back to extend the invitation, not because he needed reassurance that Miguel would follow him. He didn’t need to see to know things. That’s how he had founded Horizon, or so the story had gone.
--
“So what makes you think you'd be a good fit for this job? As far as I can tell, you have no resumé to speak of, and you don't exist in any other sense.”
“Well, to be frank, Mr. Stone, I've worked with some of the most brilliant minds this side of the stratosphere, but unfortunately, due to the nature of the work, it was highly classified.”
“Highly classified, huh?”
Stone was sitting square in front of Miguel, shoulders back, eyes focused, hands together, a half smile on his face at the word ‘classified.’
“Well, Mr. O’Hara -”
“Miguel.”
“... Miguel. Well Miguel, I hope you can understand that there's not a lot I can do with that. Without a resumé, I have no reason to hire you. Without any proof of work, I can't verify that you are who you say you are, that you're as good as you say you are, that you have any worthwhile experience whatsoever.”
“Uh-huh,” Miguel said.
Neither of them moved from their seats.
“... Which is why I'm going to give you a chance,” Stone said, his smile getting bigger. “Welcome to the team.”
He extended his hand, and Miguel consciously retracted his claws to take it. “When do I start?”
“Why wait? That's what I always say!” Stone slapped his thighs and stood. “Let me introduce you to the team!”
--
The ‘team’, as it was, was a basement room with a corner that dripped water from the ceiling, a large cylindrical tank that easily took up two-eighths of the space, and a large, blond, muscled man in a white lab coat with a clipboard.
The man waved when Miguel and Tyler walked in.
“Hey Eddie,” Tyler waved back, as if they weren't twelve feet away from each other. “This is Miguel,” he said, gesturing.
“Hey what's up,” Eddie said, without verbally including any punctuation.
Miguel nodded. “Hey.”
“Well, it's great to see you two getting along, I'll just leave you to it! Have fun!” Tyler slapped Miguel so hard on the back the spinnerets in his arms clenched.
“Wait,” Miguel said as Tyler was leaving. “What is it exactly that we're doing?”
Tyler smiled. “You're two of the best minds this side of the stratosphere. I'm sure you'll figure it out.”
---
Two weeks later, Miguel had solved the problem of the dripping wall by placing a bucket under the leak, to which Eddie had frowned, shrugged his shoulders and said “Wish I'd thought of that.”