01-28-2020, 06:08 PM
University of Carville, Lauchenoiria
28th January 2020
Professor Amaya Morse sighed as she continued marking essays from postgraduate students. She taught a module in Neurology and Gender, which had become increasingly popular in recent years, with the side effect that she now had far more marking than she would enjoy. Her theories on epigenetic factors producing differences in male and female neurology, as opposed to genetic factors present from birth were gaining traction across Lauchenoiria, and she was pleased.
She enjoyed her research immensely, and had devoted much of her life to her career, sacrificing her social life for it. She had never been in a relationship, which was fine by her - she viewed romance as a distraction from the intellectual pursuits in life. She loved her job as a researcher, and she didn’t mind teaching either - when the students were behaving, at least. She had almost forgotten her second, secret job. She hadn’t reported back in years, and she rarely checked for emergency messages any more. She was quite convinced she would never be called on, and that suited her just fine.
Knock, knock.
“Enter!” she called, not looking up from the essay. She got a lot of visitors to her office, students with questions and staff wanting to run theories by her, and that one janitor with the irritating crush.
“Professor Morse?” asked a voice she didn’t recognise. She glanced up. It was a man wearing a dark suit, well built and older than the typical graduate student. Something about him made her pause.
“Yes, that’s me. Can I help you with something?”
“I need you to come with me,” the man said. She scoffed, and gestured to her essay.
“I’m busy just now, whatever it is will have to wait,” she said, crossing out an incorrectly spelled word and writing the correction above it.
“I’m afraid that won’t be acceptable,” the man said, and the door creaked as a second figure entered. She looked up again, slowly. Ah, she thought. Her office was on the 8th floor, there was no way out - or, at least, not unless it was permanently.
“Look, please, I just need to mark this essay,” she said suddenly, pleading a little. “I haven’t done anything, I’ll tell you later, just…”
They stepped closer to her, quickly, a third one appearing with a weapon drawn. Amaya closed her eyes and grimaced as they grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. She stood, breathing deeply, in and out, in and out, as they handcuffed her and began to march her down the corridor. She opened her eyes again, to see where she was going, and remained silent, an expression of heartbreak on her face.
“Please, I never even did anything for them…” she whispered almost to herself. She’d become so used to her life here that she didn’t want it to end, she didn’t want to go back to her terrible childhood and a time of no free will and no choices. They had given her the skills to create a good life for herself in spite of her circumstances, she would give them that. But she didn’t want it to end, and she didn’t want to go back.
When they put her in the back of a van, and drove off, she put her head in her hands, fighting back the tears that threatened to roll down her face. They watched her in silence, never hurting her - the only thing that gave her any hope.
28th January 2020
Professor Amaya Morse sighed as she continued marking essays from postgraduate students. She taught a module in Neurology and Gender, which had become increasingly popular in recent years, with the side effect that she now had far more marking than she would enjoy. Her theories on epigenetic factors producing differences in male and female neurology, as opposed to genetic factors present from birth were gaining traction across Lauchenoiria, and she was pleased.
She enjoyed her research immensely, and had devoted much of her life to her career, sacrificing her social life for it. She had never been in a relationship, which was fine by her - she viewed romance as a distraction from the intellectual pursuits in life. She loved her job as a researcher, and she didn’t mind teaching either - when the students were behaving, at least. She had almost forgotten her second, secret job. She hadn’t reported back in years, and she rarely checked for emergency messages any more. She was quite convinced she would never be called on, and that suited her just fine.
Knock, knock.
“Enter!” she called, not looking up from the essay. She got a lot of visitors to her office, students with questions and staff wanting to run theories by her, and that one janitor with the irritating crush.
“Professor Morse?” asked a voice she didn’t recognise. She glanced up. It was a man wearing a dark suit, well built and older than the typical graduate student. Something about him made her pause.
“Yes, that’s me. Can I help you with something?”
“I need you to come with me,” the man said. She scoffed, and gestured to her essay.
“I’m busy just now, whatever it is will have to wait,” she said, crossing out an incorrectly spelled word and writing the correction above it.
“I’m afraid that won’t be acceptable,” the man said, and the door creaked as a second figure entered. She looked up again, slowly. Ah, she thought. Her office was on the 8th floor, there was no way out - or, at least, not unless it was permanently.
“Look, please, I just need to mark this essay,” she said suddenly, pleading a little. “I haven’t done anything, I’ll tell you later, just…”
They stepped closer to her, quickly, a third one appearing with a weapon drawn. Amaya closed her eyes and grimaced as they grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. She stood, breathing deeply, in and out, in and out, as they handcuffed her and began to march her down the corridor. She opened her eyes again, to see where she was going, and remained silent, an expression of heartbreak on her face.
“Please, I never even did anything for them…” she whispered almost to herself. She’d become so used to her life here that she didn’t want it to end, she didn’t want to go back to her terrible childhood and a time of no free will and no choices. They had given her the skills to create a good life for herself in spite of her circumstances, she would give them that. But she didn’t want it to end, and she didn’t want to go back.
When they put her in the back of a van, and drove off, she put her head in her hands, fighting back the tears that threatened to roll down her face. They watched her in silence, never hurting her - the only thing that gave her any hope.
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