Cyril hefted his satchel on his shoulder, taking the steps two-at-a-time up to the hall that housed his advising professor’s office. The Student Success building was all gray walls and arched windows, the light pouring across the armchairs. Students sat, laughing and chatting together. Two people sat in the corner, playing a fast-paced game of chess. One poor girl was crying over her notes by the window. That was about to be Cyril, after he told his advising professor about the stupid discovery and got that look he gave his graduate students, that quietly said, “I have failed you, and you have failed me. Just cut your losses.”
He hesitated in front of the door. The bronze plaque, “Raoul Winslow, PHD.,” glinted perfectly polished. His hand tighten on the strap of his bag that held the photos of his damnation, and he knocked.
“Come in!”
He pushed the door open. “Professor, I am sorry, I should not have chosen my thesis project before I did at least more of a thorough sweep of research, or chosen something with more research opportunities to back it up. I got under the boat, we took pictures, and—” Cyril stopped suddenly.
The woman sitting behind Dr. Winslow’s desk was not Dr. Winslow. Wrong office? His eyes flew around the room. No. Every diploma bore Dr. Winslow’s name.
He began his calculations.
Tailored clothes (is) money. Not uncommon here.
Makeup (plus) Hair (is) professionally done.
An eyebrow raised (is) expectation.
Face (is) somewhere in his memory?
IF: her face is somewhere in his memory (equals) FALSE, then he may know someone related to her, and an eyebrow raised (is) expectation, maybe it is not?
IF: her face is somewhere in his memory (equals) TRUE, and an eyebrow raised (is) expectation, than she knows he knows her. Even if she does not know him.
Tailored clothes = money
Professionally-done = money
Then tailored clothes + makeup + hair = a whole band of employees.
A whole band of employees = status
(Her face is somewhere in his memory = TRUE, and she knows he knows her) = status.
But there was one unknown variant.
“How did you get in here?” he asked.
Ms. Famous Celebrity (name unknown) folded her hands on the table with a sigh. “Don’t you recognize me, Mr. Rousseau?”
Answering a question with a question. A symbol of low intelligence, high charisma.
“How did you get in here?” he repeated.
“Why, I walked in, of course!” She laughed.
And he recognized her. Fyoni Vale: Billionaire entrepreneur, creator of the social-media-lifestyle-brand empire, Ident/fy. Her company headquarters was based right here in Providence.
Of course she was able to walk right in. She could get into the most secure place just by flashing that smile and using that same line. “Don’t you recognize me?”
Cyril had a page on Ident/fy. He never posted, but sometimes he reposted other people’s things. It was more of a status thing than a place for any actual content he consumed or thoughts he posted. He had a couple group chats between classmates. That was it.
Cyril had no previous opinions on Fyoni Vale. But annoyance was quickly evolving into something resembling an opinion.
“Where is Dr. Winslow?”
Fyoni leaned forward on the desk, “I heard a rumor he got a bad case of food poisoning and went home early today.” She giggled, “But rumors are just that, aren’t they, Cyril? Would you care to take a seat?”
“I would.” Cyril clasped his bag tighter.
“Oh loosen up! Have a little fun! It’s not every day you get to meet a celebrity.” She winked, leaning back in the chair.
“I have plenty of... fun. If you will excuse me.” He turned to leave.
“Wait,” Fyoni sighed.
He stopped.
“I heard about your dive. How you’re going to fail your thesis project and your whole career is going...” she whistled, “down the drain.” She dropped Dr. Winslow’s favorite pen into the waste basket.
Annoyance blossomed quite beautifully into resentment.
“Fine, you don’t have to say anything. I get this is probably all quite a shock.”
Not a shock. Confusion. Exhaustion.
“I have a project for you. And obviously I have the funding.”
Cyril turned back around.
“Publish your dump finding in your thesis. Get a passing grade, no accolades, graduate. It won’t matter. This will make your career for life.”
Cyril took a seat. “You are playing me.”
“Of course! All I do is play. That’s what happens when you have money, Cyril.”
Cyril folded his hands. “What is the project?”
“You’ve heard of the Lucky Moment, right?” She slid her phone across the desk. Luxury Yacht Sinks - Wreckage Missing! the headline read.
“Of course,” Cyril answered. It made international news three years ago.
“I found it. But I don’t want it to hit public news yet, if you get my meaning.” She winked. Cyril could think of a hundred terrible reasons for her to keep the wreckage under wraps. “I need an ocean-digger—”
“Marine Archaeologist.”
“—to confirm my finding and bring back actual evidence so I can release on my terms.”
“There are still bodies down there.”
“You will work out of my manor, of course. No more dorms, no more cafeteria meals, all the equipment you could dream of. And some going-around money, of course.”
Cyril looked down at the bag on his lap. The bag with the notes and photos of a failed thesis. The memory of The Look Dr. Winslow should be giving him right now. The list of friends and their early job offers. The disappointment he was going to face from his academic-legends of an aunt and uncle.
“Three months,” Fyoni Vale whispered. “Three months and your career is made. You’ll be so successful you’ll be turning down research grants.”
Cyril looked up. “I’m in.”
Unexpected! Love the pace. On to chapter 3...