2: Mr. One Strike, what happened on floor 4 and a damned fine cup of coffee.

 The Sun shines on an industrious Bridlington.  It shines on a few other places as well, presumably, but they're well outside the scope of this story, so we'll let them look after their own affairs for the moment.

GTech1 sparkles like a metaphor near a, given the setting, surprisingly clean ocean.  I mean yeah, we're a little overcrowded here but we haven't gone full dystopia, yet.  Global conservation efforts have really made a difference.  Our perspective shifts to the coast, soaring over shopping and industrial districts.  Nobody but the absolute creme de la financial creme actually LIVE here, lord no, but even at 1130 on a Monday morning, it's bustling.  Quite thoughtfully laid out, too, architected and decorated in a quite effective early-2000's minimalist style with art deco flourishes that really...

Well, it can look however you want a tremendous futuristic city to look.  That's between you and the art director when this inevitably gets purchased for a major motion picture.  It's pretty though.  And only one building matters, anyway.

Right in the centre of the Bridlington coastline, long since replaced with servicable, modular concrete slabs, is the largest singular place of business in the world.  GastroTech's head office.   Dozens, nay, hundreds of storeys, each block of 10 dedicated to a different function.  Mile after mile of mail, human resource, finance, IT and engineering departments.  A glass jewel, so bright and so large that aeroplanes are no longer permitted to fly directly overhead within a 20 mile radius for fear of blinding pilot and crew alike.  And next door, a much smaller concrete building, a heat haze perpetually hovering above it.  Rumour has it that this, the R&D department, was always the least favourite of the company.  A very necessary function, certainly, they're a company that deals in nothing BUT scientific innovation, but... well, it's just not sexy, is it?  While other departments can rattle off profit figures, can hire and fire at will and the like, the best the folks in R&D are every perceived to do is occasionally burst out the door shouting that they've developed a new process to more efficiently produce flavour compounds.  And frankly, they don't do it very often.  Their work takes time and plenty of it.  On this day, the doors do indeed burst open, but this isn't a eureka moment.

Two scientists hurry across GTech Plaza, the business hub of the city, through the glass arches of the head office building (glass was in architectural vogue a few years ago and we've got a lot of surplus sand to use up now that it's all been replaced with concrete) and through the main doors.  Passes are swiped, the great doors open, they almost sprint, ashen-faced and silent, past the front desk and towards the biometric scanners of a very small and exclusive lift tucked discretely to one side.  The receptionists, respectfully, don't say a word but they exchange a look, one that they've exchanged many times before.  "Dead men walking", it says.

Now would be a good time to discuss old Joe.  Joe "one strike" Winchester is the current Head of GastroTech.  Not CEO, not Director, none of that for Joe.  He's a self-described straight shooter.  Cuts through the bullshit.  His job title is "Head" and not one person would dare critcise that, because Joe is, objectively, something of a celebrated bastard.  He worked his way up from the bottom, something of a cliché but in his case, quite true.  Now 65, he started as a mail runner at the age of 16 in a financial organisation, then as a clerk in a bank, a business analyst for an automotive company, team lead at a publishing house, manager for a shipping company then director of operations for a major logistics firm.  It took him 10 years.  Known for being willing, if not eager, to mow down anybody who stood in his way and to not only tread on the backs of former colleagues on his meteoric rise to the top, but to wipe his feet on them too, he was incredibly capable at his job.  Incredibly.  He made it his business to know his business inside and out.  Trimming the fat, optimisising, scrutinising.  Any company run by Joe would be a well oiled machine, but any perceived failure, any sign of not giving your all each and every day, well that'd result in a memo, simply reading "Strike 1 - W".  That was what you got, one failure.  The next would be dismissal.

Joe came from a long line of leaders.  Starting with Abe Winchester, owner of... well, the Winchesters didn't like to talk about it in depth, but he was a major provider of raw material to the sugar trade in the 1600s, unconcerned with trivial things like "salaries".  Since then, every Winchester has been a big player in the military, politics or business.  The Winchester genes ran strong in him, so much so that to walk through the family gallery, lining the walls leading to his office, was like walking past dozens of copies of the same picture, gradually increasing in quality.  Bald since his 20s, overweight with a bulbous nose and a pale complexion permanently reddened by decades of quiet, apoplectic rage, his predilection for brown tweed suits and matching brown hats gave him a certain Melton-Mowbray look.  A pork pie of a man, was he.  Had he not become one of the richest and most recognised people in the world, to look at him you'd imagine that at any given moment, he'd be three pints of bitter deep and contemplating a career telling racially-charged jokes in disreputable pubs.  But Joe had no sense of humour.  The last time he'd so much as smiled was when posing for his employee ID badge 35 years ago.

He didn't have an interest in science.  No streak of altruism.  As the world had been on the brink of culinary and societal collapse, he'd simply seen a niche to exploit.  He had a sizeable personal fortune and plenty of industry contacts.  A great believer that any problem can be solved with the proper application of the world's most motivating forces, money and shouting, he'd found the greatest minds that money could hire and put them in a building containing cutting-edge lab equipment and an enormous perspex cube filled with high-denomination bank notes, starting day one of operations at his new business venture with the immortal words: "I'll unlock it when you're done, now sod off and get it worked out".  For a short while, this actually became a popular and moderately management style, companies replacing expensive employee satisfaction initiatives, away days and social committees with literal locked boxes of incentive money.  Sure, a few people died of exhaustion along the way, but stuff got done.

The two scientists (I really hope you're not getting as derailed with these tangents as I am) stare at the brass walls of the lift.  The gold plated rails, the discrete display showing the floor number.  They're headed for floor 116, the absolute top.  Despite being the entire top floor of a building with an impressive floor plan, it contained only 5 offices, each the size of a small bungalow.  Suites would be a more appropriate way to refer to them.  The offices for the directors of finance, HR, legal and the current head of the GTech labour union.  Joe liked to keep his best pals within striking distance, except the union rep which he preferred up top to keep on a short leash.  The numbers slowly tick by.  20.  25.  30.

"Why.  Why did you tell him." the younger one, Samantha, a 35 year old senior researcher, asks of her colleague.  She doesn't move, staring unblinking at her own reflection in the brass panels.

"Well who else was going to?  I'm near retirement, better my head on the chopping block than any of yours." replies Isaac, 62, lead innovation strategist (he didn't really know what his job was, either).

She turned to him sharply.  "Oh no, you're not going down as a martyr."

He sighed.  "Well we had to get SOMETHING to him, right?  He's been complaining about a lack of progress for months now and he's been getting this look.  You're not on the weeklies, you haven't seen it, but I have.  He's been getting... quiet."

"He's always quiet."

"No, ACTUALLY quiet.  Terse.  Last time I saw him send literal one word emails like he has been lately, he cut off an entire department.  You ever wonder why the 4th floor entrance is bricked up?"

She sniffed.  "What, he cut access to the floor after he fired them?  What a waste of space."

"I didn't say he fired them."

She looked at him carefully.  No trace of a smile.  No change of expression at all.  She blinked.  "Jesus, Isaac, really?"

"Well that's the rumour, anyway.  Try mailing the hazardous materials team.  They'll reply and their mail footer says they're at our address, but you try finding them."

"Are they being fed?!  No, this is silly, that can't be right.  That's illegal.  Isn't it?  Surely?"

"And you're going to tell the authorities, in a city he literally owns a receipt for... what, precisely?"

She slumped against the wall.  "But it's not ready yet," she wailed, "it's not been properly tested."

"What are you talking about, the lab interns have been eating it for weeks."

"They're students, Isaac.  It's free food.  They'd eat pencils if you dared them."

He dismissively waved a hand.  "That's irrelevant, Sam.  They're doing alright aren't they?"

"THEY are.  The rats aren't."

"Funny things, rats.  You know, they get tumours all the time.  I read about that."

"Not THAT quickly.  Not that big.  Isaac, it's not even food for God's sake.  It's not even a recognisable chemical compound, it's just... it's just... stuff..."

He, still emotionless, still staring forward, closed his eyes and slammed one hand on the wall of the lift.  Nobody had ever seen Isaac so much as send a sternly worded memo.  He was famously polite and reserved.

"Look, this isn't our problem.  There's people who deal with this stuff.  Qualified people that do peer-reviewed tests to determine what is or isn't safe for human consumption.  We develop the product.  They come back and tell us it's not safe?  That's fine, then we work out how to MAKE it safe.  All we need to report is progress, Sam.  It doesn't need to be right, it doesn't need to be finished, it just needs to be progress.  We move the data points on his big charts forward, the suits clap their hands, we buy another few months.  I KNOW it's not right yet; how dense do you think I am?!  We just need to play the game, okay?"

He took a deep breath and turned to her.  For the first time, she saw how tired he looked.  "Look, Sam, I'm sorry.  I actually am.  But just for the next half hour, I need you to let me lead this one, okay?  Just back me up, you don't need to do the talking."

She slowly, gently, laid a hand on his shoulder.  He began, very gently and very quietly, to cry.

-

We follow the two as they try to console each other.  No glass up here, it's all wood panelling.  Genuine wood.  It's rare, these days, and it's expensive, but that's the point.  This whole floor is designed to let you know that if you don't belong here, and you'll KNOW if you don't, then you've been granted a privilege.  Look at the carpet.  You can't have a carpet this plush.  Look at the lighting, see how it warms the colours of the space.  We flew in a consultant from Milan to tell us that, then kept him hired on retainer so he couldn't replicate it for anyone else.  Then look at you.  Did you even remember to wipe your feet before you came in?  No, no, don't fuss, we'll have a cleaner come and see to it.

They called this the Winchester memorial gallery.  Hundreds of years of ruddy-faced history stared down at them, each bearing the same look of mildly constipated anger.  Each wearing a near-identical suit, though since the 1700s and the invention of tweed, something dusty appeared to have been awakened in the collective Winchester soul.  Every step on the lawn-green carpet feeling heavier than the last, they approached the end of the endless corridor, a single, modest door set into a wall some 50 feet square, the contrast being just one last arrow in intimidation's quiver.  A brass nameplate was screwed to the door, polished twice daily.  "Winchester".

Isaac opened the door.  Winchester's office could have, like any of the others on the floor, housed a department.  The only real difference was that he had the feature wall, make of dense cubes of thick glass.  It offered one of the best views of the city, a privilege that Joe was said to indulge in only when being informed of the closing of particularly momentous deals.  For the most part, he spent his days at the head of the table which served as his desk, surrounded by holographic displays that he could summon or dismiss with but a gesture of a pudgy hand.  He slouched in an antique leather wingback chair, back to the window, leaving him permanently cast in shadow.  It was a calculated thing, it was nearly impossible to focus on him, so bright was the light from behind.

As the two entered, they realised that the entire high council, as it were, was fully assembled and looking on expectantly.  Except for the director of HR, who was know to have what she considered a sense of humour about her work, and could recognise when some premium chum had fallen into the shark tank.

"Doctors Gregory and Jansons, may I introduce you to the board."  A low voice rumbled from the end of the table.  Joe rarely raised his voice for any reason, not anger nor to address a room.  If he was speaking, he would be heard.  You WOULD hear.  "Today marks an important day for our modest, collective endeavour."

"Oh Christ", thought Isaac, "he's actually making a speech."

"Our own doctor Issac Gregory has informed me that there have been exciting developments in Project Bounty which have made up for its recent months, nay years, of abysmal progress.  Dcotor Gregory, the floor is yours, would you kindly present your results?"

Gregory looked up.  He prayed to a god that, he was sure, had long since forsaken him.  He reached into the pocket of his lab coat and drew out a small glass jar with a metal screw top.  It contained what looked like dirt.  He placed it carefully on the table, as if afraid it would explode.

There was a moment's polite silence which clearly conveyed the implied "well?"

"Doctor Gregory, you informed us that there had been significant and exciting developments in Project Bounty.  I was EXPECTING to be presented with a coconut-flavoured variant of our classic product.  Am I to assume that you have brought us some manner of flavour compound?  Or, and DO interrupt me if I am making wild and baseless assumptions, perhaps instead you have chosen to waste our collective time?"

Isaac faltered.  He swayed on the spot and Samantha feared he may actually drop into a dead faint.  She knew she had to say something, anything, but what?  What?!

"COFFEE"

The entire room turned to look at her.  She was as surprised as they were.  The words hadn't travelled to her mouth by way of her brain, it was pure, animal instinct.

"I beg your pardon, love, say again?" laughed the director of HR.  She referred to herself as a "people person".  In reality, she equated being too friendly in conversations in which she was openly insulting people with people skills.

"It... tastes like coffee.  This is compound GT-2320 and... well you put it in water and... well."  She was stammering and she could hear it.  The silence was back.  She struggled to fill it.  "We call it NeoBean.  Well the interns do.  They nicknamed it last month and the title's just kind of stuck, you know?"

Isaac, at this point, sat on the floor.  His legs wouldn't support his weight.  She'd actually done it, she'd dropped the payload.  He could have kissed her.  With senses honed by hundreds of hours of board meetings, he surveyed the room.  He could FEEL the weight of their attention.  5 highly paid hands toyed listlessly with 5 identical glasses of flavourless water.  The thirst was palpable.

"You're serious?" asked the head of legal, a notably twitchy individual, "it actually tastes of coffee?"

She'd done it.  No sense in holding back now.  "It's even a mild stimulant."

The response came back quickly.  Too quickly.  Joe NEVER rushed a response, this wasn't right.  "Well thank you for your contribution, Doctor Jansens.  Doctor Gregory shall head up this new development under your direct supervision.  I'll expect regular updates.  Thank you for your time."

-

They walked out of the room.  Nobody talked for quite a while, not until they were out of the building and at the nearest hot Log cart.

"Isaac.  What have we just done?"

"Nothing.  We haven't done a thing, Sam.  I told you, these things have to go through the proper channels, it'll either be safe or it'll be canned."

"It's industrial waste."

Isaac smiled.  "That it is.  So look at it this way, it's something that got left behind after we were done throwing chemical spaghetti at the wall to see what sticks.  Hwo likely is THAT to get approved?"

She looked into the middle distance, thoughtfully.  "Well why are people eating it, then?".  Still clearly nervous, but she sounded a little calmer.

He laughed, this time.  "Oh God, nobody told you?  You know Weird Kez?"

"Yeah, lab tech, always asks for night shifts, pupils constantly dilated, says if you listen to the audio track of every episode of Dad's Army at once you can hear God dictate the last book of the bible?"

"Someone left a sample out when he was in the lab unsupervised.  He actually tried smoking it at first."

She thought about this for quite a long while.  Then she silently left and took the rest of the day off.