To Howard, the most important part of life was science, the rest was flair and circumstance. Science is a living multiorganismal being whose fuel is certainty. It would later be surmised that the value Howard placed on certainty was likely spurred by an early deprivation of such a potent substance. To his last breath he maintained his vigil to ensure no false senses of it slipped through. Like logic's carbon monoxide, he knew how Man's desperation for the stuff clouded and warped his view of the world. He was purged of this foolishness, of this he was certain.

Science is fundamentally built upon asking questions, seeking repetition, identifying inconsistencies, and after systems of questions and barriers, to arrive at neat, knowable, grains of reality. These processes, though requiring a not inconsiderable amount of mental willpower, were an oasis from himself. Thankfully he worked in a field that praised him for his work ethic and compensated him accordingly.

GenCo found Howard exactly when they needed to. Although now an esteemed junior lab scientist, Howard was once just another recent graduate among the throngs of others released into the wilds. Each privately assured of an equal stake in the meritocratic elite they were all now joining. Howard knew the majority of his classmates went into some amount of debt to get where they were, but no one knew just how deep in the red he was.

Howard's self-awareness alerted him to the release of chemicals in his brain consistent with a fear response. He knew he was not safe, and the only safe place was a good job. A chill reminder of a long open walk to a door that never locked and the rasp in his voice from the dark growing spots. He shuddered. In an act of political corruption, city hall leaders made a deal with violent radical rental unions who, after a two-year long campaign, agreed to decree access to housing an equal right.

Astrology, Religion, Politics, Howard was above all that bullshit. His mind was too sharp for the Machiavellian machinations of liars and poets. To him, the cries for change were indistinguishable from the agendas that others would try to trick him into. His door to the world was science, and it was the only thing that made sense to him.

From the view of his old unit, hunters, after stalking their prey, found their weakness and how to exploit it. Within weeks companies the city over no one had ever heard of blanketed the city in text flyer campaigns, sharing the horror stories of universal access. They all knew what they were in for. They couldn't reasonably be asked to do a good job at such a scale, but they could do a little worse than the bare minimum.

Just thinking about it ignited the dormant rage deep within his belly. Among the certainties of his life, Howard knew he hated socialism with a fervent passion.

To prove as much, on a drunken weekend, his first drunken weekend to be precise, Howard recorded his adventure into a seedy tattoo parlor. The video revealed a fresh faced if shitfaced 18-year-old recently freed from the loving dictatorship of youth, had his position on the matter marked in red on his left thigh for eternity.

        BETTER DEAD THEN RED

Surrounded by meatheads on all sides that he'd never seen before or since, the vidclip recording of his time in the parlor gave ample evidence as to where he may have developed tinnitus. Reflecting after the fact, he couldn't exactly remember where he got the idea for the tattoo, but he knew he made his choice and that he must live with it. Besides, those were real red-blooded men, the kind storytellers weave fantasies of patriotic duty about. They know what's up.

The alarm on his vidwatch told him it was 15 minutes prior to his scheduled time to leave for lab. Picking up his backpack he carefully removed his lunchbox from his fridge. Observing his diet was as important to Howard as the monitoring of his own thoughts. Whatever he let into his body will have some mechanical effect, he was sure of it. It was through this regulation that he could keep his body at the apex of its functioning and become, as Joshua put it, "the Actualized Idealist."

Invariably the goal of his learning was to construct systems of Feedback, self-evaluation, and self-destruction. Howard held a scientific view of the thing. It was a terrible but inevitable part of death, life, and the cycles that sustain them all. Although his twitching and stammering were in no small part attributed to the level of self-reflection required to get through even the most modest of social encounters, alcohol and the calming, knowable patterns of Joshua Preston, chief sociopsychologist at a world-renowned liberal arts school, helped him get through it.

If Joshua could make it in such an environment, once thought to be antithetical to men like him, certainly Howard could make it at GenCo. Men like Joshua made their mark with only their minds and bodies to guide them. The millions of books and subscriptions can't be wrong. They are but another indicator.

With a sobering realization, his lectures and books did more to organize his life and career than his parents or any counselors ever did. It wasn't not until learning his teachings that he realized the need to isolate himself from that which caused stress or inner conflict. In doing so, he was able to focus the energy left in his body and mind for more productive and enriching tasks, like bettering himself.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

But now the cycle has swung back to the time of stress, evals at work were on the horizon, much to the dismay of his once pupates in need of release, fluttering in their cages in vein.

Howard tried to distract himself from his notes. Visualizing his goals, he would one day observe a marked and measured change in the average development of tissue lining the walls of the thorax and legs of his specimens.

Through this repetition and observation, he could yet learn the combination of genetic signals needed to express and suppress parts of their existence. In his mind, to engineer the perfect generation of ass-shakers, twerk perfection. Howard wasn't actually sure what his research was for, but that's what he would use for it if he could. The power of the strand in the palm of his hand.

With the assurances of his place in the universe in check, next came the certainty of consciousness, it necessarily and logically followed. It was one of the many natural hierarches according to the learned. His studies of literature and the methodological observation of the human experience revealed innumerable insights, gleaned merely by the application of thoughtful questions, skepticism, and observation. Just like his noble vinegar fly.

Howard glanced over to the dusty red leatherbound notebook sitting highest atop his book shelf. The book, if it ever were to be opened again, was chalk full of sketches and observations of his first days in situ. Howard quickly looked away. Its other meaning was as a bookmark for memories he wished to leave undisturbed. There was no more important objective than ensuring a flawless return on his data. No distractions.

It was through testing himself, at work or at school, that Howard was able to measure his value. By documenting and repeating all that he wished to be, he gave himself the opportunity to learn insights that could guide him to a better future. Breathing in control, he sighed loudly in relief at the reassuring sight of a controlled, clean lab.

Howard walked into the same sights and smells day after day. Not unlike his subjects, he was presented with the perfect setting. His work was too important to be distracted from or left idle for long.

GenCo, through his manager Hans, had directed him to study the next great breakthrough in genetic engineering. Howard saw peculiar connections between all manner of organic systems. Relationships of mutual life and death. Systems that force the question of validity onto an individual birthed into a system, smothered by context. He thought of each fly that earned the right to call itself such a name filed neatly in a row. In such a storybook, he pictured endless strands of data packets recording the chronology of all of creation.

Genetic data is no different than data collected by sight or sound except in scope of reach. The ancestors of these creatures followed the most intimate and relatable moments all organisms face. Their noble heritage was as scavengers, picking off the dead and decaying flesh and meat and blood and bone of countless species; only to be bottled up and allowed to succeed without end or opposition. To be fruitful and multiply. All for the benefit of learning from their repetition. Howard wondered if they could even be said to be part of something like a life cycle, not something less but something, different.

Looking at the flies for too long spent the energy he was entitled to as their Lord. In them he saw too much. Howard peered into the dingy glass specimen container. He could see hundreds of flies jumping from wall to wall, desperate to find their way out of circumstances they neither asked for nor want, and yet, here they are.

Howard pushed the thought away. Crucial to the management of cognitive hierarchy was the maintenance of human superiority and its unimpeachable moral right to ecological dominance. Without it there is nothing but anarchy and chaos. Of this he was certain.

With GenCo's PRSPR genetic engineering technology, Howard would bring the very forces of life itself to bear against humanity's problems. With the ability to manipulate such delicate and interconnected systems, Howard would mold the genetic story of countless creatures. To express and suppress the existence of the fly. It's more of an accomplishment than it sounds.

Drosophila, not unlike its namesake, vinegar, has a way of having nearly as many uses as its liquid counterpart. It has been an endless source of information for the human species including the effects of isolation on genetic expression, Howard's bread and butter.

From birth to life Howard eventually found a respect for these creatures. They were not unlike himself, ultimately useful but ultimately disposable.

Realizing that he'd been staring at a container of his creations for over fifteen minutes, Howard tore himself away from his desk, gently rustling two photos of destination landscape cards Howard had always wanted to visit. He'd stumbled upon both pictures at his first GenCo tour. Their corporate facility was set with a number of amenities offered to entice people with an appetite for small quick meals on the go, perfect for professionals with no time to digest anything but raw data.

With a beep, he knew it was time for a walk. Leasing a unit on the interior of his building complex sacrificed windows and natural light for 50 dollars per month added to his retirement account. He left his apartment certain of his life's budget.

Walking through the campus in the summer sun was hot enough to run the risk of shorts. Between sweat stains and shorts he always chose shorts.

With his life in his hands, he knew full well that if any of the management staff saw his tattoo it would likely be the end his career then and there.

Of course, there were no laws that said that he could or could not have a tattoo, it was just too unprofessional for sharing in public. Pulling down his left pant leg midstep to ensure his ink was covered, his blood ran cold. At this very moment he was passing Kris Meltke. Time slowed to a trickle. Kris was an idol of the academy. Howard knew he was to Kris as his flies were to him. Meat. The moment passed unnoticed, like he was.

The corporatized academy was an institution rife with professionals capable of identifying themselves as such merely by the means in which they treat others. Howard envied them, they doubtlessly had survived the trenches, the position he now occupied, only to emerge and become more than they ever could be on their own.

All one must do is be tested, and pass.