NEWS
The next day, Gilbard returned to the lab to see that dial specialists and engineers had been in to fix up the place to turn it into what was now a recognisable working place. A large desk with dial lamps and file cabinets. Half a dozen beds, each separated by curtains. The whole place had been scrubbed top to bottom so that no dust or grime remained. The trash had been picked up out of the canal and shipped off. A rack of various implements that were hard to distinguish from tools of torture. Several machines that Gil didn't recognise that he couldn't wait to have a look at. Bags upon bags of medical supplies of all sorts, from bandages to cotton swabs to rubbing alcohol and test tubes.
"Hmm. Some of the items on this list are pretty hard to get a hold of, Mr. Noam. But! That doesn't mean it's impossible for a man such as myself!" Gil turned to Peck who had appeared at his side. The fishman was sure that his business partner did not have too much trouble with his request and instead wanted to tell him about how much effort he was going to and what a good job he was doing. "I appreciate it." Gil nodded, stepping through the lab and admiring each new installment.
"I have a fresh batch of resume's to look over at your leisure." Peck trotted after him, handing him a binder. Flicking through the pages, he would see that each page had the name of an applicant, a drawing of them, their medical history and biological details. "Yes, these will be good." Gil flicked through them, crossing out a few undesirables before handing the binder back to Peck. These people were reserves that had signed their life away to the fourth district. Simply put, they had signed up for medical trials in exchange for money. If you reached a dead end in your life on Baltigo, one place that people often went to was the fourth district. If you were an attractive female, you could go to the second, but if you weren't, the fourth was your best bet for the average joe degenerate.
These people had come and given their bodies to medical science in either life or death and often both. They had selected from three options of intrusiveness: mild, medium, extreme. Each one of these option determined to what extent their bodies could be defiled by the doctors. While mild was often pharmacy drug tests and medium involved purposely being infected with diseases and the like, extreme was giving your whole self. This meant that you could be called in and find out that they were testing a new method of open heart surgery and they needed someone to test it on before they tried it on some lord's prized poodle. Extreme intrusiveness was signing your death warrent, more or less. While each proceedure isn't designed to kill the participant, it was going to happen sooner or later. In compensation for these different degrees of danger, the pay between each level was magnitudes of difference. Mild procedures would net you the same payout as a street cleaning job. Medium procedures would net you a wage to support a middle class family in the best residential area in Baltigo. Extreme procedures would net you enough cha-ching to live like a lord until your approaching death. For Gilbard's test subjects, a few were mild, some were medium, but most were extreme. He now knew how the system worked around here, but he was unsure if these people were really ready for what he had in store for them.
Peck then lead him over to what would be his support team. A few bright young faces that had come through the Fourth District's internship programme. They seemed to be chuffed at their meeting, shaking his hand vigorously. Though he did notice the slight crinkle of the smile and drooping cheek muscles, a small indicator of the disgust that they were trying to hide when being in physical contact with a fishman. The doctor was sure that he could find work for them. Having extra hands around the place would prove useful for sure. Getting the grunts to do the grunt work would leave him to be able to get on to the real research. He decided to move forward with the assumption that these young people had been instructed to observe his techniques and see if they could steel his secrets. He intended to keep what he knew close to his chest. After all, the intellectual property that he was carting around in his brain had proven to be very valuable to the district.
The day after, Gil returned once more to find the faces from the files had assembled within the lab, awaiting to see what their fate would be. They had gathered from all walks of life. One, an old pirate that had grown too long in the tooth. He no longer had the strength of body to keep up his rough and ready occupation on the high seas. So, he had come here to donate his body so that he may grab the beli he needed to keep his sorrows continually drowned. He stood there, swaying back and forth, like his legs had still not forgotten their time on the Grand Line. Gil could see from one look that he was heavily inebriated. He would be no good for some of his planned procedures as he didn't want his results to be based off of an old drunkard.
Another was a mousey young woman. Big eyes and ears that twitched this way and that. She couldn't seem to keep still either, her fingers finding their way to her nose to scratch at what cartilage was remaining. It looked like a side effect from nasally ingested narcotics. Her clothes, while tattered, were woven from fine silk. If Gil had to guess, this was a wayward daughter of nobility, who had been caught in the high life of Baltigo. Lured in by noise, parties and pretty lights, her father's wealth being wasted on sinful substances. And then, when she had nothing left to give, she had been spit out on the streets. Her prideful family wouldn't welcome her back now so she had nowhere left to go. A quick job for quick cash. The offer on the flier from the Fourth District sounded too good to be true.
A man in his late twenties. He had run off to join the Revolutionary Army in his teens. But after one too many rebellious infringements and challenges to his superiors, he had been kicked out on his arse. Dark circles under his eyes from inability to find sleep in a Baltigo gutter. Yes, even he had found his way here. "Just one job", he told himself, "Just one job and I'll have enough to catch a boat back home."
A dozen or so of these souls stood in front of the fishman doctor. They apprehensively awaited for his decree. Each of them could be considered failures or even the dregs of society. But one thing they all had in common, and that was that they desperately yearned for the stacks of paper that would solve all of their problems. It mattered not that whatever happened to them on the operating table, their compensation would only provide a temporary fix. Compulsive devotion to relentless vice would drive most of them back here. For organisms, self preservation was a core instinct. But these people here had cast that to the wind. Sacrificing what made them healthy, even sacrificing what made them live. What a powerful demons. What a sad, sorry fate.
But this mattered not to Gilbard. As long as their bodies were of use to his research, there wouldn't be any complaints from him. They were here of their own volition anyway, even if this line of work could be considered being taken advantage of. It was an ethical grey area, but compared to what went on in some of the other districts, this was nothing. Gil had never let ethics get in the way of his work in the past, why would he stop now?
Gil called over his research assistants and brought out a clipboard. He had made a rough timetable of what he wanted to do and when. It was the first time that he had had to go about such a strict regime, though it didn't look like it would be too much of a challenge. He cleared his throat and began issuing his orders. The incoming work would be split by the manpower. The assistants would be sent on fetch quests to gather raw materials, fill out the paperwork and take clear of cleaning and sanitation. Each of the subjects was assigned a procedure based on their listed level of intrusiveness. They were given dates and times to show up to the lab, and given a set of instructions to follow to prepare their body. The pirate would have to stay off the booze, the young lady off the powder, and so on. With everything ready to go, the team dispersed. Tomorrow was the start of a long few weeks of busy work. All for the pursuit of medical science.
exit
"Hmm. Some of the items on this list are pretty hard to get a hold of, Mr. Noam. But! That doesn't mean it's impossible for a man such as myself!" Gil turned to Peck who had appeared at his side. The fishman was sure that his business partner did not have too much trouble with his request and instead wanted to tell him about how much effort he was going to and what a good job he was doing. "I appreciate it." Gil nodded, stepping through the lab and admiring each new installment.
"I have a fresh batch of resume's to look over at your leisure." Peck trotted after him, handing him a binder. Flicking through the pages, he would see that each page had the name of an applicant, a drawing of them, their medical history and biological details. "Yes, these will be good." Gil flicked through them, crossing out a few undesirables before handing the binder back to Peck. These people were reserves that had signed their life away to the fourth district. Simply put, they had signed up for medical trials in exchange for money. If you reached a dead end in your life on Baltigo, one place that people often went to was the fourth district. If you were an attractive female, you could go to the second, but if you weren't, the fourth was your best bet for the average joe degenerate.
These people had come and given their bodies to medical science in either life or death and often both. They had selected from three options of intrusiveness: mild, medium, extreme. Each one of these option determined to what extent their bodies could be defiled by the doctors. While mild was often pharmacy drug tests and medium involved purposely being infected with diseases and the like, extreme was giving your whole self. This meant that you could be called in and find out that they were testing a new method of open heart surgery and they needed someone to test it on before they tried it on some lord's prized poodle. Extreme intrusiveness was signing your death warrent, more or less. While each proceedure isn't designed to kill the participant, it was going to happen sooner or later. In compensation for these different degrees of danger, the pay between each level was magnitudes of difference. Mild procedures would net you the same payout as a street cleaning job. Medium procedures would net you a wage to support a middle class family in the best residential area in Baltigo. Extreme procedures would net you enough cha-ching to live like a lord until your approaching death. For Gilbard's test subjects, a few were mild, some were medium, but most were extreme. He now knew how the system worked around here, but he was unsure if these people were really ready for what he had in store for them.
Peck then lead him over to what would be his support team. A few bright young faces that had come through the Fourth District's internship programme. They seemed to be chuffed at their meeting, shaking his hand vigorously. Though he did notice the slight crinkle of the smile and drooping cheek muscles, a small indicator of the disgust that they were trying to hide when being in physical contact with a fishman. The doctor was sure that he could find work for them. Having extra hands around the place would prove useful for sure. Getting the grunts to do the grunt work would leave him to be able to get on to the real research. He decided to move forward with the assumption that these young people had been instructed to observe his techniques and see if they could steel his secrets. He intended to keep what he knew close to his chest. After all, the intellectual property that he was carting around in his brain had proven to be very valuable to the district.
The day after, Gil returned once more to find the faces from the files had assembled within the lab, awaiting to see what their fate would be. They had gathered from all walks of life. One, an old pirate that had grown too long in the tooth. He no longer had the strength of body to keep up his rough and ready occupation on the high seas. So, he had come here to donate his body so that he may grab the beli he needed to keep his sorrows continually drowned. He stood there, swaying back and forth, like his legs had still not forgotten their time on the Grand Line. Gil could see from one look that he was heavily inebriated. He would be no good for some of his planned procedures as he didn't want his results to be based off of an old drunkard.
Another was a mousey young woman. Big eyes and ears that twitched this way and that. She couldn't seem to keep still either, her fingers finding their way to her nose to scratch at what cartilage was remaining. It looked like a side effect from nasally ingested narcotics. Her clothes, while tattered, were woven from fine silk. If Gil had to guess, this was a wayward daughter of nobility, who had been caught in the high life of Baltigo. Lured in by noise, parties and pretty lights, her father's wealth being wasted on sinful substances. And then, when she had nothing left to give, she had been spit out on the streets. Her prideful family wouldn't welcome her back now so she had nowhere left to go. A quick job for quick cash. The offer on the flier from the Fourth District sounded too good to be true.
A man in his late twenties. He had run off to join the Revolutionary Army in his teens. But after one too many rebellious infringements and challenges to his superiors, he had been kicked out on his arse. Dark circles under his eyes from inability to find sleep in a Baltigo gutter. Yes, even he had found his way here. "Just one job", he told himself, "Just one job and I'll have enough to catch a boat back home."
A dozen or so of these souls stood in front of the fishman doctor. They apprehensively awaited for his decree. Each of them could be considered failures or even the dregs of society. But one thing they all had in common, and that was that they desperately yearned for the stacks of paper that would solve all of their problems. It mattered not that whatever happened to them on the operating table, their compensation would only provide a temporary fix. Compulsive devotion to relentless vice would drive most of them back here. For organisms, self preservation was a core instinct. But these people here had cast that to the wind. Sacrificing what made them healthy, even sacrificing what made them live. What a powerful demons. What a sad, sorry fate.
But this mattered not to Gilbard. As long as their bodies were of use to his research, there wouldn't be any complaints from him. They were here of their own volition anyway, even if this line of work could be considered being taken advantage of. It was an ethical grey area, but compared to what went on in some of the other districts, this was nothing. Gil had never let ethics get in the way of his work in the past, why would he stop now?
Gil called over his research assistants and brought out a clipboard. He had made a rough timetable of what he wanted to do and when. It was the first time that he had had to go about such a strict regime, though it didn't look like it would be too much of a challenge. He cleared his throat and began issuing his orders. The incoming work would be split by the manpower. The assistants would be sent on fetch quests to gather raw materials, fill out the paperwork and take clear of cleaning and sanitation. Each of the subjects was assigned a procedure based on their listed level of intrusiveness. They were given dates and times to show up to the lab, and given a set of instructions to follow to prepare their body. The pirate would have to stay off the booze, the young lady off the powder, and so on. With everything ready to go, the team dispersed. Tomorrow was the start of a long few weeks of busy work. All for the pursuit of medical science.
exit