Performance Review: Raian Ghannam (Part 1)

“Dr. Ghannam, we appreciate you attending your—” a woman’s voice spoke up, promptly interrupted.

In a rather desolate room built for function over form, a lone man sat before a crescent table occupied by three elders, most of whom wore glasses they readjusted every few seconds as they shuffled through various wads of paper.

The subtle rattle of pathetically slow ventilation fans up above filled any silence that wasn’t interrupted by the light coughing of one of the interviewers. The man being assessed raised his right arm, laden in a black sleeve cutting off at his elbow, unlike his left, showing a bare palm to his interviewers in pause.

The man was clean shaven, having done so this morning prior to the meeting to not appear unkempt, with brown skin and a kind face, with a short scruff of hair about as black as the coffee he consumes an unhealthy amount of.

“Just Raian, please,” he spoke softly, baring a facetious smile, “I’m not a doctor.”

His words were met with a befuddled frown, with two listeners rummaging through papers. The third continued to give Raian a discerning eye of scrutiny. Raian knew this man about as much as he wanted to – Dr. Griggs, a bald man with a head that can be best compared to that of an orange on a good day, and a former teacher with a reputation of dishing out harsh punishments in the face of tardiness and unkempt uniforms.

There wasn’t a shred of doubt in Raian’s mind that Dr. Griggs’ eagle eyes were practically burning a hole through him for simply rolling the sleeves of his lab coat up to his elbows. Raian rubbed the bridge of his broad nose in reflex as tensions built, struggling to maintain eye contact.

There was however a shred of residual fear in him; it was no more than a year ago that Raian was still technically a student, so the lurking shadow of power-tripping educators still hung above his head like a guillotine.

“Ah, I see,” a bespectacled woman getting up there in years continued to speak, “you were pulled from your university early, it seems?”

“That is correct, yes.”

“At the direct request of Director Chakrabarti himself too,” the woman flipped through what Raian could only assume was his profile, “you should consider yourself lucky.”

Griggs scoffed instinctively, earning a scornful glare from Miss Evans in the middle, and Professor Faloux to her left. Pulling a pair of gold-rimmed oval glasses from his frame, Faloux, a bearded senior elf with a rather prominent scar stretching from his lip up to a milky, ravaged left eye, leaned in closer out of curiosity.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he declared with authority, “tell me, what was your specialty, boy?”

“Behavioural psychology, for the most part.” Raian responded with a hint of pride, but was only met with blank looks, “I was also studying oneirology for a time, until, well…”

“Oneirology? Rather odd, if you ask me. Why the study of dreams?” Faloux continued.

“In any case,” Miss Evans loudly interjected, not wanting to get too off-topic, “we appreciate you attending your first performance review, Raian.”

Miss Evans, a rather unassuming woman clad in grey on the surface, existing as one of the more approachable heads of this underground facility, stands as the current Chief of Surgery.

“How have your first six months been? Decent, I hope?”

Barring a handful of near-death experiences, questionable food, that one night shift fellow he caught eating one of Raian’s shoes, and the excess of seminars, there wasn’t a whole lot Raian figured he could complain about.

In the end, being half a kilometre underground wasn’t as bad as he expected. His room has a built-in shower, the people are colourful and fascinating enough to ensure only half the days are a drag, and most importantly to Raian, he saw his first vending machine a few months ago.

“Rather good, I reckon,” he exhaled sharply, “nothing to complain about.”

Miss Evans locked in her gaze to meet with the young intern’s hazel eyes. New folk typically had a plethora of complaints, especially those about Raian’s age.

“I see,” the Chief of Surgery sighed, “I understand that your current occupation has you listed as a handler, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re currently caring for…” she peeked at the paper beneath her thumb, “Mochi? Unusual name – how’s that coming along? I see this is your first time caring for an Aberrant.”

The man straightened himself in his chair with a slight scrape of metal. Taking a deep breath, his mind pondered the question as his gaze flowed across the predominantly metallic room. While the architects of this place tried their best to sneak in materials a bit more pleasing to the eyes, even the walls had to be mostly comprised of reinforcing steel beams.

A web of shining rafters bore rows of humming fluorescent lights; one of which was in desperate need of replacement, judging by the excessive flickering.

“It’s going well,” Raian finally spoke, truthfully too, “he can be a bit of a handful, sometimes. Overall, though, he doesn’t cause any issues.”

Raian wasn’t too sure how long Mochi had been a resident of this facility, but the last six months gave the man enough information to know what was going on. Of course, he had been briefed on what Mochi’s purpose, and by proxy, his own purpose would be, but for reasons he figured were currently beyond his understanding. He, and most other handlers, were intentionally left in the dark.

The Aberrants are monsters, by design; an unnatural fusion of deep-sea creatures and unearthed artifacts that should have never seen the light of day. Created by the government of Tarin Oth, buried half a kilometre beneath an unassuming clinic in some middle-class neighbourhood. The Aberrants, through the combined means of science and thaumaturgy, are weapons made for war. No more, no less.

Despite this, after all the time Raian has spent around Mochi, the man found great difficulty in seeing the weapon in him. Miss Evans twirled a pencil between her fingers, not even looking at the man before her as she continued to stare at the papers below.

“Any unusual behaviour? Anomalies or the like?”

“None that I can tell, he acts like any other person.”

“Right…” she shot him a discerning glare, looking back to the desk moments after.

“Oh!” Raian exclaimed, “He tried eating a moth once.”

“That is weird.” Faloux interjected, exchanging nods with Griggs.

“How is its diet?” Miss Evans flatly ignored both of them.

On paper, Mochi’s diet was perfect. One complaint Raian wished he had brought up was the excess of paperwork. Having to fill out a form with every meal was, quite frankly, ridiculous to the man – and while having to write down what was in the meal, how much he ate, what he liked the most, and what he refused to eat was becoming second nature to Raian, it still bothered him how much time it consumed.

Besides, after a while, he figured out how to make it easier for himself to a degree. It became a bit of a daily routine for him, where he’d sit beside Mochi, wherever that may be, and help him eat anything the boy wouldn’t eat. 

He knew Mochi didn’t like cherry tomatoes, and if cucumbers were present, they would be the first to go. He also had an aversion to fish, they both did, in fact, but Raian ate it all for him regardless.

Desserts were a strict no-go for the most part, only reserving them for special rewards, but Raian found a way to sneak one in for Mochi every evening, much to the latter’s joy. He was almost caught once or twice, but it was worth the smile he’d get to see, feeding that addictive warmth he’d feel in his chest.

It took Raian a bit of time, but eventually he got Mochi to eat his greens regularly. It took a lot of promises, half of which Mochi has forgotten about already. Sometimes he doubles back, and cauliflower is still a hurdle, but progress is progress. Raian can acknowledge that at the very least.

“I need to trick him into eating cauliflower.” Raian let his thoughts escape him, scratching his chin.

Dr. Griggs and Miss Evans looked at him blankly, expecting a bit more of an elaborate answer. The scratch of metal broke the silence as Faloux inched closer to the desk, resting his elbows upon the table.

“Try mashing it up and mixing it in with some potatoes, it won’t know the difference,” the old elf added, “and add some cheese to cover up the taste.”

“I’ll try that, thank you.” The young intern raised a thumb of approval toward his superior, and in turn, the elf did too.

Faloux was a bit of a mystery to him, he only heard from others that despite his war-torn exterior, he had a rather glaring soft spot for his grandchildren. It somewhat checked out now, at least.

“And!” Faloux squawked, raising a finger, “you could also try grilling some cauliflower with garlic, herbs, and some kind of sharp cheese like Thalumun cheddar! A bit time consuming I may admit, but the taste is immaculate.”

The interviewee raised an eyebrow. He was quite positive that if he even thought about buying some Thalumun cheddar for more than five seconds, his wallet would sprout arms and begin to strangle him.

“I will… see about a cheaper alternative.” The intern hesitated to be blunt, “I’m not even sure if he likes cheese that much. He does love dairy products on the sweeter side, but it always winds up upsetting his stom—”

“Moving on!” Miss Evans snapped.

She furiously tapped her heels upon the polished tile floor with an erratic rhythm. She’d never admit it to the likes of Raian, but she wanted this to be over as soon as possible. Given her tight schedule, and a rather impromptu performance review, Miss Evans had to skip breakfast this morning, and any talk of food sparked the flames of frustration in her.

Raian, on the other hand, let out a slow exhale through his teeth as he bit on the corner of his lip. He considered himself a patient man above all else, but few things existed that could test that patience. Someone not knowing how to operate a coffee machine but continuing anyway was low on the list, or two people blocking a passageway while they chat, that one was a fair bit higher.

Being intentionally interrupted, however, now that—