Practice Makes Perfect pt 1

Practice Makes Perfect
“Do it, damn you!”
While the rain poured outside and the wind called out to the night sky, a dim red light flickered on the 41st floor of the Striving Sciences Inc. building. The doors to the outside were locked and bolted in place against the storm. The glass was thick, but transparent there, showing an empty foyer and an abandoned security desk. The security was out for the evening.
Past this desk and down the hall stood a line of elevators, waiting silently. After a moment, the red digital lights at the top of the farthest one on the left, lit up.
“I cant, please! Please! You must understand, I can't!” The Doctor cried.
He stood in front of a huge closed cylinder. It was covered in brushed steel and rivets, and traced with smooth lines of welding. It rose to such a height that it was connected into both the blank, white floor and ceiling. On either side of it, rows and rows of little machines no, save the Doctor, could name. Each of these little machines did a thousand marvelous and amazing functions, all at once and without ceasing. This one pumped up and down. This one held a dial face and made a strange pneumatic noise. This one made a low purring sound that seemed to echo off into the far off distance.
Each of these machines had been carefully crafted for one reason: to bring the inanimate to life.
In this way, the Doctor was on the forefront of science, pushing the boundaries out beyond the reaches of what we once considered alchemy and magic; and making them reality.
This was what he had told the board of executives of Striving Sciences Inc. He had told them what he could do and what they could accomplish, what he had accomplished, not 59 floors beneath them.
They looked at him dumbfounded. Some of them looked around at each other, hoping for a consensus on how to handle the Doctor and his mad speech about making life. One man snickered.
“This is an incredible thing to tell us, doctor. But you are both an intelligent and a clever man, so I assume you have not come without proof?” The man at the end of the table said. His voice was strong and controlled, but it contained a menace. This man did not care for the Doctor's speeches, he wanted only to see the results.
The Doctor turned and looked to a staff person standing behind him. She wore a plain blouse and skirt. She wore no nylons or make up. Her hair was short and lay neatly against her neck. Her face was plain and placid. Her eyes were a deep, vacant blue. She stepped forward.
“Undress.” The Doctor said and she began to do so.
Every man in the room sat quietly, none mentioned impropriety or told the Doctor to stop or told the woman to stop. They all sat very still and watched, their eyes glittering.
The woman had stepped out of her shoes and skirt. She undid her blouse and let it drop. She had no navel. There were no gasps, the men continued to sit silently, but their eyes grew hungry. She undid her bra and removed it. She had breasts, but no nipples. Finally, she hooked her fingers into the sides of her panties and removed them. The space was blank.
This final thing illicited a response from the men in the room. Hands came up and touched mouths and they looked to the man at the end of the table. He was still watching the girl, her face still empty and vacant. No shame or fear or despair. His eyes shone with the fervor of his reckonings and he took his eyes from her and placed them on the Doctor.
“Thank you, doctor. Your presentation has been well received, I think.”
The Doctor nodded and both men smiled.
“Damn you! Damn you! Damn YOU!”
The Doctor hit the floor and felt something wrench terribly in his shoulder. A pain twisted itself into the joint and down his arm. His hand felt numb. A warm trickle of blood ran from his nose and into his mouth. He tasted it for a moment and looked around. The man stood over him. His eyes were shining like they had from the end of the table. His fists were clenched and he looked down at the Doctor playfully.
My God, I have to get away or he'll kill me, the Doctor thought.
“You will remake her.” The man said, “I am President of the company, you work for me, so you will do as I tell you.”
Behind the President, a body lay on a metal table. The pieces were wrapped in a white sheet. The face was vacant. It was without emotion or pain or humanity. It's eyes were open, but there was darkness behind them.
The doctor looked at the body and then to the President. The President had come from his home with her. He had done who knows what with her, and would have done much more if she had not come apart. The Doctor looked at the man, dressed in a clean collared shirt and sweater with matching slacks and loafers.
The man killed her and then carefully picked out his clothes, the Doctor thought. The Doctor pictured the same sort of calm would come after the President murdered him. He would carefully wash his hands and change his clothes before calling another doctor to replace the corpse on the blank, white floor.
The Doctor looked at his shirt, the little dots of blood from the blow to his nose.
“Okay, I'll do it.”