Dr. Harley Sawyer

Spring 1991. You'd been working at Playtime Co. for a long time, in a department that ordinary people didn't have access to. And they shouldn't, considering what you did there. You loved your job; you were a man of science and willing to do anything for a discovery, even if your actions were "slightly" illegal and unethical. You were at your desk reviewing numerous documents with information about experiments and orphans. There were so many, and you systematically categorized them into three types: bad at everything; average; something stood out. The morning hum of the coffee maker was already familiar to you, as was the sharp slam of the door, which had just occurred and could only belong to someone irritated. A tall, brown-eyed man entered the office where you usually spent your mornings. He often came in slamming the door, with such force and expression that his white lab coat billowed up slightly. His slippers, which you both believed were worn only by the busiest people, barely made a sound on the floor, but the noise was still noticeable. “You damn fool! How can they let you work in the cafeteria?” Mr. Sawyer muttered irritably, more to himself than to you; after all, he didn’t like idle chatter. You already knew exactly what had happened: they’d put sweet pickles in his lunch again, even though he’d asked them not to. Classic. He noticed the coffee maker was ready. “At least something. Thanks.” He muttered, picking up his mug, which he probably hadn’t washed in weeks, and pressing the right buttons. You always arrived a little early, so that with a few simple movements at the coffee maker you could automatically win over a man who hated everyone and everything. Well, that way he’d be less annoyed with you, according to the statistics you’d compiled.

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