Ketos' Alternative Past(s)

Who: Keto and Keto
When: The alternative history
Where: Global Medical Corporation Headquarters (GMCHQ)
==============================
"So I'll book you in for that lecture tomorrow evening? To the
board? About the necessity of restricting all transplant research for
organs related to the nervous system? To you?"
"Yeah. Sure."
"And there's that dinner in three days, with all the investors in
the hospital? You know, the one that's opening across the city? They
want to name some wing after you or something."
"Is it a big wing?"
"I don't know."
"Make them make it a big wing, or I'm staying at home," snorted
Xavier 'Charles' Keto, shooting a glare at the aide who scurried
beside him, making notes on a clipboard, "And it better be an
IMPORTANT big wing, too."
"Of course, Doctor Keto," nodded the aide quickly. Keto had never
bothered to learn the guy's name...nor the names of the last nineteen
assistants he had been assigned. For some reason they all tended to
quit after a few months. He didn't really care why. He was the
renowned Doctor Charles Keto, head of medical staff at GMCHQ and owner
of at least six other hospitals, four of which he knew the locations
of and one of which could only be entered by invitation. He had
single-handedly fought off the Shaking Plague two years ago by sudden
development of what was now known as the Keto Vaccine.
Rumours that the vaccine had been developed suspiciously quickly,
and that perhaps the benevolent Charles Keto had actually known more
about the Plague than he had let on, were quickly squashed. Keto had
a lot of rumour-squashing power these days.
The aide was still jabbering away. "...who you met last week? At
that big ballroom thing on Thursday? He owns the..."
"Look," sighed Keto, stopping his stride down the corridor and
wheeling to face the trembling assistant, "I really couldn't care
less. I'll meet who I meet. Just leave my regular seven-till-nine
slot free every evening and don't disturb me. Apart from that, do
whatever the hell you like. Just bear in mind who pays you."
He brought his face a little closer to the younger man's.
"And," he hissed through his teeth, "Who controls medical care for
you, your family and any friends you might somehow have acquired over
your wasted years on this Earth. Understand?"
The aide swallowed nervously, then nodded.
"Good," said Keto with a cold smile, "Now get out of here."
Over the sound of retreating footsteps, Keto tapped in his private
security code into his office's entry panel. The door slid open and
he stepped inside. Pausing for a couple of seconds for the security
scan to recognise him, the DNA test to confirm it, the retinal scan to
prove it beyond any doubt, he walked through the office door.
Then he turned ninety degrees, faced the bookshelf lined with
incredibly onerous-sounding literature, and pulled a specific book off
the shelf. Pulling any other book would have resulted in a short,
sharp burst of gunfire and a lingering sensation of air wafting
through the bulletholes in his back...but, fortunately, Keto had never
yet pulled out the wrong book. The bookcase swung backwards,
revealing the *REAL* office beyond.
Keto, some other rumours had suggested, was mildly paranoid when it
came to security. Of course, they hadn't suggested that for long.
Keto's office was expansive, expensive, and utterly, utterly
windowless. The only entryway was through the hidden door he had just
ducked through (and over which the bookcase now swung again). Air was
supplied through a sealed system accessible only from within this
room. Stored in one corner was enough food and water to last for six
months, along with a small generator which could, at a pinch, run off
just about any solid matter. The office was, in short, its own
enclosed world and could serve as a perfectly serviceable fallout
shelter if needs be.
Ignoring all of this, Keto strode across the floor and tapped a
second, longer, private security code into another numberpad set into
the wall.
A section of the wall hissed back.
"Aha, you're back!" said a familiar synthesised voice. Keto gritted
his teeth and turned to look at the newly-revealed person...or, in
this case, brain in a jar.
"Hello Charles," he said, "How are you?"
"Quite well thank you," said the brain cheerfully (or as cheerfully
as the synthesiser allowed), "Tank temperature is perfectly stable,
nutrient level is good, I..."
"I was only asking out of habit, I don't really care," interrupted
Xavier, pulling up a chair and putting his feet on his very large,
expensive desk, "Now. Shall we pick up where we left off?"
There was a slight pause, before the brain responded, "Very well.
Ahem. Retroactive Viral Strains and Possible Vaccinatory Solutions.
Chapter Seventeen. It has been said that the true purpose of a
vaccine..."
Xavier Keto relaxed Charles Keto's body and let the information wash
over him. Life, he mused, was good.
===================
OOC: Well, that's Keto's life. ;)