The graisse institute

Chapter 2

“This is our Food Lab.” We approach yet another glass door at the back of the kitchen. Dr. Hansson elegantly leans against the wall next to it, one foot crossed over the other and hands in pockets as he peers through. “We won’t go in. Dr. Turner, our lead food scientist, that’s him there with the yellow sneakers, he prefers it that way.” There are a few chefs and scientists in lab coats working beyond the doors. The room looks very similar to the kitchen, although there are no stoves, ovens or other means of cooking. Instead, there are microscopes and lab supplies, some of which I recognize from Hansson’s lab. Dr. Turner, the man in yellow shoes, has deep skin and brown eyes. Under his lab coat he wears the same getup as Dr. Hansson, except his shirt and tie are lavender, rather than blue. He explains something to another scientist, although I couldn’t possibly hear what they are saying beyond the door. He holds a small clear bowl of a white crystalline substance in one hand, and with the other, pinches some in his fingertips and lets it sprinkle back into the bowl in a small white waterfall. He does this a few more times, all the while speaking to the other scientist in a patient manner. The scientist eventually nods and throws her head back as if to say “Ahh, I get it now.” She then takes the bowl and hurries off to do…whatever she’s meant to do. Dr. Turner smiles after her and moves on to observe a chef studying the pulpy seeds of a tomato.

“That was likely lab-grown sucrose,” Dr. Hansson explains. “I can’t say much specifically about the science that goes on here, but most of it is in an effort to alleviate negative consequences of overconsuming certain foods or nutrients, while simultaneously trying to intensify the features we do want. Last he and I spoke, Dr. Turner mentioned a new effort to potentially increase both the carb density and addictive qualities of sugar.”

I see a mischievous glint in Dr. Hansson’s eyes as he explains this, and for a moment I’m reminded of the character Willy Wonka.

“I expressed, of course, how dangerous something like that could be. But I will acknowledge that it could potentially revolutionize…everything we do here. The world even.”

I give Dr. Hansson a confused look. “You’d let your science be discovered by external organizations?”

“Mine? Oh, no. What my team and I work on blurs the line of ethics, I admit. But our board believes we may be able to take Wade’s, Dr.Turner’s, advancements to market. Likely business to business, selling ingredients to food companies and the like. It could serve as an immense new revenue stream.” Dr. Hansson sighs deeply. “That’s all way down the line, however. All of this is very preliminary. This department was only established about a year ago and none of the work has actually been carried to application. Of course, we’ve experimented with crop modification for a while now, since the beginning, but that science is quite boring in comparison. We have an astounding farm I wish I could show you, but obviously it requires a lot of land and is at a separate site. The produce we receive from it in our shipments are pristine, in taste and in appearance. Many of them have been altered for a variety of reasons, peanuts that won’t trigger allergies is one example, so it follows that we may as well make them perfect in the process. So we did. I mean, why not?” Dr. Hansson flashes a proud smile.

“Wow, haha, I’m extremely impressed.” I respond. And I am. It’s clear to all who are aware of this industry that the Graisse Institute is the best by far. “You all have really thought of everything.”

“Not only thought of it, challenged it.” Dr. Hansson straightens up and starts toward the kitchen exit, once again assuming I’ll follow. Back in the dining hall, there are a few less facilitators, and I welcome the sudden quiet after the noisy kitchen. The hall is the same, with only a few stragglers likely making their way to their next roles.

“So what do you think so far?” Dr. Hansson and I make a turn back into the main hall we entered at the start of the tour. We walk in the direction of the arched red doors.

“I think it’s incredible, all of it. To be honest, I didn’t give much thought as to all the work that makes a place like this possible. But I’m glad I got to see it!”

“As am I!” Dr. Hansson gives me a satisfied smile. I get the impression that the tour has had the desired effect. “But I’m sure the product is what you’re most interested in, yes?”

“Admittedly so,” I say somewhat sheepishly, although I can’t keep a hint of excitement from creeping into my voice. Dr. Hansson lets out a small laugh. At this point we’ve reached the red doors.

“I appreciate your patience, Jamie! Let’s not have you wait any longer.” With this, Dr. Hansson finally swipes his keycard on the reader. The doors automatically swing open, with a clearance much wider than anticipated. The entrance opens up into a plain white hall not unlike those we’ve seen already, except the roof is the same light oak as the floors rather than glass, with warm globe pendant lights hanging at even intervals. This wing of the institute feels much more welcoming and soft, particularly in comparison to the cool white, sterile lighting and fixtures everywhere else. The hall is rather long. So long that I can only make out a small spot of light at the end, similar to a tunnel. On either wall are large, round-cornered rectangular panes of smoky glass, about 15 feet wide and 8 feet tall. Next to each of them are wide pink arched doors accompanied by a digital tablet mounted on the wall next to it. This combination of windows and doors repeats dozens of times on either side of the hallway. In my curiosity, I peer into the first one on the right, but I am only met with my reflection. The glass appears transparent enough to see through, but gives nothing away.

“Allow me.” Dr. Hansson walks up to the glass and taps it. On the leftmost side of the pane, an outline of a hand illuminates through the glass. Below it are two circle outlines, one is labeled ‘one-way’ in small sans-serif script, the other labeled ‘two-way.’ Dr. Hansson taps the one-way mode, the circle filling in to indicate selection. He then places his left palm on the glass, within the outlined handprint. After a moment it glows green and the interactions disappear, undetectable from the rest of the glass. Almost instantly, the window turns clear, so clear you might think you could step through it. It frames a room completely encased in pale pink, the walls, carpet, even ceiling are the same pink tone, along with all the furniture. The room goes deep, much longer than it is wide, and appears to be similar to a studio apartment. Should we step inside, we’d find ourselves in a living room with a large deep-set couch, a simple coffee table and a wall-mounted media console across from it with a large flat-screen TV and various gaming consoles. Further back is a round dining table with two large upholstered dining chairs. A short wall serves as a partition between the living room’s TV wall and the simple kitchen the dining table resides in. There is no stove, oven, or even microwave to cook with, only a slim refrigerator, simple lower and upper cabinets, and a sink set into the pink marble. A few feet deeper into the long room is a massive bed with a thick, fluffy duvet. A built-in wardrobe takes up the opposite wall at the end of the bed. The back wall is plain with a single wide door, likely leading to a bathroom. As I survey the space, movement in the bed catches my eye. Someone sleeps deep in the full covers, their pale blonde hair barely peeking out. I am taken aback by the sudden sign of life, letting out an “oh!” as a result.

Dr. Hansson chuckles. “This one is likely new, if they’re in one of our default rooms.” He pulls the digital tablet from its spot on the wall and taps through a couple pages after scanning his thumbprint. “Ah, here we are! Cosset 00614: Sophie A. She was admitted…just two days ago.” He turns the tablet towards me, displaying a pretty-faced white woman with green eyes and short, blond hair. He swipes the screen once again and reads off more information. “She’s quite slight, only 5’2” and 117 pounds. Normally we wouldn’t accept such an applicant, but she has a Taker lined up already. Let’s see…” Dr. Hansson appears to do some more investigating. “Yes, a special request for her exact features. We have a lot of work to do with her, of course. She’s French and her Taker is American so she’ll have to learn English. He’s also requested a much plumper body type, no surprise there, and opted for the Sweet-Tooth modification. So we’ll have to get her hooked on saccharine treats as well.” He shuts off the tablet and returns it to its mount on the wall.

“And she’s okay with all of that? The Cosset, I mean.” I’m not particularly worried, mostly curious.

“Of course!” Dr. Hansson exclaims. “If you think the Taker waitlist is long, you should see the Cosset one. We receive dozens of new applications every week, prospects yearning for the opportunity to become a product of the Institute. We’ve a whole team dedicated to sifting through them. Once we find one we think would do well, we reach out and tell them what changes we plan to make with them, how long it will take, et cetera. If they’re okay with these changes then they’re admitted, flown in from wherever in the world they’re from and past lives taken care of, financially and socially. If they have doubts, any at all, they’re removed from the list, no questions and no pressure. But after years of waiting, close to 90% are sure of the decision by the time they’re selected. And the remaining 10% almost always reapply, regretful of the fact that they now have to join the list from the end. In all honesty, only once have we ever reselected a reapplicant. There are enough prospects as it is, no sense in taking a chance with one that may change their mind halfway through their transformation. Or even worse, default after they’ve already been delivered to the client.” Dr. Hansson frowns and shakes his head, the thought apparently distressing for him. “Luckily that has never happened. And we plan to keep it that way. But you never know when you might need them, so we allow them to reapply, keep them in our back pocket so to speak. This one here,” he points to the woman through the glass. “Will be quite expensive, I can tell you that. All our special requests are. She won’t be listed in our inventory for guests such as yourself to choose from. She’s already claimed and will be fully customized. Should a Cosset like her default, it would be a significant financial loss.” With that, he places two fingers on the glass and swipes to the left. The window returns to the smoky pane from before.

“Come, this one wasn’t at all exciting. Let’s see if we can stumble upon something more interesting.”

We walk past a couple more of the same panes of glass before stopping at one with a dot of light flashing in the corner. Dr. Hansson smiles knowingly. He goes through the same steps as before, scanning his hand to reveal what lies on the other side of the window. The set up of this room is more or less the same, except instead of everything being pink the walls are a soft grey and the furniture more normal colors or wood tones. There is an overall masculine energy to the room, not unlike a stereotypical bachelor pad. Not typical, however, is the scene before us.

A man with dark brown, shaggy hair sits in one of the dining chairs naked, his plump fattened body fully exposed. He has several tattoos spread across his arms, legs, and chest, but not so many as to be distasteful. He wears small black studs in his ears and a few silver rings on his fingers, which deftly rub his round gut as it grows fuller and fuller. There are two facilitators, both women and both stunningly beautiful, even in the unflattering Graisse uniform. One stands above the man with a funnel in one hand and an oversized pitcher in the other. It’s filled with a thick, brown liquid that slowly makes its way through the funnel and into the man’s waiting mouth. The other facilitator kneels on the floor in front of him, her head bobbing up and down between his fat thighs. I feel my face grow hot at the sight of it.

“Don’t worry, they can’t see us,” Dr. Hansson says, taking note of my expression. “Unless you want them to.” He taps on the glass again and chooses the ‘two-way’ mode. The view doesn’t change, but the standing facilitator holding the funnel suddenly looks up. She catches Dr. Hansson’s eye, then mine, and smiles widely. She quickly pours the remaining liquid into the funnel and places the empty pitcher on the dining table. With her now empty hand, she boldly grabs the man’s plumped chest, jiggling his moob in a happy display of their handiwork.

We look at a few more Cossets in their suites. Some rest, lazing about in bed or playing video games on the couch, others we find in the middle of lessons or medical treatments. Most eat the day away. At one point, we even see a very large woman feasting on several dishes at her dining table, with facilitators ushering in more food from the kitchens as she clears plate after plate. I swear at one point I could see the dining bench she sat on bowing under her immense weight. As we pass from suite to suite, Dr. Hansson explains the importance of the Cossets’ mental health along with their emotional states. “Constant pleasure and happiness is the goal,” as he explained it, believing it has a direct effect on everything, on the overall quality of the product as well as a decrease in the possibility of defaulting. The light at the end of the long hall is actually a pair of grand glass automatic doors leading to a vibrant outdoor field and gardens. Cossets stroll around or sit in the grass. Many of them lick ice cream cones or are hand-fed treats from the facilitators that accompany them. I watch as a Cosset with a wide rear crawls about on all fours as a facilitator dangles an eclair in front of their face like a puppy. By far, the Cosset wing has been my most favorite part of the tour. It's thrilling to see so many people fully indulging in what for me has always been a secret pleasure. But experiencing it all only makes me more anxious to see mine. Where’s my Cosset?

A chime sounds from the direction of Dr. Hansson. He pulls out a phone wrapped in Graisse Institute pink, with the establishment’s logo on the back of the case. He clicks a few times, appears to read something, then sends his signature smile my way.

“Good news, Jaime!” Dr. Hansson says excitedly. “Your Cosset is prepped and ready for you. Would you like to go see?”