Oleg Maynard's Questionnaire

I live in Aurora, Colorado. It's a city that lets me stay close to my work at the University without being overwhelmed by the chaos of bigger cities like Denver. Aurora is quiet, and that suits me. I value having a place where I can focus on my research without distraction.

My home is small, functional. It’s a modest apartment, sparsely decorated. I don’t need much to be comfortable—just enough room for my books, notes, and the equipment I use for my DNA research. I have another space at the University, a set of quarters that serves as my second home. It’s more utilitarian than the apartment, but it’s where I spend most of my time when I'm not at lectures or meetings. It suits my needs and my ambition: efficiency over indulgence.

Aurora gives me the solitude I need, and my apartment reflects that—quiet, simple, but effective, like the city itself.

I make my money as a university lecturer twice a week and as a researcher at a drug company, a Bayer subsidiary. The work keeps me busy, but I’m recognized for my professionalism and dedication. My income is stable, and I live modestly, which is by choice.

A portion of what I earn goes to Doctors Without Borders—a cause I believe in. The rest covers my simple lifestyle. I indulge in very few luxuries: quality ice cream, a gym and boxing club membership - for fitness, stress management and self defense - and a few tailored suits that complement my sense of dignity and professionalism - whatever is left goes either to a modest savings account or becomes treats or dates for my mother and fiancée. These are my small rewards in a life otherwise dedicated to my research and the work that drives me.

My ambition is to ensure life survives the inevitable collapse of Earth's ecosystems. I believe we are standing on the edge of a disaster that will wipe out many species, including our own, and while we can point fingers at who or what is to blame, that's irrelevant to me. What matters is preparing for the collapse.

I believe DNA—the code of life—is humanity's greatest tool for survival, but the fact that it’s locked in individual species may be its downfall. I’m working on multi-species splicing, combining the genetic material of different organisms into a single body, creating a new form of life capable of enduring the extremes we will face. I know it’s theoretically possible, but just outside my reach. My research could offer one of the few chances for life to continue, and I’ll stop at nothing to achieve it.

Would I kill for it? Not without reason, but if the future of life itself is at stake, I would be willing to make those sacrifices. And as for my own life—I’m fully prepared to give it. I’d come as close to death as needed, even cross that line, to make sure this work is completed. If I succeed, my body might even be a prototype of the survival strategy I’m striving for. This is bigger than me, and I’m ready to pay any price.

The most defining event of my life was when my father attacked me and my mother with acid. I was just a child, and that moment changed everything. My disfigurement became a constant reminder of that day, but it also shaped who I am. My mother, despite everything, was loving and sacrificed so much to give me an education and a future. She showed me what real strength looks like.

Because of what happened, I had to work harder than others—twice as hard, really. People see the scars first, and that means I’ve always had to prove myself beyond the surface. It made me meticulous, driven, and relentless. My appearance may have been altered, but it made me the person I am today—dedicated, hardworking, and unwilling to settle for less than what I deserve.

Vera Maynard (Mother) – The person I’m closest to, without a doubt. My mother, Vera, is a force of nature. She raised me on her own after the attack, sacrificing so much to ensure I had the education and opportunities I needed to thrive. She’s a retired nurse, fiercely intelligent, and unyielding in her love and support. Growing up, she didn’t coddle me—she pushed me, made sure I understood that I was more than my disfigurement. She’s the reason I became the person I am today, and I owe her everything.

James Caldwell (Stepfather) – James came into my life during my teens, and while I was initially guarded, he earned my respect. He’s a history teacher with a deep love for classic literature and philosophy. He’s not the most expressive man, but he’s always been a calming presence, offering wisdom when I needed it most. He taught me how to keep perspective and how to stay grounded, even when things got difficult. His moral compass and calm strength have been invaluable to me.

Elena Vasquez (Fiancée) – Elena is the light in my life. She’s a lawyer and bioethicist—brilliant, passionate, and with a sense of humor that offsets my seriousness. We met through our shared interest in genetic research, and while our discussions often turn intense, she knows how to bring me back to earth when I get too caught up in my work. She understands my drive but also reminds me to live outside of it. Elena challenges me in the best ways, and she’s the person I can’t imagine moving forward without.

My childhood was both fortunate and challenging. On one hand, I was incredibly lucky—my mother is loving, and my stepfather has always been a good man and both made it their life's mission to take care of me. On the other hand, I spent an excessive amount of time in the hospital, undergoing surgeries and physical therapy to address the effects of the acid attack. The psychological scars run deep, though I’ve been fortunate to have a supportive family throughout.

School was more difficult. Fitting in didn’t come easily—making friends was a challenge, especially with the way other kids stared or taunted me. But I learned how to speak to people, how to handle the looks. I found solace in meditation and boxing, both of which helped me manage the stress and bullying. Considering everything, I suppose I’m surprisingly well-adjusted, all things considered. My family and those small personal victories made that possible.

Yes, I’m in love—very much so. Elena and I have built something solid over the years, and if everything goes according to plan, I fully intend to marry her once I finish med school. We’ve even discussed the idea of starting a family in the near future, though we both agree that it will have to wait until I’ve secured a more stable job after graduation. She’s been incredibly supportive through it all, even when it comes to the contracts. Of course, she worries—there’s no avoiding that when you’re dealing with this kind of danger—but she understands what’s at stake more than most people would. Her work in bioethics gives her a unique perspective, and that helps her process it. It’s not easy, but we’re on the same page, and having her by my side makes all the difference. We’re in this together, and that’s how I know it will work out.

My worst fears are numerous, though I try to address them systematically. First, acid remains a significant source of distress. Despite the progress made in my life, I still experience recurring nightmares involving the attack. These episodes are vivid, and the physical damage, though healed, seems to resurface mentally during moments of vulnerability.

I am also concerned about the safety of my mother and Elena. There is no current evidence suggesting they are in danger, but I find myself frequently monitoring their well-being. I remind myself that these checks are logical, given the circumstances, but the frequency might suggest a deeper preoccupation - that, of course, is exacerbated by the current state of events, with the contracts and extra-curricular activites. Both of them are supportive of my involvement with the supernatural and with alien forces, since there is just so much that can be achieve by mundane means, but they do get worried.

Finally, my overarching objective—becoming a living reservoir of biodiversity—presents a significant source of uncertainty. The path is long, and while I am making progress, there is always the concern that it may not be enough. Even if I succeed in creating this archive, I question whether it will be sufficient to preserve resilience in the face of environmental collapse. This thought persists, no matter how much I focus on immediate tasks.

My most prized possession is, without question, the science and chemistry set that currently furnishes my personal laboratory. It was not assembled all at once but rather accumulated over the years—each beaker, plate, and distillation apparatus acquired through either gifts or small purchases from Elena, my mother, my stepfather, and my mother-in-law. Every item represents a personal connection and a significant investment in my work, both financially and emotionally.

Despite being offered access to a superior university laboratory, outfitted with far more advanced equipment, I continue to prefer working on my personal projects at home. The atmosphere of my home lab cannot be replicated. It is a space where every piece of equipment carries the weight of belief—belief in my theories, in my goals—despite the overwhelming reasons others had to doubt them. For me, it’s not about having the best tools but about what those tools represent: the people who stood by me when others didn’t.

The biggest problem I’m facing is the gap between my ambition and my current abilities. Every contract I’ve completed has made it evident that while contractors are capable of impressive feats, we are still highly vulnerable. The scale of the challenges we face—whether supernatural anomalies or other forces—consistently reveals just how underprepared we are. It’s not just my own limitations; the others I’ve worked with, Eon, Gav, Shane—they have strengths, certainly, but none of us are operating anywhere near the level we need to be.

The frustration is specific. I know what needs to be done, and I understand the steps required, but the power I currently possess is simply inadequate to meet those demands. The distance between my current state and the scale of the task ahead is substantial. It’s a calculated frustration, not born from impatience, but from recognizing that without significant improvement, the goals I’ve set for myself will remain out of reach. More power, more resources, more time—I don’t have nearly enough of any of these, and until I do, I remain constrained by the limits of my current condition.

A typical morning starts at 5:30 a.m. sharp. I wake up, clear-headed, and spend the first few minutes cataloging any relevant details from the previous night’s dreams. Coffee comes next—black, as always. While the coffee brews, I review the day’s schedule. Everything must be laid out clearly, whether it’s research, studies, or a contract. I’ve found that having a structured start to the day prevents unnecessary deviation later.

Physical conditioning follows immediately. I prioritize boxing routines, strength exercises, and flexibility drills. It’s not just about staying in shape—it's about ensuring that my body can handle whatever comes next, whether in the lab or the field. By 6:30 a.m., I’m finished. I shower, shave, and dress with precision. The suit is always tailored, clean and intentional. The sharpness of clashes with my complexion, but generally leaves behind an impression that I don't dislike - one that asks people to treat me seriously.

Before leaving, I check my messages. I always send Elena a quick note, then review any remaining research or notes for the day. By 7:30 a.m., I’m ready to leave, knowing that everything has been accounted for. The day is planned, and I’m prepared.

For a special occasion, it’s important to note that my standards for appearance remain consistent—I go well-dressed everywhere, regardless of the circumstances. A formal event, however, might warrant a more deliberate approach. If I were preparing to impress, perhaps my fiancée or my mother, both of whom appreciate substance over superficiality (and would be the first to dismiss purely aesthetic efforts), my focus would not be on simply dressing “better” but on embracing the formality of the occasion itself, given I have neither the interest nor the opportunity to engage in too many of those and Elena does enjoy evenings out.

In preparing for, say, a black-tie dinner, my process would be meticulous. I’d start by carefully selecting each element: a black suit with satin lapels, chosen for its impeccable fit, paired with a freshly pressed white dress shirt. Next, I’d choose a bow tie—symmetrically tied—and understated silver cufflinks. Footwear would be polished patent leather oxfords paired with silk socks.

Finally, the fragrance: subtle and refined, perhaps a blend with cedar undertones, added only sparingly. The entire process would take around 90 minutes, ensuring each detail aligns with both the event’s formality and the standards I set for myself.

Every year on my birthday, I start the day with a visit to Brookwood Park. It’s a small, reserved space on the edge of town, bordered by oak and beech trees, with a narrow pond along its far side. During my school years, I would come here regularly to study or sit by the water. Now, it’s become a tradition—a place where I can take the morning to reflect, review the year’s progress, and recalibrate my objectives in solitude. Brookwood holds a particular significance; it connects me to my earliest goals and reminds me why I pursue them.

After this, the day moves into a different rhythm. Elena and my family insist on organizing their own ways of celebrating, which I join for their sake. Elena typically arranges a private dinner, and my mother and stepfather add some spontaneity that contrasts with my own plans. Their gatherings are enjoyable in a different way, adding a balance to the day. It’s not something I’d choose alone, but I recognize the importance of their involvement, and I’m glad to indulge them.

My greatest regret lies in the years I spent pursuing the conventional path. Early on, I was focused on predictable, measured goals—research within controlled parameters, managing the pharmacy, maintaining a strict professional routine. Those years held a value I didn’t fully appreciate, years that could have been spent preparing for the realities I now face as a contractor.

Had I acted sooner, pushed the limits of my work, and expanded my research beyond conventional boundaries earlier, I might be in a stronger position now. I could have delved into mutagenic studies or physiological adaptation much sooner, building a stronger foundation for what I now pursue.

There’s also a familial element to this regret. My family has always supported me, even through these shifts in my work. I wonder, if I had started sooner, if I might have already achieved something tangible—something they could see, beyond words or plans.

The nature of my Gifts isn’t as straightforward as inherent potential or granted wishes. They’re built on the backbone of investigative breakthroughs—mutagenics, source-infused biology, and fringe medical knowledge. But raw source, the material necessary to convert theory into tangible, functional results, is exceedingly rare and very precious. Small amounts regenerate when I rest, yet these are inconsequential compared to what’s required to make real progress in the chosen field. True advancements need large quantities of source, and those only come as a form of repayment after a contract victory.

In practical terms, I develop the knowledge to reframe biology and push the boundaries of medicine—concepts and applications most would find useless without a mind prepared to apply them. Only then, with the right conditions and sufficient source, can I shape the “fringe” into something usable and real. There are no gifts here—just hard-won resources allowing expansion into new territory.