Crossing Infamy

Chapter 8 - Dr. Blayne

"Zeta, check 'useless meeting' off my to-do list," I instruct the virtual assistant, without bothering to try to keep the distaste out of my tone, as I re-enter my lab. While trying to push aside my annoyance to focus on my work, I slip on my lab coat and remove and fold up my tie, placing it on the far end of the counter and away from anything that might spill.

As per usual, I check each of the rodents' biometric data on the monitors attached to each cage, open the spreadsheet on the computer where they're automatically transferred and run the program that checks for any patterns or irregularities. It only takes a second or two for it to inform me that most of the previous patterns in the subjects' vital signs are being continued, and their neurological conditions are showing signs of deterioration, as I expected. I'll try adjusting the proportions of the components of the serum again on the next trial. The mortality rate is significantly lower for this set of rodents, however. In fact, so far, they're all still alive, though one has been experiencing worsening muscular control issues that may eventually result in a fatal seizure.

"'Scuse me, sir." A young lab tech brushes past me as he approaches the fridge to place a chemical in cold storage. I give him a brief nod and return to my analysis of the rats.

He and a few others have been working on an adjacent project — improving the synthesis process of one of the main components of my serum. They've been testing varying isomers and some alternate reactants with slightly different chemical compositions in an attempt to get a better conversion ratio, as well as trying to speed up the reaction by changing the temperature and pH and through the use of various catalytic agents.

After shutting the fridge, he retrieves a partially full beaker and takes it to the sink at the end of my counter. My tie is sitting dangerously close to the whole situation, and I don't like it.

"Use the other sink," I tell him.

"I'll just be a second," he says, reaching for the waste beaker.

"No, stop. You might—"

Spill.

Just as I feared, he moved the beaker too quickly, sloshing corrosive liquid over the side.

"No! What did I just tell you?"

Startled, he dropped the beaker in the sink, but it was too late — the dark red contents had spilled onto the counter and leached into the fabric of my previously light grey, folded-up tie.

"Just— just get out." I quickly pull on a pair of safety gloves, snatch the garment and start running it under the tap water.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, I—"

"I said get out!"

The lab tech's eyes widen and he nods quickly before scurrying out the door.

"Shit..." I mutter.

Reluctantly, I look down at the ruined tie, knowing full well that it can't be saved. Even if I were to wash out every trace of the chemical and sterilize it for safety, the stain would still be there, and the singed patches where the acid had worn through the fabric.

Shame. I quite liked that tie. Then again, it's really just another stupidly fragile possession. This is why I've never been sentimental about objects — They're just so impermanent. Unreliable. As fleeting as the memories people so often insist on tying to them.

"He's working now, Rov," she told my younger self, soft footsteps bringing her toward the 12-year-old boy. She held a heaping basket of laundry in her left hand, resting it against her hip, and reached over to adjust a shirt and folded-up tie sitting precariously close to the edge. "You know that."