Splice Blurbs

Training Exercise

Delta sat on the cold examination table, back ramrod straight, waiting with far more composer than a ten year old has any right to. Delta wasn't a normal ten year old, though, and experiments in this lab learned quickly how they were meant to behave. So, he waited, the only sign he was a living person the shallow rise and fall of his chest. By this point, the scientists usually would have drawn his blood for testing or given him whatever shot or pill they were trying this time. Instead, they meandered around the room, some enraptured in their data tablets, others fiddling with vials of various colors, killing time and burning nervous energy as they waited, and waited, and waited.

            The med bay door slid open with a hydraulic hiss and disappeared into the wall. Prometheus, head scientist and Delta's creator, entered, hands tucked neatly behind her back and head held high. She was not particularly tall, soft and pear-shaped figure under the long white lab coat that buttoned into a high collar, but as the cold black lenses of her plague mask slid around the room, all movement halted under the weight of her scrutiny. Her assistant, Dr. Stragner, trailed in behind her. 

            "Status?" Prometheus asked, voice smooth and hard like a river stone.

            "There's been no progress," said Cynthist, the primary scientist in the medical bay. She handed her tablet to Prometheus, then moved her hands to her hips, staring at the device with obvious frustration.

"Even when we manage to get the vectors past his immune system, all our corrections are seen as errors and undone by the DNA polymerase during cell replication." Cynthist continued, sighing.

            "Were you able to slow his metabolizing of the clotting factors at all?" Stranger asked, frowning.

            "Barely. It only lasts him about two days, three tops. Still, gene therapy seems to be a lost cause, so medication is the only viable treatment we have." Cynthist said, crossing her arms.

            "Take him off the treatment."

            One of the scientists dropped a vial. It shattered on the floor and filled the room with a sickly-sweet smell like cough syrup. Cynthist and Stragner both turned to whoever was now offering mumbled apologies, but Prometheus turned to look at Delta. Delta didn't need to turn to meet those black lenses, his eyes had been on her the entire time. He swallowed as his stomach sunk to his feet, but he didn't move, didn't blink. He watched as she broke him apart, cell by cell, weighed and found him wanting. Stragner decided he couldn't buy any more time to recompose himself and turned away from the small, stinking mess in the back of the room to look at Prometheus again.

            "The medication might not be convenient, but it is workable." Stragner said, watching Prometheus carefully.

            "I see no point wasting the resources." she said, and Stragner's eyes pinched in response. He disagreed.

            "Are you decommissioning him?" he asked. Delta tried not to hold his breath. He was a defect, he'd always known he was a defect. His decommissioning was a matter of when, not if. Prometheus didn't answer, just continued picking Delta apart, piece by piece. She was thinking. Stragner took it as hesitance.

            "Paradigm Delta's aptitude scores are exceptionally high, and he's showed a remarkable ability for adaptation. Even without the treatment, he may prove very useful." Stragner asked, speaking just fast enough to betray his earnest. Aside from being Prometheus' right hand, Stragner was also in charge of the lab's intel, which meant anything from corporate espionage to political sabotage.

            Prometheus hm'ed quietly and turned from the room. An indistinct gesture, but one Stragner would take with liberty. He smiled to himself, shot an appraising glance at Delta, then followed her out. Delta stared after them, sucking in breath, long and deep and silent, through his nose. He clutched the table like a lifeline, and attempted to hang on to a level of composure to which he had no right.