Like Orion & Spark

26: Chaos Theory (and Other Life Lessons)

Scientific research was, well, strange.

Each person conducting research had an objective and an expectation about the results. Historically, my hypothesis was simple: If I don't have powers, then I shouldn't have the EVE-1 gene.

But research could make you reevaluate the original goal. The longer you spent searching for an answer, the further you deviated from those expectations. Not only was my hypothesis wrong, it was built upon an idea that didn't exist.

If you remember, I had taken a sample of Orion's blood. I stored the vial in my hideout, along with the files I stole (borrowed) from MARS.

And when I reached Pleasant park, I was distracted by what Halley had told me. If she wasn't lying, then Almighty Orion had figured out who I was behind the mask.

I tugged the wooden door open to the hideout and trudged inside. Lifting the hidden tile, I grabbed the files and set a course for Sainte-Marie.

It took only a few minutes to reach the main campus, but it felt like an hour. Not because I was exerted from the walk, or because I had forgotten the path, but because on my journey, I'd settled on my next move.

I entered the building through a side door and got onto the elevator. The metal walls surrounding me stretched out like a gilded cage. As the doors cracked open to reveal the fourth floor laboratories, I straightened my shoulders and walked with purpose.

I had visited the school labs before, but never when it was empty. The white walls, coated in posters detailing topics like mitosis and meiosis, were bathed in natural light. A bolted door to my left led to a windowless room for controlled experiments. Directly in front of me lay rows of benches which smelled faintly of the acetone used to clean the surface.

I removed the covering on a microscope and arranged the files in an arc around me.

Now, the papers from MARS included photographs of EVE-1 samples. I knew what to look for, and where.

Absently grabbing a pair of scissors from the cupboard, I poised them near the existing wound on my knuckle. I massaged the cramp forming in my hand and shoved the sharp edge of the scissors into my cut.

I refuse to tell you how many times I swore in that moment, but it was a lot.

I grasped an empty vial, sending it skittering across the table. My hand latched onto it and positioned the glass directly underneath the trail of blood flowing from my hand. It stung like a kick to the teeth, but it was working.

"For the research," I was muttering. "For the fucking scientific bullshit research—Jesus Christ, it really hurts—"

I cannot tell you I wrote a peer-reviewed research paper based on this research, but I also can't tell you I haven't.

If I had gone that route, I would have to explain it thusly: Research was conducted in less-than-optimal conditions and extensively reviewed in a controlled experiment. All samples were collected ethically, with the written consent of the subjects involved.

But that's just in case I wrote the paper. Not saying I did. Most definitely not.

When I prepared both slides, I kept glancing at the examples provided in the files. Quite frankly, neither of them matched. As a diligent scientist, I explained my observations, drew a picture and labelled it. I even gave it a name: JC.

***

A storm brewed above MARS headquarters. The clouds revolved around my position, extending outward like the wings of an eagle. Flashes of bright light cleaved through the rumbling clouds, waiting to be set free.