(no subject)
Nothing happens.
It’s been months of work, months of trial and error, of searching and not quite finding, spending most of his spare time working on this. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. He’s designed the serum to be near instantaneous, an accelerated antibiotic of sorts that will attack the specific cells he’s targeted. Instead, he’s left sitting there, his non-changing simian deformity proof of his failure. Hank frowns, the empty syringe in his hand, his heart still racing from the anticipation of it all. If anything, his increased pulse should help the process along, not hinder it.
He nearly hurls the syringe across the room, hoping to find some catharsis in the sound of shattered glass that will surely follow, but instead, his hand tightens around it and he shuts his eyes.
“We are different, but we shouldn’t be trying to fit into society,” she’d said, “Society should aspire to be more like us.”
But Hank knows she’s wrong. Optimism is one thing, but realistically, the world doesn’t work that way. Different isn’t automatically accepted and praised, it’s shunned and ridiculed. The agents back at the facility should have been proof enough of that. He’s tired of feeling like a freak; he’s tired of being called ‘bozo’ or a host of other derogatory and unimaginative names.
He’s tired of hiding.
Frustrated, Hank slams his fist down onto the table. It’s back to square one now, though not likely tonight, since he’s got a long list of things that he needs to do to prepare for the morning and he’s barely gotten started.
However, in Hank’s excitement to finally use the serum it’d taken him years of research and trial to perfect, and his subsequent disappointment over its failure, one thing he hadn’t noticed was a sudden and abrupt change in location. This isn’t his lab. The equipment, while familiar, is most certainly not his.
He stands abruptly, his chair toppling over as his grip on the syringe loosens and it rolls across the table to shatter on the unfamiliar concrete floor. Maybe his calculations had been wrong and his cells haven’t rearranged themselves at all, but there’s no way that anything he’s done could have caused this.
At least, he’s reasonably sure that’s the case.
[First tag explains, all other tags can find him exploring the lab in the compound. Just a note: first tag will also find him with both one shoe and sock off. Please see his wiki concerning doppelgangers]
It’s been months of work, months of trial and error, of searching and not quite finding, spending most of his spare time working on this. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. He’s designed the serum to be near instantaneous, an accelerated antibiotic of sorts that will attack the specific cells he’s targeted. Instead, he’s left sitting there, his non-changing simian deformity proof of his failure. Hank frowns, the empty syringe in his hand, his heart still racing from the anticipation of it all. If anything, his increased pulse should help the process along, not hinder it.
He nearly hurls the syringe across the room, hoping to find some catharsis in the sound of shattered glass that will surely follow, but instead, his hand tightens around it and he shuts his eyes.
“We are different, but we shouldn’t be trying to fit into society,” she’d said, “Society should aspire to be more like us.”
But Hank knows she’s wrong. Optimism is one thing, but realistically, the world doesn’t work that way. Different isn’t automatically accepted and praised, it’s shunned and ridiculed. The agents back at the facility should have been proof enough of that. He’s tired of feeling like a freak; he’s tired of being called ‘bozo’ or a host of other derogatory and unimaginative names.
He’s tired of hiding.
Frustrated, Hank slams his fist down onto the table. It’s back to square one now, though not likely tonight, since he’s got a long list of things that he needs to do to prepare for the morning and he’s barely gotten started.
However, in Hank’s excitement to finally use the serum it’d taken him years of research and trial to perfect, and his subsequent disappointment over its failure, one thing he hadn’t noticed was a sudden and abrupt change in location. This isn’t his lab. The equipment, while familiar, is most certainly not his.
He stands abruptly, his chair toppling over as his grip on the syringe loosens and it rolls across the table to shatter on the unfamiliar concrete floor. Maybe his calculations had been wrong and his cells haven’t rearranged themselves at all, but there’s no way that anything he’s done could have caused this.
At least, he’s reasonably sure that’s the case.
[First tag explains, all other tags can find him exploring the lab in the compound. Just a note: first tag will also find him with both one shoe and sock off. Please see his wiki concerning doppelgangers]
