(no subject)
I have yielded to the pressure of vanity, despite my better judgment. My hair is mine again -- natural and blonde, as was intended. I feel like Valkyrie again; I tired of the odd reflection. The remains of the dyed hair are in a ziplock bag in my desk drawer in my quarers. I'm not certain why. I will likely dispose of it at some point.
It has been a day of indulgence: one foolish whim after another. I sacrificed a mouse to curiosity (and to ice). It was interesting. And I like Sergei Ryabov. He is courteous and pleasant.
Blonde again, lean and labcoated, Ellen Dramstadt is utter biologist in the Infirmary (her infirmary), the sterility and cleanliness of which makes for a more or less ideal laboratory. The mice, small furred innocents that they are, are not as trepidatious as perhaps they should be -- ferried from her quarters to here for the spirit of scientific exploration. Well, /curiosity/, anyway. She sets down the cage on one of the large steel tables and paces back a half-step, tucking a hand into her pocket to retrieve a band with which to tie back her hair in a severe tail.
Not a biologist, not even a scientist, Sergei stands in the doorway as inquisitive layman, broad shoulders and tall frame taking up rather a fair amount of space. He closes as the mice are set down, blunt finger dropped from above for the mice's investigation. "How do you want to do this?" he asks, curling his finger around soft, fragile ears and then withdrawing his touch.
Ellen raises her head, thoughtful and silent for a moment as she contemplates both the man before her and the creatures at hand. "Slowly," she says. She catches and lifts one: it breathes, nervous and wary, atop her palm, whiskers twitching. "How complete is your control over internal temperature?"
"As far as I can tell, it isn't temperature." Sergei leans against the nearest convenient surface, watching the mouse in hand. "I can't take a glass of water and make it colder. I can take water and make it ice. I cannot make the mouse cold. I can turn its water to ice."
The blonde head tilts slightly as Ellen forces her conscious attention back from idle catalogue of information about the mouse's current state of cellular health: she concentrates on Sergei, gaze intent and grave. "Then I would like to start by witnessing the process," she says. "I will monitor the subject's fluids while you freeze them."
Sergei nods briskly. "Very well. I will go slowly." He regards the subject from several feet's distance. A few water crystal percipitate from the mouse's bloodstream; interstitial fluid follows as veins of ice spider between organs. Small crystals grow and cells begin to burst. The process /is/ slow; the mouse doesn't like it.
Eyes shuttered closed, Ellen observes: the rodent's discomfort pricks tiny claws, scrabbling against the skin of her palm, but there are other matters at hand, and she ignores the pain for them, curling slim fingers over the mouse to prevent its escape. "That's fascinating," she murmurs. Her eyes crack, a sliver of blue-grey aimed at Sergei. "I'll attempt to interfere," she says, and plunges in.
"By all means," Sergei says, peculiar courtesy offered with a smile. Cells in the heart shatter as cellular fluid becomes ice; crystals in the blood lodge in slowly freezing blood vessels, myocardial infractions of all degrees. Spinal fluid freezes in one long ripple of ice.
The cells are sluggish to respond to Ellen's commands: sluggish, and dying. Her expression behind closed eyes is grim and tight. She repairs, regenerates: but the ice itself is beyond her, its advance as inexorable as a glacier's.
Cell membranes stitch together only for ice to expand and slice them apart once again. Vitreous humor solidifies in gruesome fashion and behind the eyes, the brain dies as neurons sliver apart. The last rush of crystallization comes quickly: soon all the water in the mouse's body is ice.
Blue-grey eyes snap open with a sharp intake of breath. They turn, round, on Sergei. "That," Ellen says, fingers still curled around the dead mouse, "is remarkable."
"Freezer could do the same," Sergei says modestly, half a smile hooking over his lips. "That was going slowly. Usually with a thing that size, I could freeze in maybe--" He trails off, considering. "Fifteen seconds?"
"A freezer is stationary," Ellen points out on a slight smile of her own, pale eyes warmed with amusement, appreciation. "It's an elegant weapon you have. Fifteen seconds ... how close do you need to be?"
"Several feet, at least. I have always been within a dozen feet. I do not really know what the limit is," Sergei says with sudden thoughtfulness, frowning. He ducks his head. "I think I will test this, later. I do not need to touch the object, but it sometimes helps."
Ellen nods once and turns away, crossing the room to dispose of the deceased mouse and to wash her hands, scrubbing with fastidious vigor before she turns off the faucet. "I've always needed contact, myself," she observes. "Thank you for indulging my curiosity."
The very soul of cool courtesy, Sergei smiles. "A pleasure. How did your attempts to interfere work?"
Ellen dries her hands on a paper towel and deposits it in its receptacle. She inclines her head to him. "My intervention was unsuccessful," she replies. "I could repair the damage, but not halt or slow the progression of the ice."
"Ah. I have a very, very limited scientific knowledge," Sergei admits on a shrug. "But that makes sense." A touch of wry humor smirks his smile. "I think."
"I studied biology at university," Ellen says. A wry-touched smile of her own answers his, brief, as she adds, "Many years ago."
Laughter brief, Sergei nods. "It was some time ago for me as well. I don't believe I ever had a proper class on biology, or anatomy." He straightens, an idle gesture turned toward the cage. "Would you like to try anything else?"
Ellen lowers her eyes. "I think," she intones with a mild measure of regret, raising them again, "that further exploration would yield little new information ... just waste lab mice."
"They could be better used," Sergei agrees, regret reflected with a sardonic edge. "Unfortunate that you are unable to heal the effects." He pauses and then inclines his head, crossing to the doorway. "This was interesting. Thank you for the invitation. I will leave you to your other duties, then."
Ellen nods gravely to him. "Yes," she says, her hands clasping neatly behind her back. "Thank you again."
It has been a day of indulgence: one foolish whim after another. I sacrificed a mouse to curiosity (and to ice). It was interesting. And I like Sergei Ryabov. He is courteous and pleasant.
Blonde again, lean and labcoated, Ellen Dramstadt is utter biologist in the Infirmary (her infirmary), the sterility and cleanliness of which makes for a more or less ideal laboratory. The mice, small furred innocents that they are, are not as trepidatious as perhaps they should be -- ferried from her quarters to here for the spirit of scientific exploration. Well, /curiosity/, anyway. She sets down the cage on one of the large steel tables and paces back a half-step, tucking a hand into her pocket to retrieve a band with which to tie back her hair in a severe tail.
Not a biologist, not even a scientist, Sergei stands in the doorway as inquisitive layman, broad shoulders and tall frame taking up rather a fair amount of space. He closes as the mice are set down, blunt finger dropped from above for the mice's investigation. "How do you want to do this?" he asks, curling his finger around soft, fragile ears and then withdrawing his touch.
Ellen raises her head, thoughtful and silent for a moment as she contemplates both the man before her and the creatures at hand. "Slowly," she says. She catches and lifts one: it breathes, nervous and wary, atop her palm, whiskers twitching. "How complete is your control over internal temperature?"
"As far as I can tell, it isn't temperature." Sergei leans against the nearest convenient surface, watching the mouse in hand. "I can't take a glass of water and make it colder. I can take water and make it ice. I cannot make the mouse cold. I can turn its water to ice."
The blonde head tilts slightly as Ellen forces her conscious attention back from idle catalogue of information about the mouse's current state of cellular health: she concentrates on Sergei, gaze intent and grave. "Then I would like to start by witnessing the process," she says. "I will monitor the subject's fluids while you freeze them."
Sergei nods briskly. "Very well. I will go slowly." He regards the subject from several feet's distance. A few water crystal percipitate from the mouse's bloodstream; interstitial fluid follows as veins of ice spider between organs. Small crystals grow and cells begin to burst. The process /is/ slow; the mouse doesn't like it.
Eyes shuttered closed, Ellen observes: the rodent's discomfort pricks tiny claws, scrabbling against the skin of her palm, but there are other matters at hand, and she ignores the pain for them, curling slim fingers over the mouse to prevent its escape. "That's fascinating," she murmurs. Her eyes crack, a sliver of blue-grey aimed at Sergei. "I'll attempt to interfere," she says, and plunges in.
"By all means," Sergei says, peculiar courtesy offered with a smile. Cells in the heart shatter as cellular fluid becomes ice; crystals in the blood lodge in slowly freezing blood vessels, myocardial infractions of all degrees. Spinal fluid freezes in one long ripple of ice.
The cells are sluggish to respond to Ellen's commands: sluggish, and dying. Her expression behind closed eyes is grim and tight. She repairs, regenerates: but the ice itself is beyond her, its advance as inexorable as a glacier's.
Cell membranes stitch together only for ice to expand and slice them apart once again. Vitreous humor solidifies in gruesome fashion and behind the eyes, the brain dies as neurons sliver apart. The last rush of crystallization comes quickly: soon all the water in the mouse's body is ice.
Blue-grey eyes snap open with a sharp intake of breath. They turn, round, on Sergei. "That," Ellen says, fingers still curled around the dead mouse, "is remarkable."
"Freezer could do the same," Sergei says modestly, half a smile hooking over his lips. "That was going slowly. Usually with a thing that size, I could freeze in maybe--" He trails off, considering. "Fifteen seconds?"
"A freezer is stationary," Ellen points out on a slight smile of her own, pale eyes warmed with amusement, appreciation. "It's an elegant weapon you have. Fifteen seconds ... how close do you need to be?"
"Several feet, at least. I have always been within a dozen feet. I do not really know what the limit is," Sergei says with sudden thoughtfulness, frowning. He ducks his head. "I think I will test this, later. I do not need to touch the object, but it sometimes helps."
Ellen nods once and turns away, crossing the room to dispose of the deceased mouse and to wash her hands, scrubbing with fastidious vigor before she turns off the faucet. "I've always needed contact, myself," she observes. "Thank you for indulging my curiosity."
The very soul of cool courtesy, Sergei smiles. "A pleasure. How did your attempts to interfere work?"
Ellen dries her hands on a paper towel and deposits it in its receptacle. She inclines her head to him. "My intervention was unsuccessful," she replies. "I could repair the damage, but not halt or slow the progression of the ice."
"Ah. I have a very, very limited scientific knowledge," Sergei admits on a shrug. "But that makes sense." A touch of wry humor smirks his smile. "I think."
"I studied biology at university," Ellen says. A wry-touched smile of her own answers his, brief, as she adds, "Many years ago."
Laughter brief, Sergei nods. "It was some time ago for me as well. I don't believe I ever had a proper class on biology, or anatomy." He straightens, an idle gesture turned toward the cage. "Would you like to try anything else?"
Ellen lowers her eyes. "I think," she intones with a mild measure of regret, raising them again, "that further exploration would yield little new information ... just waste lab mice."
"They could be better used," Sergei agrees, regret reflected with a sardonic edge. "Unfortunate that you are unable to heal the effects." He pauses and then inclines his head, crossing to the doorway. "This was interesting. Thank you for the invitation. I will leave you to your other duties, then."
Ellen nods gravely to him. "Yes," she says, her hands clasping neatly behind her back. "Thank you again."