"Biotic manipulation is not a toy, it is not a plaything, it is a powerful reality that should be given the same respect that you would give to any other groundbreaking, pioneering concept. You would not use an atom bomb as a tennis ball, and you would not use Zyklon B as cat litter. The cautious respect this unknown to Dr. O'Deorain, and I fear not applying sanctions to her work now will only embolden her to continue with her reckless, inappropriate research."
She put another olive in her mouth, using a little toothpick to place it between two teeth, before tearing the page from the stapled report, tearing it up in her hands, before opening the little metal latch on one of the cages of her laboratory, stuffing the former scientific memo into Brean-Brean's litter box. "Where it truly belongs..." She grumbled, flipping over the pages of Dr. Ziegler's dissertation, if a dissertation it could even be called.
It was a call to arms of the unenlightened, of fearful sheep. Sheep who are afraid of confidence. This is no field of science for the weak. For that is what the scientific community was. They call Moira foolhardy, she calls them sheep, for she is brave.
"The long term effects of genetic modification are not known yet, and it cannot be safely discerned what side-effects may result from live testing. It is far too unsafe to perform on human subjects, the results could be unimaginably horrific. Cloning, as we know from various experiments, especially from Marius Et Al, that pure cloning, at this point in time, produces very inconsistent product. Many cloned animals have been born with defects and imperfections, to use induced pluripotent cells on a human being? Unthinkable on any standard of acceptable ethics.
She put the last olive in her mouth, before removing her labcoat, and tossing the leaflet away, it impacted against the wall, and fell uselessly into a crumpled heap of printed paper and staples.
On the other side of the room, just beyond her messy tables and rifled shelves, there sat a small tray on swivel wheels, and an operating chair. The scientist collected a pencil from the veritable debris on her desk, and began to write within a red jacketed little journal.
"When I was twelve, I removed an ingrown toenail with a partial avulsion surgery using a pocket knife within a Dublin apartment. I am no stranger to self experimentation, and in the difficulty to procure the funding needed to obtain suitable volunteers, I find I will now record my observations. It is the fourth of March, 2034, and I have prepared a dose of Biotic Lytholenoleum, two quarts bolicin, one quart lythol to allow easier access, one quart A-Grade Biotic jelly. I will insert it into my bloodstream with a hypodermic syringe. 0.5 Mil dosage."
She had long since abandoned any apprehension of needles, even staring at the syringe sitting on the small metal table. She put her lab coat over the back of the chair, and she sat herself down. Placing her pencil between her teeth as an improvised bit-gag, she picked up the syringe, turning it left and right, letting the purple mixture dance behind the glass, the bright, almost oppressive light above the operating chair reflected a golden glimmer from the little shot of science.
There was once an antibiotic shot that Moira had been given during her younger years, her colleagues had nicknamed it "The Peanut-Butter Shot." When she received it, she understood why; the texture of the liquid being comparable to creamy peanut butter being shoved into you. Most unpleasant, it was.
Her throat felt oddly dry, perhaps nerves, she supposed. It was anxiety, not of the needle, but of the contents. No, she knew no progress was ever through cowardice, it was made through action. She pressed the needle into a vein upon her right arm, and pressed its plunger, sending the contents within her bloodstream.
It came like a blanket over a fire, like an introduction upon a stage. The pain. The pain was unimaginable. Moira's fingers tensed on the arm-rest of the chair, and her spine straightened, slamming itself against the chair. Her yell of agony was muffled by the pencil as she bit into it, her eyes widening in a kind of disgusted horror, the veins in her arm became erect, the purple of the doseage slowly spreading like blood in clean water. She rocked in the chair, both to distract her mind, and to allow the dose to spread into her bloodstream. The sooner it was over, the better. A trickle of drool slipped from her lip as she lurched forwards momentarily, racked in pain.
There was a snap, and a pain in her mouth. She had bitten upon the pencil with such intensity that it snapped into pieces. Two parts falling onto her legs, then uselessly on the floor by the chair. She spat the third fragment out, and her cries became all the louder for it.
"Fuck, fuck! I-Fuck! Fuckkkk!" She hissed, the repeated swearing doing more than you would expect to lessen the severe pain. It flashed in her eyes as if the blood rushed to her head, and Moira felt as if she might die; the pain was so intense. If she couldn't see her arm, it would have been on fire, she would compare it to such.
Her arm had become purplish, not swollen, simply purple, with the primary veins erected and aggressive. It took all of her willpower to take her other hand off of her shoulder, and push up the sleeve on her vest. The familiar white flesh of normal skin was there, the purple contamination dying off near her hardened bicep. It seemed to have clogged in her arm, and, at worst, an amputation would keep her safe. She didn't realise it in the heat of the moment; but it was the result of an improperly measured dose. A result of... Recklessness.
It was only, perhaps two minutes, but to Dr. O'Deorain, it felt like an eternity of repose. Soon, the veins deflated back to regularity, and the purple of her arm faded. It was still present, though very cleverly hidden, the tiniest tint of bluish purple remained within her skin, as if skirting around the sides of her own pink skin, never to be the same again.
She pulled herself to the decontamination shower, turning on the warm water, she stepped in. She didn't even remove her clothes, and instead simply let the water soak her.
The numbness in her arm subsided after the clammy sensation left her body, and she realised as such when she slid down the wall of the shower, and put her hands on her face. She had been soaked in her own sweat, and for now she desired to be clean.
Back in her laboratory, amid the trash and clutter, a single piece of the Dissertation penned by Dr. Ziegler lay facing the ceiling, lit by the harsh light above the operating table.
"..And therefore, I believe fully in my proposal to blacklist Dr. O'Deorain from any accredited scientific community. I do not believe it to be in the best interests of mankind's safety; not on a societal level, but perhaps a biological scale. I do not wish to ponder the minds her unethical successes may embolden if she receives continued support in the form of funding. The Code of Ethics exists for a reason, rules and laws, exist for a reason.
So yes, I cast my vote in favor of a veto against Dr. O'Deorain, and I hope it should persist, either indefinitely, or until she normalises her ambition and desire to such a degree that the scientific community at large considers appropriate for a woman of her position.
Dr. Angela Ziegler, M.D."
~"...Where the artist would not fear the censor; where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality; where the great would not be constrained by the small!..."~