Crane held his concoction up to the light. He frowned after careful analysis. It still retained it's beige, marginally off-white tone.
No, no, no, it wouldn't do to have a detectable hue.
Lowering the beaker closer to his face, he wafted the air near its glass mouth towards his nose and sniffed oh-so-delicately. With precision, as if expecting the result, he quickly grimaced and held the beaker away, blinking rapidly to dispel the dancing white spots that were soon forming into grotesque shapes in front of his eyes.
The effect was satisfactory, but there was an underlying hint of ammonia in the scent. Odd. He didn't recall ammonia ever being an ingredient of the formula. He set the beaker down on the table, wondering if it was possible to neutralize the odor without jeopardizing the toxin's full effect.
The heat in the room was near unbearable. He dragged the sleeve of his protective lab coat across his slick forehead. The toxin's components could be rendered useless should a drop of his sweat fall in, the desired effect could be changed. But the stuffiness of the room wasn't without benefits. It was being quite useful for tests; experimenting the toxin's reaction or lack thereof to temperature could prove detrimental to it's shelf life and portability in the field. Fahrenheit or Celcius, the goal was for the formula to still work to its full potential in any extreme.
The plan had been in motion for near three months now. Endless nights spent toiling in this very room, failed experiment after failed experiment, finally culminating into this one moment. His magnum opus soon to become a reality. And reality was the big name of the game. The hallucinations contained inside this ordinary beaker, diluted within an innocent-looking liquid that was in truth so potent that it could break the mind within minutes of unrelenting exposure. His newest strain of fear toxin was a transport. A transport to not a state of being, but a state of world, a landscape that reached farther than mere monsters dancing before one's face.
The only components left for the final test were subjects, always a necessary gear in the machine, to be rounded up. Though captured would perhaps be a more accurate term. Willing or unwilling was of little importance, though Crane would admit to preferring unwilling better. Results were more pure that way.
A name for the improved formula would only be decorative, a cosmetic addition that would neither add nor detract. But Crane wanted to make it sound official, induct it into the annals of his mind by the christening of a title. A debut of sorts. There was only one name he felt could give this world the justified, accurate reputation it deserved.
12 A.M Eternal.