The kiss was as much of a scientific experiment as the way he pulled out strands of creatures' DNA and injected and tested and corrupted; it was a test to see and to learn, an experiment with no real emotion behind it, because, wrapped up in sterile white uniforms and standing in the chilled air of the mountain village, there was no emotion to be shared. He did not love her, and she did not love him. It was for science that they did what they did.
This did not mean that he did not enjoy her kiss, the soft, warm press of her lips to his, nor did it mean that he did not cherish the look that the Turk gave him when he held her close and dark, beetle-black eyes met wide, wine-red, a mocking lock of cool apathy and flaring emotion that had been locked away by the hands of training and murder. It was merely that there was no emotion behind such a fleeting, experimental sensation as a kiss.
He analyzed it as he sat, perched upon the edge of a stool, with his hands and forearms up to his elbows wrapped in plastic gloves and smeared with blood and little bits of gore that he could not prevent from coming out when he had pulled the bullet from the dribbling red mouth blown in the Turk's left breast.
A single kiss, a sensation that had no meaning other than a futile comfort that he could have found just as easily in his work or in the bowels of the Mansion, reading or scribbling away in his scattered notes, had been the trigger. He had not murdered the Turk: the Turk had murdered himself. A poisonous kiss, if you will.
Science had taught him that there was no need for things such as "love" and "gentleness." They kissed because of science, they married because of science, and they made love because of science. All in the name of science – she knew exactly what she was doing, and she had made the choice of her own will, knowing very well that they did not know exactly what the results and consequences would be, but knowing that it must be done, for science.
The Turk was spread out over the cool stone slab, unconscious or dead, Hojo did not know at this point. Hovering above him like a vulture finding its meal, he pulled and prodded and picked, his lips moving, speaking and uttering out words and ideals and scientific meanings:
"You were a fool, you see, because there was nothing behind it in the end; she loved you no more than she loved me, and you were blinded by pointless, meaningless emotion, and you did not see that the only love she had was for science." He spoke to nothing and no one; he spoke to the dead man lying before him and to the muted monsters he had created that dared not stray far from the darkness from whence they had come.
A kiss was meaningless, but a kiss had been the trigger, the snap of that last bit of wire holding it all back, that had set it all into motion.