Hojo
Hojo always did his best thinking outside the box.
Hojo clasps his hands behind his back and appraises the specimen strapped to the table. He concludes with a satisfied nod.
"Begin the trial."
His assistant steps up, syringe in hand. The specimen lolls his head her way as she sticks it into his arm, but whatever he tries to say is lost in mumbling.
Hojo shifts his attention to the screen above the specimen's head. The heart rate begins its expected climb, blood pressure follows suit. Excellent oxygen saturation.
"Continue with phase 2."
The assistant – she hasn't been around long enough for him to bother learning her name – picks up the second syringe from the tray behind her. This time the specimen's vitals jump more rapidly, but soon stabilize at an elevated level.
"All readings nominal," the assistant reports, needlessly. "The specimen is stable."
"Yes, I can see that. Introduce the stressor."
"Yes, Professor," she mutters.
Her cheeks have gone pink. How silly of her to be preoccupied with her own pride at a time like this.
The assistant flicks a switch on the display at her side, which comes to life with a quiet hum. A bundle of wires snake out from the back of it and connect to strategic points on the specimen's body. When she presses a button, his body arches off the table for precisely two seconds. Several monitors launch into a chorus of beeping, but by the time the assistant has finished scribbling into her clipboard, they have quieted.
"Double the voltage," Hojo orders. "Two seconds."
The specimen groans. Hojo cannot discern any words.
A second burst jolts the specimen's body. As the machines beep their warnings, a faint odor of ozone spreads through the lab.
Hojo pushes his glasses higher on his nose and peers at the digits on the screen. How curious. The difference between the two runs is barely noticeable.
"Five seconds."
The assistant blinks in surprise and checks her clipboard.
"Five seconds," Hojo snaps.
Her lips press into a line, but she makes the adjustment. Her finger hovers over the button for a moment before pushing down.
The acrid smell of ozone prickles Hojo's nostrils. The specimen writhes and groans, but his vitals remain stable.
A smile creeps onto Hojo's face. How delightfully unexpected. Such a resilient specimen may just be his opportunity to observe the synergy – or lack thereof – between high doses of standard Mako concentrate and his latest invention.
"Twenty CCs of solution S, inject intravenously."
When his order fails to elicit a reaction, Hojo turns his glare on his assistant. Her eyes retreat to the clipboard in her hands.
"Professor…" She swallows hard. "This isn't part of the protocol."
"Witless girl!" he hisses. "You expect scientific progress to wait while you rewrite your paltry protocols? Administer solution S!"
The assistant's bottom lip quivers pathetically.
"Yes, Professor."
She turns away and begins to prepare the injection. Too rigid of thought, Hojo muses, too tightly bound by expectations. He was right not to bother learning her name. She isn't cut out for applied science.
It is what they teach them in school these days, he supposes. Begin with a question. Turn it into a hypothesis. Put it to the test. Do not deviate from your course. Obey the laws of science.
Hojo's lip curls in a sneer. As if science gives a damn about their laws. While these shortsighted fools stare themselves blind at their narrow slice of reality, dozens of crucial discoveries are dancing by right under their noses.
The assistant turns, holding a filled syringe.
"Twenty CCs of solution S, ready for administration."
Her voice is cool again, her face impassive. Dull and narrow-minded though she has proven to be, she is not entirely without use.
"Proceed," Hojo commands. "Record everything."
He was always destined to discover great things. He will not, cannot let himself be bound by the petty rules of the fearful and the small. Progress demands it.