Discovery

Your hands are sweating.

You’re fairly certain no-one can tell, not beneath the layers of a CBRN suit and above the second-hand droplets of river water you all now share, but you turn your back against the others all the same. It’s the midday sun, combined with the heavy plastic cover and genuine physical labour, anyway. That’s it. That’s all.

They’re not shaking, your hands. They’re certainly not cold, or numb, or somehow also tingling? One would baulk at the mere thought of it, the embarrassment. You are a scientist. This shouldn’t shake you. It wouldn’t.

But you aren’t really, are you? A scientist. That scrap of paper you worked so hard for means nothing now. You’re certainly not anything useful, not truly. You were barely more than an overgrown botany student, squirreled away with your soil samples. An amateur in a field that suddenly became a good ol’ cosmic joke before you ever figured things out enough to be helpful. And now, in the Bastion? Maybe you could’ve been their last hope. Maybe things would’ve been different. But it didn’t work, did it? It never does. And now you’re here. Trembling against the bars of your death row cell, each day threatening to be your last, and every one devoted to burying the corpses of those who fell before you.

A mirthless laugh, at that. Those are the words of a poet, a philosopher, not an empiricist. Not a scientist.

The Saint works wordlessly beside you, seeming to ignore every conversation, sparse and fleeting as they are. You’re not sure it even hears you speak. Occasionally, you come to wonder if there really is a person beneath all that… everything.

Or, as the case may be, all that nothing. Only a moment has passed, but as you turn to double check that it is definitely breathing, it is clear The Saint has slipped away with frankly surprising agility. You spin on your heels, the oddly squeamish horror of body removal that had been steadily building subsiding momentarily in favour of primal curiosity. You spot it quickly, in somewhat stilted discussion with that cartographer, Peregrine – the latter of whom seems veritably thrilled with whatever it is being said, and then rather deflated when The Saint turns straight back to its duty at the river.

Deflated, yet visibly still excited by the sample in their hand – because that’s what it is, you realise. It’s a fungal specimen. Encased in glass, suspended in saline, in seemingly perfect condition. Surely they’re not trying to-

‘What are you doing?’ Your voice is sharp, commanding, and Peregrine wilts slightly away from you. When did you approach? Why are your fists quite so tightly clenched? Why do they look quite so afraid of you?

You’re still wearing the hazmat suit. You sigh, consider for a moment, and then remove the headpiece carefully. What have you got to lose?

‘I said, what are you doing?’

Peregrine falters, eyes wide, and then begins a muttered response.

‘I thought I’d have a look at the fungal sample under the microscope. Might try to collect some spores, even. I think I could, uh- I think there’s maybe something we could do with it. Like, uh, a… obviously the misuse of antifungals contributed to resistant fungal pathogens so clearly they’re hard to get rid of like, properly, but I still think it- well, obviously nanotechnology-based delivery systems wouldn’t really be feasible with the equipment we have and obviously I don’t know… anything really but, like we very much can’t even attempt recombinant methodology or conjugate vaccines but I really do think maybe a live-attenuated form or even killed whole-cell would be possible without really too much equipment and I think I understand it in theory obviously it’s not too complicated I suppose it’s just that scientists before never had access to the pure fungal form before now, if that cluster near the nuclear plant really is the actual real stuff, but even now that we do have it like I understand on paper how it all works but I don’t think I can actually do anything more than look at it and-‘

They gasp a sudden breath. They’re almost shouting by now, gesturing wildly and excitedly, but freeze as your eyes meet their own in somewhat disbelieving silence.

‘…I, uh, took AP biology.’

You nod sagely, as if that comment even hoped to resolve any questions you may have had. In reality, you need a moment to steady your reeling head. Fungal vaccines were never successful. You’d come to terms with this. It couldn’t be done. They couldn’t be helped. This is the nature of the world. This is what the evidence suggests.

But then again, what have you got to lose?

The next few days are a chaotic swirl packed with violations of every lab protocol known to man, and a healthy helping of ‘good enough’ chemical mixing that would have you ejected from any respectable academic institute in a heartbeat. You don your CBRN suit once again, to gather spore samples from both presumably contaminated water sources and deceased infecteds, and blood samples from the latter alone. They don’t scare you so much, now. You’re not entirely sure why. At least your hands no longer shake.

That is, of course, until Peregrine asks offhand if you could provide a healthy blood sample, for contrast. That’s when the all-too-familiar pit in your stomach returns, and you stammer out something approaching an excuse before turning tail and leaving this make-shift laboratory without another word. Healthy.

No-one’s watching, now. No-one can see you falter. You are alone.

Somehow, this is worse. No-one knows you here, not really.

A pause. A breath. Does that have to be a bad thing, really? You had the chance to create yourself anew, here. But you are what you’ve always been: a scientist, an academic, a student, in many shifting senses of the words. You cannot run from that. You are pragmatic, you are sensible, and you are trained. (Mostly.)

It might be too late for you, but it’s not too late. You’re not one of those yet, and Peregrine needs your help.