"Zeta, check 'useless meeting' off my to-do list," I instruct the virtual assistant, without bothering to try to keep the distaste out of my tone, as I re-enter my lab. While trying to push aside my annoyance to focus on my work, I slip on my lab coat and remove and fold up my tie, placing it on the far end of the counter and away from anything that might spill.

As per usual, I check each of the rodents' biometric data on the monitors attached to each cage, open the spreadsheet on the computer where they're automatically transferred and run the program that checks for any patterns or irregularities. It only takes a second or two for it to inform me that most of the previous patterns in the subjects' vital signs are being continued, and their neurological conditions are showing signs of deterioration, as I expected. I'll try adjusting the proportions of the components of the serum again on the next trial. The mortality rate is significantly lower for this set of rodents, however. In fact, so far, they're all still alive, though one has been experiencing worsening muscular control issues that may eventually result in a fatal seizure.

"'Scuse me, sir." A young lab tech brushes past me as he approaches the fridge to place a chemical in cold storage. I give him a brief nod and return to my analysis of the rats.

He and a few others have been working on an adjacent project — improving the synthesis process of one of the main components of my serum. They've been testing varying isomers and some alternate reactants with slightly different chemical compositions in an attempt to get a better conversion ratio, as well as trying to speed up the reaction by changing the temperature and pH and through the use of various catalytic agents.

After shutting the fridge, he retrieves a partially full beaker and takes it to the sink at the end of my counter. My tie is sitting dangerously close to the whole situation, and I don't like it.

"Use the other sink," I tell him.

"I'll just be a second," he says, reaching for the waste beaker.

"No, stop. You might—"

Spill.

Just as I feared, he moved the beaker too quickly, sloshing corrosive liquid over the side.

"No! What did I just tell you?"

Startled, he dropped the beaker in the sink, but it was too late — the dark red contents had spilled onto the counter and leached into the fabric of my previously light grey, folded-up tie.

"Just— just get out." I quickly pull on a pair of safety gloves, snatch the garment and start running it under the tap water.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, I—"

"I said get out!"

The lab tech's eyes widen and he nods quickly before scurrying out the door.

"Shit..." I mutter.

Reluctantly, I look down at the ruined tie, knowing full well that it can't be saved. Even if I were to wash out every trace of the chemical and sterilize it for safety, the stain would still be there, and the singed patches where the acid had worn through the fabric.

Shame. I quite liked that tie. Then again, it's really just another stupidly fragile possession. This is why I've never been sentimental about objects — They're just so impermanent. Unreliable. As fleeting as the memories people so often insist on tying to them.

"He's working now, Rov," she told my younger self, soft footsteps bringing her toward the 12-year-old boy. She held a heaping basket of laundry in her left hand, resting it against her hip, and reached over to adjust a shirt and folded-up tie sitting precariously close to the edge. "You know that."

"Sorry, Miss Fletcher," I answered. "I... Well, I just thought he might—" Adjusting my glasses, I turned my head down. "I don't know."

Resting a hand gently on my shoulder, she offered me a slight smile.

"Hey, why don't we go to Zuckersüss for fruit tarts, since you finished your homework early again?"

On the opposite side of the counter, my phone dings. With a shake of my head, I put the pointless memory out of my head and toss the tie in the non-hazardous waste bin under the counter. It's just a piece of clothing, and making it out to be anything more than that is a waste of time.

"Zeta, read me my notifications," I call across the room. I'm not sure I needed to do that, actually. Ashcombe said something about embedded microphones throughout the lab, so Zeta could hear me even if I'm not near my device. Still, it takes some getting used to, I suppose.

"One new message from: Ashcombe. Time: 17:33. Message: 'Evening, Dr. Blayne. You'll be glad to know that Dr. Lockhart's transport has just docked in our entry bay. Facility personnel are currently helping her to move into temporary quarters, but she has expressed willingness to meet with you whenever you wish.' End of message. No other notifications."

I nod, taking in the information, though I'm not exactly sure to whom. Zeta, I suppose, though I'm aware it isn't logical — the virtual assistant neither requires such responses nor sees them, as far as I know. I don't believe it is connected to the lab's cameras.

"She has expressed willingness to meet with you whenever you wish"... Not the clearest of statements. Did Ashcombe mean any time today, or in the next few days after Dr. Lockhart has moved in? Are we talking about a formal meeting or a casual hello? Perhaps I'd better just go down to the docking bay, if she's still there, or drop by her quarters. I'm sure a welcome from a friendly face would be nice. She's probably already surrounded by nothing but suits and security officers. Yes, that's what I'll do.

After removing my gloves and hanging my lab coat up by the door, I head for the elevator.

It seems as though the nearer I get to the hangar, the more this morning's anxiety begins to fade, dissipating at the reassuring thought of comforting familiarity and reliability. It isn't that Dr. Lockhart and I were particularly close, not in your traditional manner of friendship, anyway. To be honest, neither of us were ever the most social of creatures. We mostly kept to ourselves on a personal level. We discussed the relevant science when it needed to be discussed, or even the occasional unrelated news in an adjacent field simply out of interest, and, I'll admit, she's been the patient audience of one or two of my frustrated policy rants when I worked for the university... Still, we never felt the need to talk about our personal lives the way colleagues so often seem to want to. She knew that in the lab or at the coffee shop in the lobby, I'd rather go over theories than discuss our families, relationships or weekend plans. I knew that she cared more about publishing groundbreaking papers or winning another OMA than whatever I might be up to after-hours. No, we're not close, we're something much better: comfortable. In fact, bewildering as this may sound to any of my more socially-oriented acquaintances, I think our not being close is the very reason I feel as comfortable around her as I do; I've never felt pressured to become close.

When I arrive, the docking bay is just as bustling as it was the one other time I've been there. Officers in no-nonsense uniforms rushed back and forth, quickly but steadily. It wasn't only Dr. Lockhart's transport that's just docked, of course. Several others appear to have either just landed or are about to take off, judging by the speed with which officers bring hovering cargo crates and other unrecognizable technological whats-its back and forth.

I don't see Lockhart anywhere, so I approach one of the guards, or security officers, or whatever he is, standing at a console by the east wall.

"Excuse me, is Dr. Lockhart still here?"

"I'm sorry, we can't disclose the location of any—"

With a sigh that borders on involuntary, I pull out my phone and call up my ID.

"I run project Ascensus. She's my partner."

He squints at the screen, then steps back with a curt nod. "Right. Sorry, Doctor. She left a few minutes ago with a suitcase from the transport. I believe she is in her quarters. I can have someone show you the way, if you'd like."

"Yes, that would be great."

He waves another officer over, relays the instruction, and returns to his console.

* * *

"That's really quite fascinating." I sip my sweetened lemon balm tea while going over Dr. Lockhart's explanation in my head. She's just finished telling me about her work on another project she'd been engaged in — She was part of a team of specialists in cybernetic science investigating possible new techniques to improve surgical outcomes. This isn't new, of course. She worked on that as well as my project before my departure, but since then, her efforts shifted to only the remaining area. I don't know how she managed both before, to be honest, but it wasn't surprising. Just one intense, world-changing project at a time was never enough for her. I chuckle as a thought comes to mind.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Two months with only one time-devouring, mind-stretching scientific challenge to focus on? You must've been so bored."

A smile sneaks onto her face. "Doctor..." She shakes her head. "You wouldn't be suggesting I missed you, would you?"

"Oh, I would never imply such a thing." I grin back. Interesting. The longer we talk, the more I realize how much I really did miss her.

"In all seriousness, though," she adds, "it's good to be back."

A question crosses my mind, and, given who I'm with, I see no reason not to simply ask it.

"Why did you come back?" I look up from my tea to meet her eyes. "I only mean that, well... You could have found another project. You could probably have your pick of any project in your field, or could run your own, you're more than qualified. Why come back here? Why give that up just to assist on mine, and only mine?"

"You really don't know?" she asks.

I shake my head.

"I hope this doesn't make me sound like a fringe scimiracle fanatic... or a cat poster," she starts, "but I believe in you. That's the only reason I need. I believe you could be accomplishing something incredible here, Dr. Blayne. If you can do what you say you can, this project — you — could change the world."

She... believes in me? That's... Well, honestly, that's something that despite never realizing it, I think I really needed to hear. In fact, it takes me a minute to process her words.

"Thank you... and—" I pause for a second. I'm not sure why. "We've worked together for years now, I think it's about time you just called me Rovart."

"OK." She smiles. "Call me Reta, then."

From there, the conversation steers back to biochemistry and jumps around between topics of mutual interest — newly published studies, emerging theories, recent discoveries. I'll admit, I'm a little behind on the news, even the scientific news, outside this facility. I always had a nasty habit of getting so caught up in my own work that I lost track of others' progress, but it's been worse lately. Maybe it's as simple as the fact that I'm living here. I've been eating, sleeping and working all in the same corporate-run-yet-militarily-efficient complex my sponsors insisted I migrate my project to. Having not once left the place since I first arrived, it's easy to forget the outside world exists sometimes.

Well, I'll rejoin them soon enough, and with a discovery that will change the future for everyone. Until then, it's a good thing the only part of the outside world I really missed is now sitting in a lawson chair a meter away from me. Speaking of — She probably has more important things to do than drink tea with me any longer.

"I should probably get going," I tell her, then stand up and adjust the chair I was in — its angle with the coffee table seems to be slightly off. "I don't want to keep you from all your unpacking, and I should get supper soon, anyway."

She nods. "Good idea. Thanks for stopping by, though. It's been nice catching up."

It's a short trip back to my quarters — just the walk to the elevator, the ride up one floor, then it's just down the hall. In less than five minutes, I'm standing in the apartment's compact kitchen, searching through the pantry cupboard for something quick to prepare. I don't feel like eating in the canteen today, but I can't stand to cook anything long and complicated either. I never have. I've wondered about that occasionally, actually. It seems a bit odd to have an extensive background in organic chemistry and not like cooking, but I suppose I've just never had the patience for it.

That thought stays with me as I pour a single-serving can of soup into a pot and start the stove. Patience. I can spend hours sifting through fine increments of data as a reaction creeps along, or wait days for a sample to process in a deep freezer, but a 20-minute timer on the oven is almost infuriatingly dull just to think about. I suppose that answers my next question of 'how do they do it', then. People who do cook, I mean. More than that, people who shape and bake and build those intricate desserts in bakeries. They do it the same way I do my work. How I feel about scientific study and experimentation is how they feel about their masterfully crafted food art. I used to find them fascinating as a child.

Somehow, through the thick scent of aggressively saline cream sauce and artificial chunks of meat and veggies diffusing throughout the room from the steaming pot, I have this impossible sense of being able to smell Zuckersüss, the bakery a street over from my childhood home.

The sugary dessert, a delicate-looking nest made of a sort of honey-and-pastry-batter mixture spun into tangled strands, started to dissolve as soon as it touched my tongue. It tasted like light, like summertime, like... like how I'd imagined a flower must taste to a bee. Miss Fletcher seemed to be enjoying her dessert, too — a golden, flaky tart filled with plum jam. Every once and awhile, though, she'd look over at me, her eyebrows creased only slightly with a delicate look of concern.

At that age, I didn't always understand why she looked at me like that. I knew she'd seen my disappointment when my father was working, and maybe she worried that I was lonely, or missed him. She wasn't wrong, of course. I did miss him, he was my family, after all, but I understood why he worked so hard and so late. He had such important things to do in that perpetually locked home office. There were inventions to be created, discoveries to be found, science to be... scienced. OK, maybe I didn't know all the details of the fantastical projects he kept in that room, but I knew enough. My father, he was a scientific genius. I only wish Miss Fletcher understood that, so she wouldn't be so worried about me. If only she could see that it was OK if I didn't see him so often, because behind that door, he was changing the world...