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I’m in a well-stocked laboratory. Since when do isolation wards let patients into the lab? And this doesn’t look like a medical lab, anyway. What the fudge is going on?!
Fudge? Seriously? Maybe I have young kids. Or I’m deeply religious.
I stand to get a better look at things.
The lab has smaller equipment bolted to the table. I see an 8000x microscope, an autoclave, a bank of test tubes, sets of supply drawers, a sample fridge, a furnace, pipettes—wait a minute. Why do I know all those terms?
I look at the larger equipment along the walls. Scanning electron microscope, sub-millimeter 3-D printer, 11-axis milling machine, laser interferometer, 1-cubic-meter vacuum chamber—I know what everything is. And I know how to use it.
I’m a scientist! Now we’re getting somewhere! Time for me to use science.All right, genius brain: come up with something!
…I’m hungry.
You have failed me, brain.
Okay, well I have no idea why this lab is here or why I’m allowed in. But…onward!
The hatch in the ceiling is 10 feet off the ground. It’s going to be another ladder adventure. At least I’m stronger now.
I take a few deep breaths and start climbing the ladder. Same as before, this simple act is a massive effort. I may be getting better, but I’m not “well.”
Good lord I’m heavy. I make it to the top, but only just.
I situate myself on the uncomfortable bars and push on the hatch’s handle. It doesn’t budge.
“To unlock hatch, state your name,” says the computer.
“But I don’t know my name!”
“Incorrect.”
I smack the handle with the palm of my hand. The handle doesn’t move and now the palm of my hand hurts. So…yeah. Not fruitful.
This will have to wait. Maybe I’ll remember my name soon. Or find it written somewhere.
I climb back down the ladder. At least, that’s my plan. You’d think going down would be easier and safer than going up. But no. No. Instead of gracefully descending the ladder, I put my foot on the next rung down at an awkward angle, lose my grip on the hatch handle, and fall like an idiot.
I flail like an angry cat, reaching out for anything I can grasp. Turns out that’s a terrible idea. I fall onto the table and smack a set of supply drawers with my shin. It hurts like a motherfluffer! I cry out, grab my shin in pain, accidentally roll off the table, and fall to the floor.
No robot arms to catch me this time. I land on my back and it knocks the wind out of me. Then, adding insult to injury, the supply-drawer unit falls over, the drawers open, and lab supplies rain down upon me. The cotton swabs aren’t a problem. The test tubes just kind of hurt a little (and surprisingly don’t shatter). But the tape measure smacks me square in the forehead.
More stuff clatters down, but I’m too busy holding the growing welt on my forehead to notice. How heavy is that tape measure? A 3-foot fall off a table left a bump on my head.
“That. Did not work,” I say to no one. That whole experience was just ridiculous. Like something out of a Charlie Chaplin movie.
Actually…it really was like that. A little too much like that.
That same feeling of “wrongness” strikes me.
I grab a nearby test tube and toss it into the air. It goes up and comes down like it should. But it annoys me. Something about falling objects ticks me off right now. I want to know why.
What do I have to work with? Well, I have an entire laboratory and I know how to use it. But what’s readily at hand? I look around at all the junk that fell to the floor. A bunch of test tubes, sample swabs, Popsicle sticks, a digital stopwatch, pipettes, some Scotch tape, a pen…
Okay, I may have what I need here.
I get back to my feet and dust off my toga. There’s no dust on it—my whole world seems really clean and sterile, but I do the motions just the same.
I pick up the tape measure and take a look. It’s metric. Maybe I’m in Europe? Whatever. Then I grab the stopwatch. It’s pretty sturdy, like something you’d take on a hike. It has a solid plastic shell with a hard rubber ring around it. Undoubtedly waterproof. But also dead as a doornail. The LCD screen is completely blank.
