Page 19 of Victorious

Inside the sterile white lab, Ardley shuffled between cabinets and counters, humming an off-key tune, oblivious to the fact he was no longer alone. Until Victor cleared his throat.

The chemist yelped, nearly dropping the tray in his hands. Beakers and bottles jangled, threatening to tip as he fought to steady them. “How did you get in here?”

Victor gestured at the back door. “The same way you did.”

Ardley stared, clearly torn between bewilderment and indignation. “Well you can’t be in here.”

Victor said nothing.

“If you don’t leave, I’ll”—his head swiveled as he searched for options—“I’ll call the cops.”

Times like this, Victor missed his powers.

Pain was an effective motivator. Its presence—even its promise—had a way of slicing through bravado, making people instantly obedient.

But the last dose he’d taken had yet to wear off, so he settled for drawing the gun from his pocket.

The chemist’s hands shot into the air, the tray of glass he’d fought to save dropping as they did, shattering against the lab floor. “Oh god, oh god, don’t kill me,” he pleaded before swinging back toward defiance. “There are security cameras. They’ll see you.”

Victor glanced up at the glass sphere in the corner, the eye devoid of red light.

“Given that you used the back door to reenter your place of work after hours in order to steal company resources, I’m going to assume the cameras are already off.”

Ardley trembled visibly, eyes darting about for something. Anything. Fear fighting against self-preservation.

“I don’t care what you’re making,” said Victor, “or what you’re selling it for.” He reached out his free hand, and spun a nearby centrifuge. “What I do care about is the fact no one has noticed. Which means you’re either good at covering your tracks, or the lab’s supplies are extensive enough that the missing quantities fall into the margin of error. Correct?”

Ardley bobbed his head.

“Good.” Victor drew the inhaler cartridge from his pocket, tipping it so that the inch of vivid blue liquid painted the sides. “Then no one will notice you making this.”

He could see the refusal already forming on the chemist’s lips. “Before you try to think of more excuses,” he warned, “I want you to remember something. I have no reason to kill you. Unless you give me one.”

Victor smiled as he said it, and whether it was the words or his expression, Ardley made the wise decision to swallow his protests. Instead, he asked, “What is it?”

“That,” said Victor, pocketing the vial, “is not something you need to think about.”

The chemist huffed. “Then how do you expect me to make it?”

Victor produced a sheet of paper and set it on the table between them.

Ardley hesitated, clearly torn between reaching for the slip and keeping his hands firmly in the air. Victor set the gun on the counter. “Go ahead.”

The chemist scanned the page. Victor had copied the final formula from Haverty’s notebook, which held every failed road he’d gone down in search of the right one. As well as photographs. Of Eli. And what Victor could only assume were experimental operations, designed to create and refine the compound that would end his life.

And save Victor’s.

Ardley scanned the notes. “This is…” He shook his head, and Victor tightened his grip on the one remaining vial in his pocket, braced for the chemist to tell him it couldn’t be done, that the work was incomplete, or indecipherable. But he only said, “… complicated.”

His gaze flicked up. “It’s not some kind of bioweapon, is it?” he asked with a nervous laugh.

Victor thought about the fact that, in a way, it was. Just not one that affected ordinary people. He shook his head.

Ardley turned the paper over, and back, and said, “It’s going to take time.”

“Well, then,” said Victor, leaning back against a set of cabinets. “I suggest you get to work.”

VIIINOW. THEN.