In the basement, Sky knocks on the doorframe to the lab. “Syron?”
“Yes?!” comes the sharp reply.
Sky enters the lab, looking around curiously. The scientist is pouring something from a small beaker into a larger one over the sink. “Syron? How is your research coming along?”
The larger beaker slips out of Syron’s hand and shatters in the sink. He angrily hurls the smaller one down on the floor, sending slivers of glass everywhere. “How is it coming along?? How is anything supposed to ‘come along’ with these incessant interruptions?! Science takes time and focus! This is a lab, not a carnival fortune-teller booth! If I could just draw cards and tell you what they say, don’t you think I would have given you an answer by now?!” The mortal glares at the inspector, shaking with fury, then slumps against the counter and sinks down until he is sitting on the floor, looking worn out.
“Syron...you look exhausted. Did you drink the water?”
“I don’t know,” Syron says. “I had to taste it, after all. Or maybe it was when I boiled it and breathed in the steam. Or when I threw a sample of it into the acid bath to see if it caused any reactions.” He trails off, his head nodding. He begins to lean over, getting ready to curl up on the glass-strewn floor like a housecat in a sunny spot.
Sky sighs and stops him, getting an arm under an armpit and lifting him. “Let’s get you to bed, Syron,” he says.