Chapter 115: Aerothrax II
Devon stood at the central table, the capsule in his hand feeling like a live grenade. The system timer blinked in his mind. He set the capsule down carefully, his fingers steady despite the storm inside him.
First things first, he needed to understand this monster. He glanced around the lab, his kingdom of wonders, and said, "Play music."
The room responded right away. Speakers hidden in the walls kicked in, blasting heavy guitar riffs and pounding drums, classic rock, the kind that shook your bones and cleared your head. The beat filled the space, turning the lab into a high-stakes concert hall.
Devon nodded, the music pumping him up, drowning out the outside world. He pulled on gloves, snapped a mask over his face, and got to work. The guitars screamed, matching the fire in his gut.
He started with the basics. He cracked open a tiny bit of the capsule under a sealed hood, the kind that sucked up fumes like a vacuum. The poison was a fine powder, almost like dust, swirling a bit in the air before the hood pulled it in.
He scooped a sample into a test tube, his hands steady as the music thumped, added a neutral solvent, and watched it dissolve slow. The liquid turned a faint green, bubbling slightly, like it was alive and angry. "Okay, let’s see what you’re made of," he muttered over the music, his voice lost in the drum beats.
The riffs pushed him, made him feel like he was in a race against the clock.
He slid the tube into the spectrometer, a sleek machine on the table that hummed to life, its fans whirring soft under the rock blast. The screen lit up, graphs spiking wild as it broke down the components.
Aerothrax wasn’t simple, it was a nasty cocktail. Heavy metals like arsenic to shred the lungs, neurotoxins that fried nerves like hot oil, and synthetic virus-like particles that jumped from cell to cell like fleas. The airborne trick came from volatile chemicals that turned to gas at room temp, spreading sneaky and fast.
Devon leaned in, the music thumping in his ears, his eyes scanning the data quick. "Clever little bastard," he said. "It binds to oxygen in the blood, starves the cells while setting everything on fire inside." He tapped the screen, zooming in on the molecular chains, twisting like snakes. The guitar solo kicked in, matching his racing thoughts, what if he broke those bonds first?
But he needed more dirt on this thing. He ran a bio-assay next, grabbing a petri dish with human lung cells grown fresh in his lab from stem cells, pink and healthy under the scope. He diluted a drop of the poison careful, and exposed the cells. He watched close, timer ticking.
The cells twisted, membranes popping like balloons at a party gone wrong. Death hit in minutes, the dish turning from pink to gray mush. "Fast and mean," he whispered.
He tried counters, common antidotes like chelators to snag the metals, antivirals to smack the particles. He mixed them fast, dropped them on new cells. Some slowed the kill, the cells lasted longer, fighting back a bit before giving up but nothing stopped it cold. One mix turned the cells blue, another made them swell and burst quicker. "Not yet," he grumbled, the beat driving him to try again, tweaking doses, adding a splash of something new each time.
While waiting for a longer test to run the machine beeping as it simulated a full body hit, lights flashing like a game Devon didn’t sit idle. He grabbed a notepad, jotting ideas in quick scribbles, his pen flying.
What if he targeted the binding sites? Block the poison from latching on like glue. He mixed a quick blocker from his shelves components from A to Z lined up like soldiers acids in clear bottles that fizzed when opened, bases in jars that smelled sharp, enzymes from fridge stocks that glowed faint, rare extracts from plants like venom from snakes or leaves from far-off jungles.
The lab had it all vials of snake venom for antitoxins, synthetic proteins in tubes that shimmered, even experimental nanobots in a humming fridge that kept them buzzing.
He tested a mini-batch on another cell sample, watching through the scope as the poison hit but bounced off some cells. The cells wiggled, holding on, a few surviving the attack. Progress, but not enough the music switched to a faster track, drums pounding like his heart, keeping his energy high, his hands moving fast. He adjusted the mix, added a dash of nanobots to carry the blocker deeper, like tiny delivery trucks.
Another look under the scope, more cells lived, clustering together like they were fighting back. "Come on," he urged, the guitar riffs egging him on.
The place was a dream, really. If anyone stumbled in here they’d never leave. It seem to hold the secrets to life itself, a spot where every corner sparked wonder. Beyond the tools, there were wonders, a wall of bio-luminescent plants that glowed soft for natural light in dark ops, their leaves pulsing with green light like breathing star, a 3D printer that built custom organs from blueprints, whirring quiet as it layered cells like a baker stacking cake, assistants that predicted outcomes, their voices soft over the music, saying things like "Test complete, 40% efficacy" in a calm, friendly tone, like a helpful buddy.
Shelves groaned with jars of glowing liquids that changed color with heat, frozen samples from rare diseases in ice-cold drawers that misted when opened, even a tank with lab grown mini-hearts beating in sync, their thumps matching the music’s rhythm like a weird dance.
The air system filtered everything pure, no dust, no germs, pulling in fresh oxygen with a quiet whoosh that mixed with the rock beats. Lights adjusted to his mood brighter now for detail work, dimmer in corners for a quick break. It was beautiful, alive, a place where science met magic, every gadget shining clean, every button ready.
Devon had built it piece by piece, coding late nights, his hideaway for the impossible. The music echoed off the walls, making the whole lab feel like it was pulsing with him, ready to tackle anything.
The test beeped, results in. The poison’s core was a chain of molecules that mimicked body proteins, tricking cells into self-destruct like a suicide switch. Break that chain, and it fell apart. He ran more tests, heat in one tube, watching it boil and change, cold in another, freezing it solid then thawing to see cracks, acids in a third, the liquid hissing as it ate away.
Acid weakened it best, turning the green mix clear and harmless. Enzymes from his stock chomped parts away, the chain snapping like weak string. He combined them, watching reactions in real time on the screens, the graphs dipping low, the poison losing its bite. Failure after failure, mixtures that fizzed out harmless or turned toxic themselves, cells dying anyway in mock tests. But each flop taught him something new. One mix burned too hot, scorching the cells like fire, another was too weak, the poison slipping through like a ghost.
The music switched to an epic solo, guitars wailing high, pushing him on. He tweaked again and again, adding stabilizers from shelf Z, zinc compounds that held it all together without breaking. Better each time, cells surviving longer, the graphs climbing. He lost track of tries ten, twenty? but the rock kept him going, the beats like a heartbeat, his sweat flying as he mixed faster.
After a few more rounds maybe three hours in, he got it. The poison needed a double hit, a chelator to grab the metals like a magnet, an enzyme to snap the chain like scissors, and a stabilizer to carry it through the blood without harm. Simple in theory, tricky in mix.
The lab’s shelves were gold, everything from aloe extracts on shelf A, soothing and binding, to zinc compounds on Z, strong and steady, labeled neat and ready. He grabbed what he needed, atropine for nerves from the middle rack, dimercaprol for metals from the chelator drawer, custom peptides he’d made last year from a locked cabinet that beeped when opened.
The real work kicked off. He measured precise milligrams on a digital scale that beeped approval, drops from pipettes that never spilled a bit. Mixing in beakers that heated themselves with built-in coils, the glass warming under his hands. Bubbles rose slow at first, then fast, colors shifting from green to yellow to clear, like watching a potion brew.
He tested small bits on cells between steps, adjusting ratios on the fly—too much enzyme, and it attacked healthy cells like a wild dog; too little, and the poison won easy. Time flew, the music a constant beat, songs blending into one long rush, the guitars fueling his drive.
Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto the table, but he wiped it away with his arm, focused like a laser, muttering "Almost" under his breath.
After about four hours, he shook a vial, the liquid inside a soft blue. He held it up to the light, swirling it gentle. "Close," he muttered, but the smile was thin, not satisfied.
The color was off, the mix not stable it separated after a shake, layers forming like oil and water. He poured it down the sink, the blue swirling away like a bad dream. No time for half-measures. He cleaned the beaker quick, the music hitting a bridge that built tension, matching his frustration.
He started fresh, tweaking the formula—more enzyme to bite harder, less stabilizer to keep it light, a pinch of nanocarriers for better flow. This round took two hours, his hands flying faster now, the music cranking louder to match his pace, drums thumping like his pulse.
He added a twist, nanocarriers from his stock, tiny bots to deliver the cure straight to infected cells, zipping through blood like mini rockets on a mission. The mix turned darkish red, glowing faint under the lab lights, steady and strong. He shook it, watched it settle perfect, no separation, no flaws.
A real smile broke through this time, wide and relieved, lighting up his face like he’d won a prize. "That’s it," he said, the music hitting a high note like it agreed, the guitars screaming victory. He held the vial up, admiring the red swirl, his heart slowing for the first time.
Devon looked around for a test subject. The lab had everything, cell cultures in dishes that bubbled soft, simulation pods that hummed ready but for absolute certainty, he needed something living, something to show the cure worked from start to finish, no doubts.
He paced the room, eyes scanning shelves and corners, the timer in his head.
[Time Left: 14:42:47]
He stopped, staring at the system screen, the death penalty glaring back like a dare. A crazy look crossed his face, his eyes lighting up with wild determination, a grin that was half mad, half genius spreading slow. "Why not?" he muttered, his voice low over the music, the beat building like it knew what was coming.
No harm in being sure and if it failed, well, the penalty was death anyway.
He grabbed a syringe, loaded it with the concentrated poison from the capsule way stronger than the diluted stuff floating in the hospital air, pure and deadly, packed tight to kill in minutes instead of hours, like a bullet versus a slow bleed, the full force hitting like a train. He jabbed it into his arm, the needle cold against his skin, the liquid burning as it rushed through his veins, fire spreading from the spot like wildfire in dry grass.
His face stayed bored at first, like it was just another injection, no big deal, his eyes half-lidded as he watched the plunger empty. Then he loaded another syringe with the darkish red cure, plunging it in right after, the cool rush chasing the burn, like water on flames. The music thumped on, loud and relentless, but now it felt like a countdown, the drums matching his quickening heart, the guitars building tension like a movie climax.
He stood, raising his hand slow, feeling the first twitch in his bones, like wires pulling tight under his skin, a strange tingle that spread up his arm. He closed his palm, but it shook hard, fingers trembling like they had a mind of their own, refusing to obey.
"Here we go," he whispered, the music swelling. He moved to the mirror on the wall, his steps steady at first, then wobbly, like the floor tilted under him. His eyes turned bloodshot red, veins popping like rivers of fire, the whites turning pink, then deep crimson, throbbing with each heartbeat.
Blood trickled from the corners, warm and sticky on his cheeks, dripping down to his chin, then his neck, staining his singlet. He wiped it with the back of his hand, but more came, his vision blurring at the edges, spots dancing like stars. The pain built slow, then fast—needles in his eyes, pressure building like they might burst.
Then the heart ache hit, sharp, like a knife twisting deep in his chest, squeezing tight, making him gasp loud. He clutched his shirt over his heart, the pain spreading like cracks in glass, his heart skipping beats, pounding wild and irregular, like a drum out of rhythm with the music.
"Damn," he grunted, doubling over a bit, sweat pouring down his face, mixing with the blood. His lungs burned next, each breath a struggle, like sucking air through a tiny straw, fire in his chest with every inhale.
He coughed, blood flecking his lips, the metallic taste filling his mouth. Dizziness followed, the room spinning slow at first, then fast, the lights streaking into blurry lines, the music warping like it was underwater, echoes bouncing weird.
Devon staggered, grabbing the table edge for support, his knuckles white, nails digging into the metal. The pain built, wave after wave lungs on fire, heart hammering like it might explode, bones aching deep, like they were cracking from inside. His skin burned, sweat soaking him, his vision tunneling to black at the edges.
He tried to stand straight, but his legs gave out, knees buckling slow, then fast. He fell forward, body slamming down with a thud that shook the table, tools rattling. His breathing slowed, ragged gasps turning shallow, chest heaving less and less, each breath a fight he was losing.
The music played on, loud and mocking, guitars screaming over his fading pulse, the beat going strong while his weakened. After a moment, he stopped breathing altogether, his chest still, the lab quiet except for the music, his body limp on the cold floor.