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Minerva bas Voleus’s heels tap a nervous rhythm onto the floor outside the office, similar to her typewriter’s the night before. The paper was not an official assignment—too early in the school year for those, mere days in—yet she toiled over it like her life depended on it. She was making a mountain of a snow mound, she knows, but it’s easy to get caught up on the right phrasing of every argument when no one has ever cared about your ideas.
It’s stupid. It has to be stupid. Somebody else has likely discovered what she had before. Mal Laelius will take one look at the text, laugh, and tell her to stop wasting his time with things everyone knows. But if that is true, why is the entire army not already utilizing the technique? She shakes herself out of her self-deprecation. It’s her father’s voice in her head, not hers. It’s unbecoming of an aspiring scientist to succumb to lapses of logic.
Before she can gather the courage and knock, however, mal Laelius calls from within. “Come on now, quit dawdling by my door and just come in.”
She blushes borscht red. Of course, how silly of her; he must have heard her shoes. Her rehearsed speech scrambles in her mind, and she picks up the pieces in an atrocious attempt at communication when she steps in. “Mal Professor—Laelius… sir. May I have a moment of your time?” Her gaze hits the floor like atoning for a horrible transgression. “I promise to be brief.”
He looks up from whatever task presently preoccupied him and motions her towards one of the uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs that face his desk. Its surface lies hidden under clutter, but there’s a sense of method to the madness: yes, Minerva thinks, that’s the corner of paperclips and pins. That is the pile of student lists and lecture notes, later to be joined by ungraded papers. Not the neatest presentation, but functional.
The man makes no effort to hide his amusement at her nerves, a thin smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “No need to look so nervous, girl. What has you so worked up?”
This is it. You have practiced this. She forces a measured breath as she slides the carefully stapled bundle of paper over the desk, careful not to knock over his precariously placed cup of coffee. “I was wondering if, as the head of the chemical department, you’d take a look at my independent research,” she begins, far too quiet, far too nervous. She manages to raise her voice from a mouse’s volume when she continues, and hopes to her banners that she didn’t overcorrect. “It’s… regarding the potential of mind-altering solutions in the conditioning of our troops, if that makes sense? I’ve been conducting experiments, cross-referencing with archived Allagan research from the Academy’s restricted shelves—”
She shouldn’t have said that. Curse her oversharing mouth when she gets into topics of her fixation. She carries on, hoping another flood of information will cover her mistake. “The ingredients used are mostly flora with a known intoxicating effect, but recently, I came into possession of limited quantities of samples collected from certain subtypes of voidsent known to exhibit enthralling abilities… I believe my findings based on my tincture’s effects on rodents could be of interest…”
Rambling again, isn’t she? She stops herself in shame as mal Laelius simply sits there, smiling, leaning his chin in one hand. He picks up the stack slowly, eyes drifting from the cover page to the nervous gaze of its writer.
“A bold topic for an underclassman,” he muses nonchalantly as he turns the page. The tone makes it impossible for her to tell whether that’s a good or a bad thing. Her grip tightens around the arm of her chair, hastily painted nails biting into the wood.
“I understand it’s… unorthodox. But the implications for battlefield efficiency—” Her voice catches when she sees his expression shift as he flips through the pages, scanning her hastily scribbled formulae, the margins scrammed with manic annotations in three different inks.
“Do you ever sleep, or is it a nightly routine for you to keep the janitorial staff awake with the sound of your typewriter?” he asks, grinning like a cat. Not the reaction she expected, not at all. He lets the paper sink back to the desk and turns his attention to her. “This…” his eyes dart across the page detailing her hand-drawn diagrams of rat brains, “… is impressive, you know? Not something I had the audacity to attempt until at least my fourth year here.”
Praise. Real, unexpected praise that sends a jolt through her. Her shoulders relax by a fraction, though she still has to rein in the impulse to squirm under his scrutiny. “Sleep is overrated when there’s work to be done,” she quips, letting the barest hint of pride into her voice. Her mind races ahead, already outlining the next experiment, unable to suppress her enthusiasm now. “So you think the methodology holds merit? I’ve been considering human trials—strictly controlled, of course. Would I impose myself if I asked for… volunteers from your supply?”
Mal Laelius barks out a laugh and slaps his desk hard enough to make his cup rattle. “Hey now. This shows promise, but as they say, don’t build the mech before you buy the parts. First, we replicate your results under supervision. Then…” He leans forward, eyes glinting. “Then we discuss which expendables from the prisoner pens might suit your needs.”
Finally, someone who understands. She’d waited for this all summer—oh, no, for as long as she knew the Academy existed. Her father had called her dreams ludicrous, ignoring how many of his legion’s achievements relied on graduates from here. He no doubt wanted her to become a dull, quiet, glassy-eyed woman like his wife, to stand by the side of some soldier of note and let him shine.
“I won’t let you down,” she promises, settling for a nod though she wants to leap across the desk and hug him in gratitude. His amused chuckle says her failed attempt at stoicism is not lost on him. She clears her throat, forcing her no doubt deranged grin into something more composed… or at least, her best approximation of it. “That is to say… When would it be convenient for you to oversee the replication? I’ve already prepared a detailed procedure, accounting for variables in dosage and environmental factors.” Her fingers twitch toward the pocket of her uniform jacket where her notebook lies, pages scribbled full of potential refinements. “I… may have also sketched some preliminary designs for alternative delivery mechanisms should oral application prove difficult. If it’s not too forward.” She’s rushing through her words again, shattering her professional facade. She catches herself, pulls the brakes and smooths her lapels. “At your discretion, of course.”
“Too forward would be breaking into my lab after hours to ‘borrow’ equipment—which, for the record, I would notice. Unlike those automated rustbuckets they put in the library.” It may be a jab at her unauthorized wandering, but there’s approval in the way he taps the edge of her papers. “Report to Lab Three tomorrow at the seventh bell. Bring your notes, your poisons, and that frighteningly brilliant mind of yours.”
“Understood, Professor!” In her jitters, her bounce off her seat must look comical. She straightens her skirt and her composure in an attempt to rectify this.
“Just call me Avitus,” the professor waves a dismissive hand as he turns back to his own work. “Oh, and Minerva?” Her heart leaps when he returns the favor of the first-name basis. “Do your body a solid and don’t stay up all night reworking your formulas; they’re fine as they are.”
“Avitus it is, then.” Minerva barely stops herself from sprinting out the door. The floor tiles might as well be clouds beneath her feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”
“One last thing.”
Minerva's hand hovers above the knob. She dreads to turn her head back towards him, but does so slowly, though a small worry gnaws at her: please don’t back out now.
But Avitus just grins at her, the crinkle in the corners of his eyes full of mischief. “Why do frontal lobes refuse to bathe?”
What a strange question that catches her off guard. Was this a test of her knowledge? It could be a biological reason, or a philosophical one. She runs through her mental catalogue of all the odd, useless facts she has ever drilled into her skull, but comes up empty. “I can’t say I know. Enlighten me.”
“Because they don’t want to be brainwashed!” Avitus slaps his knee, laughing raucously at his own terrible joke. He waits just long enough for the groan-worthy punchline to settle, before adding: “You’re dismissed.”
She blinks, then sighs loud enough that the departments in other buildings must’ve heard. “Awful. I shall conduct research on how to bleach that from my memory.” She pauses her second attempt at leaving to shoot him a mock-serious look over her shoulder. “To think I was told the chemical department valued intelligence. Try to think of a better one by tomorrow; preferably one that doesn’t make me reconsider my life choices.”
The sound of his guffaws follows her down the hall, and for once, the future looks bright.