Two figures are looming over me.
"He's awake," says a stern voice.
"Am I in heaven?" I ask, drowsily.
"Professor?" asks a worried voice.
Everything comes clear again. Dr. Wayne and Chief Officer Golem help me up.
"Sir, It's good to see you're awake. I could've sworn you flew twenty feet!" shouts Wayne.
"What happened? Did they?" I ask.
"Sir," says Officer Golem. "The backup security team was able to catch four of the snaketile terrorists, including the one wrapped around me. They were able to vent the hydrogen gas into the atmosphere, before it could completely destroy the facility, though the snaketonium production annex is beyond repair."
"Is Dr. Potato alright?" I ask.
"I'm over here sir!" calls Dr. Potato from the bed parallel to mine.
I look at the time. Apparently I was out for two hours.
"Officer, I'd like a full causality and damage report on my desk by this afternoon. How are our "guests" doing?" I ask.
"The four rouge snaketiles have been treated and have been moved to secure dorms. We will interrogate them as soon as you are feeling better." says Dr. Wayne.
I get out of the bed, and begin walking out the door. Dr. Potato and Officer Golem follow me.
"So, how's Wilma doing?" I ask Wayne.
"Wilma," replies Dr. Wayne. "Engineer Barkley's sister is in the Mutation Therapy Room with our Mutation Councilor."
My heart sinks. I should've expected that to happen from all the Snaketonium.
"Officer, Doctor, You go interrogate those snaketiles. I need visit with Wilma," I panic. "I'll see you in the conference room later."
I run off through the winding hallways, through subsection after subsection, until I finally reach the entrance room for the Therapy wing.
It's actually right behind Wayne's office, but there happens to be a Snaketonium pipe in the wall, so I can't simply build a door.
In the cinder block room, with a concrete floor, An attendant is sitting at her desk and typing away. Huge yellow letters read: "Mutation Therapy Wing - Entrance Alpha"
"Sir," says the attendant. "You haven't been back here in a while."
"I know right? I'm here to see Wilma Barkley, Serial Number 35452-909, Occupation: Teacher." I reply to her.
"She is on the list. Turn left when you reach Section 34, you'll find her in Subsection 29. Her human students are bring treated across the hall in Subsection 30."
"Thank you Miss," I say. I begin walking down the hallway. I walk past a room labeled:
"Radiation Therapy". In the room is a desert environment with several large snaketiles basking in the artificial sunlight.
In the room marked "Art Therapy", a woman is teaching a snaketile how to paint.
I accidentally walk into "Physical Therapy", where a dark red snaketile is getting a back massage from a Junior Therapy Associate.
"Have't you heard of privacccy, Professssor!?" spits the snaketile.
"Sorry," I laugh, as the snaketile growls. I get back to walking.
In "Speech Therapy", a teacher is trying to fix a snaketile's lisp. It's not going so well, and the snaketile is saying "Ssssss" instead of "S"
I finally reach the Mutation Therapy Annex. I round a corner and knock on the door leading into room 29.
Scott Barkley answers the door, and lets me in. The room is full of beds and several therapists, with a window overlooking the cement-filled colony. I brace myself, expecting to see Wilma fully reptilian, but she looks normal, though there's definitely something wrong with her.
Her skin is dry, and her hair is falling out, and I am not sure it's normal for a human to have red irises.
"Other than the obvious," I say. "How are you doing?"
"Doctor Wayne gave me a clean bill of health, but I have 23 hours left to remain human." replies Wilma.
"I said OTHER than the obvious." I say. "I'm sorry about what happened. Luckily, none of your students were injured, but all of the human students are in the therapy annex as well."
"Are you certain there isn't a cure for snaketonium?"
"It's too dangerous," I reply. "First we'd need some of your original DNA, and a lot of it. Then there's only a 0.01% chance of survival, plus a 0.001% chance of recovery from the procedure, with the other 99.999% chance meaning death. I suggest you get used to eating Reptilian Dietary Supplement Rodent-Alpha so you'll be ahead of the game when the instincts kick it."
"That's a risk I'm willing to take!" snaps Wilma. She tries to get out of the bed, but Counselor Janet Knox puts her back on.
"I'm a senior officer," I demand. "You're our best teacher. This facility's youth needs you. I need you. That's an order! I'm not willing to take a 0.00001% chance of you surviving a reversal treatment."
"I don't want to be a snaketile! I HATE SNAKETILES!" she screams in pain.
"Any attempt to resist snaketonium will be, well, futile. Snaketonium can be slowed down, but not cured. Like cancer."
I'm late for my meeting. As I walk out, Wilma asks me: "Did you catch the snaketiles who overloaded the pressure regulator?"
"We did as a matter of fact." I reply. "I assure you. Today won't be a good day for them."
I walk out, and head for the conference room. As a former teacher myself, I know that teaching can be a rather dangerous job, but resistance can't be futile. There's got to be a way to cure her. I'll find one. Just for her.
* * *
I rush into the conference room. In the room is a snaketile prisoner, Ambassador S'taass, Dr. Potato, Dr. Wayne, Constable Golem, Engineer Barkley, the whole "gang", as I put it.
I remember when the senior staff was just me, Spud, and some of my university students. Wayne arrived in '51 to help with our cancer research, and ended up staying here as the Chief Doctor.
Snaketonium was originally designed to be a cure for cancer. I should've expected the snaketile venom to have trace amounts of DNA...
The SSAM continues to take away snaketiles to live at their facilities. As requested by the military, a lot of test subjects have been drafted to fight in Vietnam.
"Let'sss begin with the ressults from the interrogation," hisses S'taass. "Citizen Ka'sat has told uss that he is part of the "Snaketile Underground Movement". He claimss that the movement pickss up new memberss every day."
"And what may this cause be?" I ask.
"We're tired of being bossed around by you humanss!" snarls Ka'sat. Our group is resssponssible for the death of the Elder One. He actually agreed to move out of the colony that we have called home for generationss! You didn't even let us vote! You don't give us sssurfacce rightss! You don't let our wives have more than 1 kid every three years-"
"So you destroy the Snaketonium Production Annex?" I ask, dumbfounded.
"We'll go further than that!" he continues ranting. "We'll claim thiss faccility as our own! Jussst becausse we came with your property doessn't even mean WE are your property. I ssspeak for everyone! Rebuild your faccility elsewhere!"
"Sir, he has a point," says Wayne. "Technically you only own 300 acres on the surface. Most of the facility is underground and overlaps over other properties!"
"My answer is no," I say. "Living underground for 5000 years doesn't quallify you to own surface property. Point being, we are trying to bring humans and snaketiles closer together, not seperating them. Was building a temple not enough?"
The snaketile grabs Constable Golem's gun and aims it at me.
"I'm warning you Professsor!" he whispers. "You don't know what you're ssstarting."
The security team escorts the snaketile back to his secure dorm.
"Constable," I say. "See that increased security and metal detectors are put in place around the facility. Investigate deeper into this Underground Movement."
"But sir," growls Constable Golem. "Snaketile's don't have pockets!"
"Wayne, casuality report!" I yell.
"Engineer O'Brien, Engineer Sutton, Officer Andrews and Officer Abrams were killed in this morning's attack." replies Wayne.
"I'll get started on the metal detectors right away," says Engineer Barkley.
"I'm postponing the demolition of the colony. Make sure every last snaketile gets out of there, Golem. Spud! Contact the SSAM about their status of introuducing snaketiles to the surface!"
"Okay sir."
* * *
Lunchtime. The Caretaker, a large dark azure snaketile is cleaning up after everyone in the mess hall.
The 3-year-old daughter of Botanist Heather Jones drops food on the ground, with his eyes fixed on the caretaker's scales.
"Mommy," she says. "I'm scared of that guy. He's a snake man!"
The caretaker growls.
"He's a good snake man, honey. He works hard to keep the factory clean!" replies Botanist Jones.
"I have two PhDsss," sighs the caretaker. "And look at me, mopping the floor!"
Wilma has 20 hours left to remain human. She's already breaking out in scales, and her hair is gone. Wilma has refused to eat the rodent dietary supplement, so we're switching her over to live mice.
To ensure facility-wide saftey, we've gone to yellow alert, and have put in new security protocols. All personell must be accompined by a security escort.
I've told test subjects to walk in the hallway with a "Testing Buddy" to ensure saftey. Clumps of them walk in huddles when passing the snaketile dorms.
I can't have any more snaketiles endangering my employees. For obvious reasons, Judson hasn't give the clearance to introuduce snaketiles to the rest of humanity yet.
On the bright side, we are also ready to launch some new products intended for snaketiles. That'll make them happpy, right? After eating, I head to the broadcasting studio, to perform a live commercial.