"Hell yeah." He smirked. "Another night of not listening to you. That is, unless Bones wants the best nose in the building again." S.T. took a deep sniff, and regretted it. The hallway smelled like sick people. He hoped Scott made it here before Landel fired up the Monster Mash.

"I'm guessing no one found a cure. You know if anyone's come down with it who didn't have it the first day? New people, old people, whatever?" It was whichever Landel had designed it to be, assuming he knew as much about genetics as he did about being a complete dick. Normally, S.T. would be whipping out his clear-lensed goggles and pretending to read the citations before ripping any claim like that to shreds, but he couldn't argue with evidence. Exhibit A, his nose. Or, to be precise, his olfactory nerve. And his liver, but he didn't think about that night unless he had to. Being strapped to a chair and tortured was a comparative picnic.

Then a sword flew out of the darkness. Oops. Too late. It was pointed straight at Harvey. By the time S.T. had figured that out, though, Harvey had either ducked or gone from two faces to two torsos. "What the fuck, man?" He was holding the pipe in both hands like a samurai sword, and squinting into the dark.