Cheryl brushed a length of black hair over her shoulder as she looked at the chart she was holding. All of the vital signs were strong, the heavily monitored brain waves indicative of a peaceful, albeit chemically induced, sleep. In other words, everything was going just fine. She sighed softly and set the charts down, looking over at the large tank. Sometimes she wished it wasn’t going just fine. Sometimes she wished she would come into work to find the lab in a state of panic because the poor creature had just up and died on them. But even as she wished it would just end, she knew it wouldn’t. If this specimen died, they would just make another. And another, and another, and another, until they were done. It wouldn’t just end. It just wouldn’t end.

Sometimes she wished she could just walk over there and pull the power cord, but she couldn’t. She needed this job. She needed the pay. No one else would pay a nobody like her this well. Then again, she knew the reason the employees of this lab were so accommodated for. So they would keep their mouths shut. After all, if someone were to just casually mention that they were a Team Rocket lab assistant, it could bring down the whole operation. Especially this operation.

She settled into a threadbare office chair at a small, cluttered desk, glancing briefly at her coworkers. The nightshift was dull, more of a formality than anything else. All of the experimenting was done during the day. At night, there were just a few lab techs on hand to be sure nothing went wrong. Or at least, there were supposed to be a few lab techs on hand. The actual technicians usually sat in the staff room were the vending machines were, playing poker. It was their assistants who kept an eye on things. After all, why should the techs have to do non-existent work when the little assistants were so desperate for their jobs, they’d do whatever they were told? Well, maybe there was one who would do his job. Cheryl idly drummed her fingers on the desk, glancing over at her redheaded co-worker Yota, who was balancing a pencil on one finger and humming along to the music from his radio. The young man was a gifted scientist, she knew, but he was also a widower, who took this thankless job to support his six-year-old daughter, working nights so that he could spend time with the child during the day. She wondered how he did it. How could he go home and pick his daughter up without feeling guilty? How could any of them go home without feeling guilty?