[color=9999CC][b]Isaac Camphor [/b][/color]

The room was white. 

Light rebounded and scattered off every hard surface, of which there were many. Far away, extractor fans and AC units groaned and whirred to keep the lab air cool and clean. Microscopes, pyrex containers, twelve-channel pipettors, blood agar, tiles, linoleum, and strained underlings all glistened in the iridescence of the halogen lamp. Pure. White. Perfect. 

This world was locked away from Dr Camphor. Behind glass screens, tunnels, decontamination and protocol. He was shackled by will and stubbornness, to the LCD computer screen in his office. He could only watch them through the full height, one-way window that served as a wall. A pristine lab coat hung on the door behind him, waiting.

His eyes glinted like lancets. Number twelve surgical scalpel blades; unyielding crescents.  

Answers lay wrapped and tangled in data, raw and processed alike. Dr Camphor seemed intent upon breaking it with his glare, bending it to give up its secrets, understanding and dominating it. He scrawled a mess of ink upon a pad of paper, and underlined a previously scratched ideogram.

 A thudding at the door, and its immediate opening. 

Dr Camphor whirled round. However, his flaying glower was blunted by the sight. Standing there, a man, or maybe a woman, in full S.C.A.R.E. armour.

“Are you doctor Isaac Camphor?” came the modulated projection of voice.

He chewed the inside of his lip. [color=9999CC]“I am.”[/color]

“Come with me.”

And then the armoured figure turned and began striding off. Dr Camphor put on his glasses, locked his computer, and lastly, squeezed his bursting notebook into his back pocket. 

He muttered only a single word before following.

[color=9999CC]“Joy.” [/color]