The Scientist

You sit at your desk, absentmindedly chewing on the end of your pen as you review your notes.  Beside you sits a sobbing female specimen.  She is pale except for the dark marks around her eyes and has no hair from Experiment #16, and even you can tell she is too exhausted to do much more than cry.  You eye a bottle of Soporil; perhaps it would be best to subdue her so that she can preserve her energy.  Your shipments are late and you need to make the most of your last specimen.

"Why are you doing this," she breathes.  You don't respond, as she is well aware.  You must continue your research, and pushing humanity to its limits is what has to happen if there is to be any progress in the scientific community.  You're glad for the war, as it gives you ample specimen to work with, barring your predicament right now.

"I hope you burn in hell," she whispers, and you don't give her a glance.  Whether or not you go to a fictional place when you yourself pass is of no importance.

You annotate your life's work.  There is still so much left to be done.  You imagine a distant future, one where scientists will take your theories and tests and accept them as common knowledge, where people will understand that the ends justify the means.

There's a knock on the door; she squeaks and you let your pen drop to the paper, leaving a small black mark.

"Yes?" you say.

Your colleague walks in, hand grasped at a young man's arm.  He is thin, but strong - maybe a soldier.  His eyes stare blankly.  "A package arrived for you," your colleague says gruffly.

You smile.  The shipment has arrived.  "Wonderful.  Leave it by the door."