Chemistry

It's only chemistry.

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... neurotransmitters are endogenous chemicals which relay, amplify, and modulate signals between a neuron and another cell ...

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It isn't Nerila's best subject, but that's just compared to anatomy.

She's still the top of her class.

And it's only chemistry.

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... such as dopamine, a chemical messenger heavily active in the mesolimbic and mesocortical reward pathways ...

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There are three spots in the program and fifty students who want them. Nerila's a scholarship student and unlike her classmates waits tables four nights a week to make up the difference between her stipend and her rent.

She can't afford to skip study sessions for an extra few hours sleep.

She can't afford to be too tired to concentrate on rounds, either.

And after all, it's only chemistry.

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...the anatomical components of these pathways—including the striatum, the nucleus accumbens, and the ventral striatum - have been found to be primary sites of action ...
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Nerila has good surgeon's hands, not too big, not too small, long-fingered and deft.

They've held thousands of scalpels, knotted tens of thousands of sutures, cupped at least two dozen beating hearts.

Four months shy of being finally, totally, qualified and licenced, she's had a lot of practice.

At cutting, at stitching, at finding a nicked artery by touch and instinct.

And she's had a lot of practice at something else, too.

The top of the vial pops off with the pressure of her fingernail, a flick of the wrist tips out exactly the right number of grains. It's gone again before anyone could possibly see it, even if they were looking right at her.

She splashes water on her face, hopes the chill will take some of the red from her eyes.

Looks in the mirror and tells herself this is the last time.

It's only chemistry.

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... the interaction with serotonin is only apparent in particular regions of the brain, such as the mesocorticolimbic projection ...

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Nerila curls into a ball on the narrow jail cot, shivering so hard the frame rattles against the wall like her own personal percussion section. Her cellmate mutters something about 'fucking junkies' and pulls the pillow over her head.

Nerila tells herself that she won't die from this. The jail medics know that, it's why she's been tossed in here rather than taken up to the infirmary.

They're not trying to kill her, or even torture her.

They just don't give a shit.

Not about one more fucking junkie.

Her stomach cramps agonisingly and she clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle a groan, swallows bile. If she throws up now there'll be no way to clean it up before morning, and she's determined not to spend the third night in a row lying shivering in her own vomit.

Each reaction of her body is predictable. She even got an exam question on it, once.

She knows exactly what's happening, and why.

She's not dying. A few more days and it will be over.

It's only chemistry.

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... triggering the release of dopamine, norepinephrine and phenylethylamine, increasing pulse rate, reducing appetite and causing insomnia ...

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He's late.

Nerila fidgets with her hair even though it's been a long time since it occurred to her to wonder if she looked all right. Her heart is beating so fast she's surprised the people at the next table can't hear it. She picks up an olive from the dish the waiter brought with her drink, puts it down again.

She fiddles with her hair again, doesn't look at the door.

Looks.

Feels a wave of relief so intense she's dizzy at the sight of him.

It's crazy, and she knows it. There's no way not to get caught.

She's absolutely, unquestionably old enough to know better.

And catches his eye anyway.

It's just once more. She can stop anytime she wants.

After all, it's only chemistry.

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... is believed to depend on specific phosphorylating kinases. Upon phosphorylation, there is an observable conformational change that results in the transportation of dopamine from the extracellular to the intracellular environment ...

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Nerila locks the door and checks it once, twice, three times.

A fourth.

The vial, the cap, the grains: none of it takes conscious thought. Her long fingers find the tiny glass shape in her pocket without her even willing them to.

She doesn't think about the vial, the cap, the grains, as she pops the cap off and shakes out just exactly enough.

She doesn't think about the fact that she doesn't have to think for her hands to know what to do.

She thinks about how many research papers she has to read through tonight, tomorrow, the day after. About the deadline that nature's set her, about how apt that particular word is.

She thinks about the monitor in the corner of the room and the alarm she's always waiting for.

And then, for three blessed seconds, she doesn't think about anything at all.

When the room comes back, it's all manageable: the papers, the DNA analysis, the monitor. It's under control.

Whatever fatal flaw is coiling through Pilot's DNA, there's an answer to it.

It's only chemistry.