Lab Safety

Everything was going to be fine. Stanford reassured himself of that fact. He'd done this experiment hundreds of times before. He didn't need protective gloves.

At least, that's what he told himself as he poured the two acidic chemicals together. Ford didn't think about his sleep deprived state possibly making him get sloppy and spilling the vial on his arm.

He didn't predict that the acid would burn right through his lab coat and his skin.

All he thought about at the time was the fact that he needed to do an experiment, and protective gloves were a waste of time. He also couldn't help but notice the dark corner of his mind that thought about and craved the notion of getting chemical burns.

Regardless, it matters little what he thought before the experiment. All he knew was that in the present, he had spilled acid on his left arm, and it hurt like hell.

He actually heard the shattering of the beaker and the hiss of the chemical burning through his skin before he felt it. That blissful unawareness lasted about a second before the agony hit him like a truck, "AHHHH!" He screamed, clutching his arm and falling to the floor.

The pain didn't seem to be going away. If anything, it was worsening. He looked down at his arm to see horribly mottled red and charred black skin. And there was a glimpse of something... White?

The realization hit him suddenly, it was bone. Ford fought hard against the bile rising up in his throat. He needed to think rationally.

What to do next? He considered calling an ambulance. He could figure out a story about fixing an electrical socket and getting horribly burned, or he could just tell the truth about the failed experiment, but keep out the details about the illegal chemicals.

Yeah, that seemed like his best bet. At this point, even Ford knew it was time to cry uncle. This injury was way too serious to deal with on his own.

The problem was, how to get to a phone without passing out? The pain in his forearm was bad enough when he was motionless, he couldn't imagine how terrible it would be if he tried to move the arm.

His right hand hurt too. On second thought, maybe touching a limb that was being melted by acid wasn't the best idea. His hand had probably been burned as well.

He groaned in pain as he stared at the ceiling of the lab. Fiddleford was out shopping, and Ford didn't know when he would be home. He didn't want his lab partner worrying about him, but he was currently the only person who could get him the severely needed medical attention. Even if he was subjected to Fidds' lab safety lecture, it was better than dying in his basement.

At least the wound wasn't bleeding, so he wasn't in danger of dying in that aspect, but there were a lot of things that could go wrong when you had a hole burned in your arm.

Stanford just lay on the floor for a few minutes, wondering exactly how angry Fiddleford was going to be when he found out about this. On a scale of 1-10, he would most likely be a three initially, then a ten when he learned how exactly Ford acquired this lovely new feature in his forearm.

Soon, too soon and not soon enough, Ford heard Fidds' voice through the lab door, "Stanferd?" He called, "Where are ya? Ah got jelly beans!" He said.

Ford was in too much pain to get excited about his favorite snack. He called in a weak voice, "Down here!"

"Ford? That you?" His voice sounded a lot closer now.

"Fidds, help me!" Ford cried, the pain in his arm making his voice shake and his eyes filled with tears.