Timosh dragged the crates behind them with thick tentacles. They had spent a little time disabling the disinfectant spray so they could safely tote their cargo.
Camp was set up deeper in the forest, a structure of sticks and mud, partially hidden in the overhanging branches. Timosh stacked the crates next to what amounted to a tiny little shack they could hide in to sleep.
Birds and insects chirped as Timosh set to work. According to their research, the little virus with the new genes had made it into the plants. Ornabel hypothesized the virus was chopping up the genetic material too much before stitching the new genes in.
Timosh’s proposal to test the hypothesis had been turned down. So here, outside the lab, they got to work. Tiny pots sat at the base of the tree, with seedlings standing healthy. Timosh had placed a worm in each pot. A species that had the gut bacteria which was supposed to break up or at least slow down the virus. If all went well, the seedlings may get a little sick, but most of their cells would survive and spread these new genes.
Timosh sung along with the birds as they buried pieces of their rotted experiments into the pots. While their pots were clearly and carefully labeled, the control group distanced from the others, Timosh hadn’t thought too much about the rest of the decaying plants sitting in the wooden crates.
Crates with cracks and open spaces, juices and clumps oozing out and plopping into the short grass.
Timosh spent days hiding in his new wild lab, studying the results. Their one eye blinded to the chaos slowly unfolding outside their carefully curated pots.
Ornabel had always been the big picture partner.
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