abraxaslogs | Now you're calling me up on the phone

[Few of the bottles are labelled. Only one of the largest, filled with an odorless and colourless substance, noted as the alkaloid of a local fungus gathered from desert soils.]

Well, let's see. Are you familiar with lysergic acid diethylamide?

[Considering her era of knowledge, it's less a question, more a leading statement.]

Am I familiar with LSD? Quite.

[ She laughs, but not at him. ]

It's burgeoning as a recreational drug, but not my preference. I know it's been used in some therapies, but it isn't my field, so I've not delved deeply into it.

[ She raises an eyebrow in amusement. ]

We already have a lucrative marijuana trade. Are you going to be the next big hit?

Only if people want no spark of excitement in their lives.

[He disinfects his hands and stands in silence for a second.]

Take a seat. I'll fetch my notes.

[His ideas of seats are basic chairs and wooden stools. Not leather armchairs or other signs of comfort.]

[ In a lab, Claire wouldn't expect comfort, his set up is more or less what she would conjure to mind if someone asked her to describe a basement laboratory. ]

Take your time, I'm not going anywhere.

[ Sitting on a stool, she crosses her legs after dropping her bag across the back of the seat. Claire has her own notebook and a pen, in case she'd like to copy any of his notes. She browses her own while she waits, thinking for the first time that the quiet is unnerving. He could do with a radio of some sort, even some white noise. But then, this isn't her lab, and perhaps it's too distracting for him, in any case. ]

[There are public records and private notes. He knows to provide access to the former and hide the latter. Fingers clench and pull out a draw: the metallic roll of the cabinet grating his ears. He stubbornly withdraws a file and closes it with some measure of loathing.]

I am more than aware this world is backwards when it comes to understanding pharmacology and human biology.

[He returns and offers a binder replete with research. Much of it is written in chemical language: compound maps of molecular structures. His handwriting is frail and brittle, like a spider's web drawn around a blank page.]

My goal is to synthesise a classical hallucinogen to assist the remission of psychiatric symptoms. With the resources that are available.

[So. Local flora and fauna.]

[ Snooping is something that Claire does on a case-by-case bases. She's curious about Jonathan Crane, there's something odd about him that she can't place. And yet, he hasn't done anything, and he's been nothing but pleasant in her company. So, she sits thumbing through her own notes until she hears him returning.

She follows, nodding along. This is still new enough that there isn't much research available to her, not in her time before she went back to Scotland. Still, she thinks she knows enough science to carry a conversation. ]

I've heard, very loosely, of such a thing. I've never seen it in practice; I'm afraid you have the advantage of being from far enough in my future, there's not much I know.

[Eyes fall to her notes. He wonders about words: what research and notes will catch his attention. Theories scrawled across every page and corrections in every margin. He brings a chair across and sits down - close enough to listen but safe at distance.

His hands collect in his lap.]

Ah, then feel free to ask questions. I do enjoy talking shop.

[Better that she asks professional questions than personal ones, right?]

Quite simply, how does it work?

[ What Crane will find should he manage to see, is that most of Claire's writing is in English. But there are times, when she knows the word for it, she's written in Scot's Gaelic. For no other reason than she misses her husband and it somehow helps; she doesn't want to forget what Jamie's taught her.

Her notes are about salve ratios, plant-needs, and what she's found in her observations of the woods and Fey Wilds. ]

Well, hallucinogens disrupt the interaction between neurons and neurotransmitters. Those endogenous chemicals that regulate appetite, mood and the circadian rhythm. And neurons - nerve cells - use those transmitters to communicate with each other throughout the body.

[He eyes that book but keeps his patience. He will see its contents soon enough.]

Psychiatric medication mimics these chemical messengers by altering the receptor of a particular neuron, changing both shape and condition. Does this make sense to you?

[ Claire nods slowly, the implication formulating in her mind. ]

It does, actually. With enough exposure, could the shape and condition be changed permanently?

[ Picking up her pen, she begins to take a few notes on a fresh page of her book. ]

I hope you don't mind if I take a few notes.

[His head tilts back - gentle and curious - like a bird.]

It's possible.

[For her to take notes and him to explain.]

Though I would not claim such a change is dependent on exposure. Such a development would be more related to potency and the absence of treatment.

[In other words, ~~an antidote~~ medicine that treats side-effects.]

[ Claire nods again, rubbing her chin. ]

I understand. How soon did this become a standard method of treatment after the 1960s?

[ Obviously there are pharmaceuticals in her time, but mental health (for women especially) is still electroshock therapy and institutionalization. ]

First generation treatment originated in the 50s. You have heard of chlorpromazine? I believe your generation recognised it as a tranquiliser.

[He tilts his head upright and repositions his hands upon his lap.]

Well, it's applications for treating psychosis were discovered by accident. New treatments - the second generation - emerged in the 70s. It is not so much this became the method overnight, but the psychopharmacological revolution beginning in the 50s enabled them to become so over a period of time.

I have, I've asked for it for patients before. Not often, but the times when I did were severe.

[ Claire recrosses her legs, putting her pen down. ]

That's the correct move I think, there needs to be as much research put into this as possible. Has there been? What is the situation like in the year you're from?

Well, medicine has advanced, of course. But the motivations for some behind its development are as selfish as ever. I suppose some things never change.

[Crane leans back in his chair. One ankle crosses behind the other, eyes dipping to admire her journal.]

Do you mind?

Oh, no. Please.

[ She's nothing to hide; this is not her personal journal. Although Crane will find (along with the obvious) that like a lovesick and much younger woman, she has written Jamie's name a few times in the margins, always taking care with her script compared to other hastily written things. ]

I've no idea when I'll wind up living out the rest of my life, but it would be nice to see large advancements in my lifetime.

[ And not any that she already knows are coming, either. She wants true, 20th century advancement. ]

[He reaches out and takes her notes, her collection of sentences and words. Some parts are more fascinating than others. The scientific is browsed and perused, the personal ignored or set aside. Names are denoted for later questioning - and he makes a sad and disapproving sound. Injecting it with a little empathy.]

Keep hoping like that and all you'll do is make yourself ill.

[His attention remains in her notes and handwriting. He doesn't seem to pay her notice.]

[ Claire scoffs and gives a tilt of her head, as if to say 'you have a point.' She watches has he goes through her notes, her loopy but neat cursive, shorthand for quite a lot of the writing. Finally, after a few generous moments, she clears her throat a bit. ]

I have to admit, it's a bit exciting knowing someone is reading what I've thought with interest. My husband always listens, but he's...well, he's from the 18th century. I've had to start with explaining the concept of germs.

[ She's sure if he didn't believe her then, he doesn't believe her now, but that doesn't make it any less true, and so she doesn't mind. ]

Is there anything there you'd like elaboration on?

No, I'll be fine. Thank you.

[It is a mild affront - to imagine he might ask questions like he were back in his professor's lectures. But he keeps his pleasant tone and mild manner.]

Besides, your writing is no worse than mine.

[That spidery scrawl that he clings to out of spite as much as habit. His grandmother never had liked it.]

[ Claire chuckles and rests her chin in her hand. ]

I appreciate that, thank you. Do you mind if I explore while you read?

Not at all.

[His voice is barely audible - a mere murmur as his attention is focused elsewhere.

There are all manner of unlabelled bottles and vials sitting on nearby shelves, a compound microscope holding a slide of nervous tissue. The nearby blackboard is scrawled top to bottom in equations and chemical compounds of formula ahead of her time. There is nothing else to find other than a collection of journals related to his laboratory work. His private notes are unavailable for public perusal.]

[ Claire gets up to wander, her skirts making the faintest noise of fabric on fabric anytime she moves. The microscope is zoomed in on immediately, and she recognizes what she's looking at once doing so.

The equations aren't at all her forte, but at times she thinks she recognizes an element. Picking a journal at random once she gets to them, she opens it to the middle and begins to read while standing. He was correct: her handwriting isn't any worse than his. ]

[Crane watches Claire investigate, comfortable in his chair. She beelines from his microscope to his journals, glimpsing his blackboard on her way. Satisfied by her ordinary behaviour, he returns his attention to her work. Notes about native flora, thoughts written in the margins, together with one name repeated again and again.

But his interest in people draws him back to reality. He closes the book and deposits it on her chair before treading silently across the floor to where she is reading.]

Fascinating, isn't it? How flora with no relation to each other produce the same chemical formula.

[Opium makes morphine. This desert flora makes morphine.]

[ Claire startles, just a little, but then she relaxes and turns to face him. ]

I think that's what always fascinated me, it's why I found myself interested in botany initially. The way something in its natural form can be transformed and do something incredible.

[Part of him wants to offer a small smile; a wry glance and a gentle laugh.

But he masks himself with solemnity.]

Flowers can become the most fantastic medicines. Or the most destructive weapons.

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