Chapter Six
The drive to Sinclair’s home took her through the quieter, more affluent neighborhoods of Toronto, where the doctor’s spacious, modern house stood like a fortress in the early light. She parked down the street and approached on foot, but of sighting, wouldn't do to be seen skulking about taking in the surroundings like a tourist. It was a secluded property, and if Sinclair was the meticulous type, she’d likely have alarms and cameras.
What she hadn’t expected was several cars, nice cars in fact to be parked out-front of the house. It seemed like Doctor Sinclair had some guests this morning. This would mean the doctor would be distracted, and her security turned off for the day, or so the Vulpes hoped and that would make her job easier. First things first she had to navigate through the suburban landscape of perfectly kept yards, assess if there was any active security measures and find an entry point.
As Vulpes surveyed the scene, she took in the details—four luxury cars in total. Her guess was that Sinclair had influential guests. Which meant they might have access to sensitive information or even be aware of her experimental work. This unexpected gathering could be the perfect opportunity to uncover more about the scope of Sinclair's influence, or even record a damning conversation.
Vulpes moved carefully, staying within the tree line of the neighboring properties and creeping around the side yard. The house had sleek, minimalist landscaping that offered little cover, but she noted a patio area at the back with a large sliding glass door. If Sinclair was entertaining, her guests would likely be on the ground floor, perhaps in the living room adjacent to the patio.
Moving to the rear, Vulpes spotted a gap in the camera coverage along the back wall where she could slip through unnoticed. She crouched low and crept forward, her eyes scanning for any additional security systems. There didn’t appear to be any motion sensors or infrared detectors, and if Sinclair had deactivated the system for her guests, that worked in Vulpes' favor. She carefully slid open the glass door and slipped inside, her movements soundless.
The back of the house led into an open-plan kitchen, where she could hear low murmurs of conversation from the next room. As she moved closer, staying out of sight, the voices became clearer to her augmented hearing.
“...still no confirmation that the compound is viable for human testing. But Sinclair insists she’s ready,” one male voice said, his tone tense.
Another voice, a woman’s, replied sharply, “The board won’t support her if she keeps pushing boundaries like this. She’s risking everything.”
Vulpes tensed, leaning in just enough to catch more. This was exactly the kind of information she needed—evidence of Sinclair’s unethical ambition and the risks she was willing to take.
Sinclair’s own voice cut through the others, calm but steely. “I understand your concerns, but if we hold back now, we’ll lose the competitive edge. Innovation demands risk, and the rewards will be ours to claim when the results speak for themselves.”
There was a pause, then the first voice spoke again, uncertain. “And what about the... side effects? The last batch nearly drove the testers insane. This drug is potent, and the risk is too high.”
Sinclair’s voice dropped to a lower, more sinister tone. “Side effects are part of the process. If some people can’t handle it, that’s their weakness, not mine.”
Vulpes placed a small device against the frame of a door it would serve to record and track the conversation while she snuck her way up stairs to look for more proof of Sinclair's wrongdoing.
As Vulpes crept up the stairs, she couldn’t help but take in the peculiar décor that contrasted sharply with Sinclair’s clinical, almost obsessive neatness. The hall was a gallery of sixties and seventies counterculture—artwork, trinkets, and mementos arranged with surgical precision yet exuding the wild, vibrant energy of a different time.
The walls displayed vivid, psychedelic posters in swirling colors, reminiscent of vintage rock concerts and underground clubs. One featured a kaleidoscope of eyes and abstract patterns radiating outward, an unsettling yet entrancing gaze that seemed to follow her movements. Another was a technicolor homage to Woodstock, with a peace sign splashed across it in bold, almost electric tones. Interspersed with the posters were framed covers from Rolling Stone magazine, featuring musicians from an era that celebrated rebellion and free thought.
Below the art, small shelves held retro objects arranged with almost clinical precision. A lava lamp in rich, swirling reds and yellows bubbled softly, casting a faint, hypnotic glow over the hallway. Next to it, a rotary phone in bright orange was set on a pedestal as though it were a prized artifact. Vulpes spotted a few vinyl records propped on stands, the covers worn but carefully preserved; one bore the unmistakable psychedelic artwork of The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, while another was a rare first press of Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon.
Further along, Sinclair had placed vintage toys—a Magic 8-Ball, a Rubik’s Cube, and a View-Master, each item spotless and perfectly positioned. Vulpes noted an old bohemian patchwork throw folded neatly over a chair, its colors muted yet clearly loved, as well as a tie-dye scarf draped over a mirror, its wild patterns in stark contrast to Sinclair’s otherwise structured décor.
Finally, as Vulpes reached the end of the hallway, she paused by a glass display case. Inside were artifacts that looked worn but carefully preserved: a denim jacket embroidered with faded peace signs and flowers, an old pair of bell-bottom jeans patched with stars, and a simple pair of round, wire-framed glasses. Vulpes wondered if these items held personal significance, memories Sinclair wanted to keep close yet compartmentalized in the same way she handled the lives of her students.
Each item felt like a piece of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit with the rest of Sinclair’s life now. Yet, as Vulpes finally reached the study door, she understood that Sinclair’s attachment to this era wasn’t just nostalgia—it was a clue to the twisted ambition Sinclair likely saw as a continuation of her own brand of “liberation.”
Then again Vulpes couldn't begrudge her if she just liked the Aesthics after all everyone had hobbies, Coralines own was collecting and ideally driving vintage cars something she had gotten from her father and grandfather. However her interest in the sixties and seventies did lead some weight to her suspicion that the Summer_of_69 was doctor Sinclairs call sign for her online dealings.
The conversation had carried along downstairs as she approached mostly with Sinclair sounding like she was trying to convince the four men with her about the merits of her work and they offering staunch counter arguments. Well at least Vulpes thought at least her guests were in league with her, they sounded quite opposed to allowing her research to continue at the cost of people's well being.
It was as Vulpes was carefully searching for incriminating documents that the conversation started to get heated with one of the men raising his voice “I don’t care Lyra, you have gone to far and this board is cutting funding the the psych-D research, you went from lab rats to human testing far too soon!”
She replied in a cold tone laced with venom “Johnathan I don’t think that is a wise choice, after all what would a man with a gambling addiction like yours know about wise choices”
“Are you trying to blackmail me Doctor? Because that will cost you your job if you continue!” his response was hardest drawing a line in the sand with his tone.
Lyra adjusted her tone, taking an audible breath to settle herself. “I apologize, that was uncalled for, allow me to get us some refreshments, maybe that will do us all some good?”
The others came to a grudging agreement and Lyra stepped out of the room, after she left there were low murmurs about the validity of her blackmail material. Vulpes was hacking into Lyras documents on her PC and discovering just how valid the material was, she had dirt on the board, nothing illegal per say but certainly the kind of things that could ruin them.
As Vulpes sifted through Sinclair’s files, she quickly realized just how deep the doctor’s manipulation went. The files contained records that, while not explicitly criminal, were damning enough to ruin reputations and stir scandal. There were screenshots of text conversations, records of financial transactions, personal emails that hinted at affairs, and even correspondence that exposed certain board members' indulgences in gambling or inappropriate expenditures—all precisely organized and dated. Sinclair had compiled a meticulously curated arsenal of “pressure points” on every member of the board, ready to be deployed the moment they stepped out of line.
One document caught Vulpes' eye: a spreadsheet labeled "Assets and Liabilities" with tabs for each board member. Each entry was accompanied by a few lines detailing sensitive information—gambling debts, extramarital affairs, past scandals hushed up. Under each person’s name, she noted a column labeled “Leverage Potential” with numbered ratings beside it. Sinclair had carefully rated each board member on how vulnerable they were to her influence, likely using these ratings to determine how aggressively to push each person.
Vulpes’ stomach twisted as she took it all in. This wasn’t just a scientist veering out of control—Sinclair was systematically managing those around her, viewing people as assets to be manipulated. It was clear now that anyone who dared oppose her work would face personal ruin, and she had a strategy to make sure of it.
The files were digital breadcrumbs Sinclair couldn’t deny, should the need arise to expose her. But just as Vulpes saved copies to her encrypted drive, she heard footsteps on the staircase. The brief reprieve was over; Sinclair was coming back with refreshments to soothe her increasingly uncomfortable board members.
Vulpes quickly exited the document, closed down her search, and melted into the shadows, positioning herself near the doorway to listen, ready to slip back downstairs if need be. Her job here wasn’t over—but now, she had what she needed to make it count.
Meanwhile Lyra shut the double doors to the living room calmly behind her and opened up a nearby closet, she had work to do, the board had denied her even with her evidence they had left her with no other option but to remove them entirely and in the closet was her back up plan to ensure that the entire board would be left in no mental state to function. If she couldn't get her way she could ruin them and then call some muscle to have them and their cars removed. It would cost her but her mob connections would have a cleaner to ensure there were no trails leading to her but clearly she had to clear the board who were standing in her way.
She calmly extracted a sheet of plastic and a roll of tape and went to work sealing the doors much as she had sealed the outsides of the windows and fireplace the evening prior. Her living room needed to have as little air flow as possible after all. She paused and ensured the doors were locked before she tapped down the plastic snuggling around the door. She casually made her way down to the basement where the real heart of her plan was.
It had taken some work to set up but the radiators in her living room had been set up to direct the contents of an air pump to flood the room. Of course what made this a delicious act of revenge wasn’t the pump but the canisters of gas that were fitted with it. Psych-D her groundbreaking drug. Normally it was a liquid but the canisters held a new variant that no one was aware she had even been working on, a gaseous version. She paused in thought, noting that her cameras and bugs upstairs would be ideal to record the effects of what was surely going to be an overdose on psych-D. The board would have their eyes and minds opened one way or another.
Lyra moved with cold precision, her fingers gliding over the controls of her hidden pump system in the basement, checking each connection with a meticulous care that bordered on ritualistic. This was no hasty improvisation—this was a calculated, clinical setup designed to unleash her creation on the people who had dared to deny her. As she made her final adjustments, a sense of satisfaction washed over her. She had always intended to demonstrate Psych-D’s true potential, and now the opportunity was unfolding perfectly, even if her audience was unwilling.
The canisters gleamed under the basement’s dim light, each labeled only with her internal code, a series of numbers and letters that only she could decipher. With a flick of a switch, she engaged the system, setting the timer to allow her a few final minutes upstairs. When the gas started flowing, it would first fill the vents, seeping gradually into the living room like an invisible tide. The board members, sealed inside, would unknowingly inhale her experimental Psych-D gas—an even more potent and volatile version than the liquid, amplified to break past any defenses and force their minds open.
In the quiet moments before the release, Lyra indulged in a rare smile. She would witness, through the concealed cameras, the unraveling of each of them as their minds fell victim to her genius. She could already envision their horrified expressions, the terror giving way to madness, and she would be there to record it all, her twisted masterpiece. Slowly she started turning the gas pump on and twisted the canisters letting the gas start to flow.
Vulpes paused for a moment, the hairs on the back of her neck rising, something felt off. She was searching to see if there was a hidden safe when her gut feeling decided to remind her that she should be on her toes. The bug she had placed alerted her that something was happening in the living room down stairs.
“Do you smell something?” said one of the board.
Another added “No.. but I feel a bit light headed, shouldn't have skipped breakfast I suppose”
“The sun is coming in rather brightly isn’t it... my but the colors look so.. Bright” noted a third and the fourth all she heard from him was a panicked cry of “There are beetles under my skin! I can see them burrowing!”
Something was going very wrong and she didn’t have time to think to hard about what, people were in danger and she was the only one who could stop it. The Vulpes abandoned stealth and raced down the stairs towards the living room doors. She spotted the plastic air seal immediately and her mind started to connect the dots as to why one would seal the room off. She extracted a gas mask from her utility belt and attached it to her mask quickly before she extracted a utility knife and sliced open the plastic sheet. The doors were locked and she was strong but strong enough to break up the sturdy oak doors? Picking the lock would take precious time. She had to break it to force it open and judging by the sounds of the men succumbing to whatever it was that inside that they were being subjected to she had to work fast.
Vulpes braced herself, assessing her options. The solid oak doors wouldn’t yield easily to force alone, and time was slipping through her fingers. She took a deep breath through her gas mask and, without hesitation, positioned herself to deliver a powerful kick aimed directly at the lock.
The lock didn’t give on the first attempt, and her heart pounded as she heard another desperate cry from inside, a man’s voice shrill with terror. “They’re crawling out of my eyes! Get them out—get them out!”
Clenching her jaw, Vulpes aimed another kick, this time landing just below the handle with every ounce of force her reinforced boots could muster. The lock finally cracked, splintering against the frame, and the door swung open, releasing a hazy plume of invisible gas that filled the doorway.
She stepped in, her vision slightly blurred from the chemical haze hanging in the room. A man in the corner was clawing at his own arms, streaks of red marking where his nails had already broken skin. Another sat in a crumpled heap, mumbling incoherently about “the sun, the sun—it’s burning through everything.” The scene was a nightmare, the kind only a twisted mind would engineer.
Vulpes forced herself to remain focused. “Everyone, listen!” she called, moving to the first person she could reach. “I need you to come with me. Now.” Her firm tone broke through the fog for one of the men, who staggered toward her, his eyes unfocused.
As she guided him toward the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder, seeing the gas continuing to pour from the vents. There was no stopping it at the source without finding the generator—she’d have to get them all out before it was too late. She helped one man out the door, placing him safely in the hallway, before returning to gather the next.
One of the board members, the man who had cried out about beetles, flailed as she approached, recoiling as if she were a monster. “No! You’re one of them!” he shrieked, scrambling backward.
She kept her voice steady. “I’m here to help. I know you’re seeing things that aren’t real, but you need to trust me. We need to get out of here.”
She reached for him, but he batted her hand away, his breathing shallow and frantic. The drug’s hold on him was severe, stronger than she’d expected. Whatever this gas was, it was potent—and in its current form, brutal.
Vulpes knew she needed to clear out the gas one way or another, shut it off at the source. For now she extracted her bolas and hurled them at a window shattering the glass with the dense steel balls, it would help vent the gas while she went to the source, the basement.
Vulpes ran to the basement, her eyes falling on the elaborate set up, Lyra must have been planning this back up plan for months, she had turned her own living room into a gas chamber and whatever was being pumped into it was sending those poor men into fits of psychedelic madness. She drew a handful of throwing stars, Lyra wasn’t to be seen and Vulpes doubted she was the type to run.
A quiet laugh sounded from behind her. “An interesting display, isn’t it?” Lyra’s voice was calm, almost pleased. She was standing in a doorway, watching Vulpes with an unsettling mixture of satisfaction and intrigue. In her hand was a heavy caliber revolver aimed at the Vulpes. “I didn’t expect a fox in my house but I suppose I can make a little extra money by turning your corpse over to the mafia”
Vulpes held her ground, assessing the distance between herself and Lyra, noting every detail of the revolver in Sinclair’s hand. She could see the cold confidence in Lyra’s eyes, the kind of assurance that only came from complete disregard for human life.
“Is that really your endgame, Sinclair?” Vulpes asked, her tone calm but laced with steel. “Sell out the city for a quick payday? Or are you just addicted to watching people suffer?”
Lyra smirked, a glint of pride flashing in her gaze. “It’s not about money, little fox. It’s about control. Something people like you—trapped in your quaint notions of justice—could never understand.”
“Justice is what keeps people like you in check,” Vulpes shot back, her hand subtly moving toward her belt, feeling the cool metal of her last smoke bomb between her fingers. She couldn’t let Lyra pull that trigger, not without a plan.
“Justice?” Lyra scoffed. “It’s nothing more than a leash society puts around your necks. I prefer to do things my way—without limitations.” Her finger tightened slightly on the trigger, the revolver aimed directly at Vulpes’ heart. “And now, little fox, your time’s up.”
Without hesitation, Vulpes threw the smoke bomb to the ground, the device releasing a thick cloud that quickly filled the basement. The smoke spread, obscuring her from Lyra’s line of sight. She heard the gun fire, the sound echoing off the walls, but she’d already moved, using the cloud as cover.
She rolled to the side, keeping low, and flung one of her throwing stars in Lyra’s direction, hoping to force her off-balance or even knock the revolver from her grip. She couldn’t see where it landed through the smoke, but she heard a sharp intake of breath as Lyra stumbled, momentarily thrown off.
“You think you can hide from me?” Lyra’s voice wavered slightly, her tone still strong but edged with frustration. “I’ll flush you out of here like the rat you are!”
In the cover of the smoke, Vulpes made her way toward the gas setup, finding the main control unit Lyra had rigged to pump the psychotropic gas into the house. She scanned the controls, quickly determining the main valve, and pulled her knife from her belt, slashing at the hoses feeding gas into the room.
With a quick twist, she shut off the valve, feeling a rush of relief as the flow ceased. Now she just needed to deal with Sinclair.
The smoke began to clear as the gas settled. Lyra stood across the room, her face twisted with fury, the revolver still raised.
Vulpes rose to her feet, her eyes locking with Lyra’s. “You might be able to hide behind your experiments and your money, but people like you always fall. And I’ll be there to make sure of it.”
Lyra’s hand trembled as she aimed, her composure slipping. “You don’t know me, you sanctimonious little vigilante. You think you’re so righteous? You’re just as lost as the rest of them—clinging to a broken system.”
Another shot rang out. The Vulpes rolled hard and heard the bullet puncture something metallic and then there was a hiss, Lyra had hit one of the canisters and it was spewing the deadly concentrated gass directly into the room.
As the gas continued to fill the room, Lyra’s eyes darted around wildly, her voice turning into a high, keening laugh that was equal parts hysteria and rage. In a sudden fit of delusion, she focused on Vulpes with a look of pure fury and terror.
“You—you ruined everything!” she shrieked, her words slurred, as the gas took its toll. Her body trembled, her eyes fixating on Vulpes with a fractured intensity. “All of them, they’ll see the truth! But not you... not you!”
Without warning, Lyra lunged forward, her hands clawing through the swirling gas as she reached for Vulpes, desperation and fury twisting her features. Vulpes barely had time to react, bracing herself as the maddened doctor crashed into her with unexpected strength, sending both of them stumbling backward.
The sudden force knocked Vulpes off balance, but she managed to steady herself just as Lyra’s momentum carried her directly into the wall of canisters behind them. Vulpes watched in horror as Lyra collided with the metal cylinders, her body pressing against the valves.
A violent hiss erupted as multiple canisters burst open under the impact, releasing an intense, concentrated cloud of Psych-D gas directly into Lyra’s face. The doctor’s hands flew up to her eyes, her mouth opening in a silent scream as the gas enveloped her, searing through her senses with a force that even she couldn’t withstand.
“No! No, get it off!” she shrieked, her voice breaking into hysterical sobs as her legs gave out, and she crumpled to the floor in front of Vulpes, gasping and clawing at her own skin as though trying to scrape away the visions already assaulting her mind.
Vulpes took a step back, watching in a stunned silence as Lyra’s descent into madness accelerated before her eyes. Whatever twisted thoughts had driven Sinclair before, the overdose of Psych-D was shredding them into incoherent terror. Lyra’s body writhed, her eyes wide and unseeing, pupils blown and wild, her voice breaking into fits of delirious laughter and sudden screams.
“No! Not the colors... not the colors!” Lyra moaned, her voice dissolving into a strangled cry as she stared into a world only she could see.
Forcing herself to move, Vulpes grabbed hold of Lyra’s arms, pulling her back, away from the remaining canisters. “Come on, Sinclair,” she muttered, dragging the doctor up the basement stairs with effort. “You’re getting out of here.”
By the time she hauled her to the top, Lyra’s body had gone slack, her eyes half-open and empty, flickering between terror and incomprehension. She muttered softly to herself, strings of nonsense words tangled with occasional desperate pleas, as Vulpes laid her down in the open air, where the first light of dawn touched her face.
Vulpes stepped back, her chest heaving as she looked down at what was left of Doctor Lyra Sinclair. The once-imposing scientist was reduced to a trembling, semi-conscious figure, her mind shattered by the very substance she’d weaponized against others.
