By Doc Tobin
I needed more dopamine. Desperately.
I knew the effects of my last dose, taken by syringe early that morning, had begun to wear off. The implications of what we were about to do had begun weighing on me again.
F-ward housed the dopamine embeds, the featureless slugs of DNA and tissue that were supposed to output enough golden eggs to inhibit the entire district. I scrambled through the remains, but there was not a single usable drop remaining. Security had already ransacked the place.
The last thing I needed as I was about to abort the human race was a hangover.
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