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LITTLE CRISES HELP YOU RELISH THE CALM

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As Henry rounds a corner in the corridor, he takes a step and suddenly stumbles, one arm going out to brace himself against the rocky wall of the enclosure. A wave of nausea overtakes him, and for a moment his vision goes dark.
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He's no longer in a tunnel under Mount Chimney, but an undergraduate laboratory, his professor looming over him arrogantly. "You are making a mockery of this institution, Driscoll, and if you think your work is grounded in any manner of scientific spirit, you're sorely mistaken."
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Professor Glascoe slams a thick file of papers onto the table in front of Henry, who cringes, mouth open in shock. "You were sloppy with your specimens, and to store them in the morgue freezer is the absolute height of hubris. The temerity on you, Driscoll, I will never understand." The older man snarls, turning around to rifle through the contents of his own desk. "You stay there. I am discharging you from this program, and then I'm alerting the authorities. You may count yourself lucky if you're allowed to mop the floor in a laboratory by the time I'm through with you!"
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Henry chokes, clenching his fists at his sides helplessly as he stares at his professor's back, fear igniting every nerve in his body. "You c-can't. You can't..." he murmurs, his voice high and so, so much younger. Lurching from his seat, he rounds the table and tugs at Glascoe's elbow ineffectually, his vision blurring with hot tears. "You c-can't. This is all I have, after m-mom..." he chokes out. "This is what I'm here for..."
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Glascoe whirls angrily, his arm slamming into Henry's chest and sending him careening backward, colliding with a shelf of instruments that clatter down around him as he slumps to the floor, grimacing in pain. "If this is what you are here for, Driscoll, then you SHOULDN'T BE HERE! That thing was an abomination! You are tampering with phenomena no one understands! I will lose my license before I allow your brand of disgusting, naive egocentrism to cause the next pandemic or worse! STAY! STILL!"
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The professor punctuates this with a vicious kick to Henry's ribs, and he doubles over, clutching at his chest. Satisfied, Glascoe resumes his search, while Henry stares blankly at the older man's back, glasses askew. "You can't..." He glances down helplessly, his gaze passing along shattered glass and ring stands before alighting on a long, curved scalpel, gleaming invitingly.
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He curls shaky fingers around the cool steel handle of the implement, whispering softly to himself, a mantra. "You can't, you can't, you can't..." He rocks forward, crawling on his knees and one hand, the other lifting the cold, heartless blade. "You can't."
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One stroke. Achilles.
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Glascoe crumples with a cry of shock and pain.
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"You can't."
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Two strokes. Carotid.
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Crimson mars the sterile white floor.
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"You can't."
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Henry enters the lab the next morning, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose anxiously. He unshoulders his messenger bag as the rest of the class files in, opening it and rummaging through to find his notebook and a pencil.
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Ten o'clock, and the professor hasn't shown to begin class. Ten-fifteen, and the other students begin talking among themselves, idly joking that the professor must be having some trouble with the stick up his arse.
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Ten-twenty-four, and Henry blinks away the image of his professor's corpse splayed on the floor in front of his lectern.
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Of course it's clean. He made sure of it.
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Driscoll vomits onto the rocky floor of the cavern, the contents of his stomach acidic and stinging as he blinks away the vision. Ahead, Eckart stands, furious, over the curled body of a Chandelure, beaten into submission with an Overdrive that still echoes in the cavern, the air singing with electricity.
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The scientist wipes his mouth with the already worthless rag before tossing it to the side, struggling to stand upright as he regards Eckart, then the Chandelure. "Did that fucking thing Hex me?" he snarls, his usual composure broken. "You had no right! NO RIGHT!"
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He heaves a deep breath, then two. Eckart growls in the back of his throat, soft and reassuring, and Driscoll blinks. Sighs. "Fine. Fine. We'll see how that works." He unclips an empty pokeball and throws it at the Chandelure with slightly more force than might be necessary, but damn it, it feels good.

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Notes: CATCHING CHANDELURE. SCHEDULING THERAPY.