Trena

"Mother of stars," Tren mutters as the thing opens up. It'd been a while since she'd seen the nebula that had given rise to that exclamation on Satrabe and Palenta. "All right, if you've got the genecode and your own genetic profile here—" She is cut off as he runs outside.

The noises of fighting percolate through the thing's—Vergil's—organic material, and with a muttered curse she opens up the datapad, checking first to make sure that it had the necessary information for the splice; she couldn't do it fast if she had to do it from scratch. Second, she checks to see if the man has bothered to record his own genetic code on the pad; if he'd been altered in the past, it could throw everything off, with potentially disastrous results. One of the biggest causes of death among amateur splicers was failing to take a pre-existing splice into account when adjusting a new splice to a patient. Even if he hadn't had any alterations, it was a lot safer to know exactly what code she was dealing with; some human genetic disorders, especially redundant genes and quite a few they hadn't identified purposes for, could react strangely if something seemingly unconnected was altered. If he didn't take a sample from himself... hell, I guess I'll calibrate for the most common gene patterns and hope he doesn't have recessive disorders sitting around back there. She sits on what passes for a floor, and begins tapping information into the datapad, calibrating the nanites in the syringe as fast as she can.

She freezes for a bare instant as the voice resonates through her, then continues, working faster as she scrolls down through the schematics. I'm a heretic. They'll kill me if I can't do this. That voice, that voice... what's out there? She doesn't stop working to look, but nor can she fully expunge the worry about what's happening outside.