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Finally.He had asked to be put on the opposite side of the hotel from the cheerleader convention. The view might have been interesting, but he just didn't have it in him to listen to the high-speed, high-pitched blabber of college-age girls rambling on about nothing in the halls until the wee hours of the morning.The card-key weapon stabbed into the eternal wound above the doorknob. The little LEDs flashed and turned red. His stabbed again. And again. Searching his mind for a magical verbal password that might bypass this obvious technological failure, he said "Come on dickweed, WORK."While the magic words didn't seem to help with the lock, they did bring forth a giggle from behind him.He turned around, eyebrows raised, to look at the fellow weary traveler who found his predicament so entertaining. And to see if they might be the recipient of a few more choice words from his rather lengthy vocabulary of profanity.But his voice caught in his throat. His tilted roller bag fell to the. He remembered that a similar idea had been presented in his Transformative Tinctures class, and begun searching his binder. Finding the correct notes, he followed the prescribed steps, and continued on his way through the process of producing Pyroclene. Once more in the process, he resorted to his Transformative Tinctures notes in place of a recipe he couldn't remember.When he was finally done with the reagent, he grabbed the small lump of iron waiting on his lab table. Taking a pipette, he filled it with his solution, and carefully applied a single drop to the iron. There was a sudden flash of light accompanied by a plume of smoke. The shock of it made Andrew inhale sharply, breathing in a lungful of the rancid-smelling gas. He coughed and sputtered for a while as his table-mate asked what he had done to get such a strong reaction. "I don't know," he responded, "I did substitute a couple of ingredients, but I don't know why it did that." Figuring he had nothing to lose, he tried to.
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