Connor lets Carson sit him down, still staring at the device beeping merrily away in his hand. With a look of disgust he tosses the accursed thing away, watching as it lands on the other bed. What. The fuck. Seriously. It could be worse, he could be dead, but still. It's unnatural. At least, unnatural for him. If he were meant to have this gene he would've been born with it not injected by some psychopathic teenager.

What the fuck is happening to his life, man?

He snatches the scotch bottle away, taking a long pull from it. Eventually he shakes his head, "Y'were doin' yer work. No one can fault y'fer that. Y'had no way've knowin' some crazy girl'd steal th'shite fer a laugh or whatever th'fuck she was doin'." He sighs, resting the bottle against his forehead, the cool glass helping him think. "That girl ain't right. Not in any sense've th'word."

"But... if yer lab was locked how th'fuck'd she get it?"