through the looking glass

A secret laboratory somewhere in Dublin.
Mycroft is viewing a readout from a computer.
Apparatuses hum.
I sense the presence of the dark gods of biogenetic science.
I am an unwelcome guest.
"Whatchya workin on?" I ask innocently.
"I could tell you," Mycroft replies, "but then I'd have to kill you."
She busies herself in front of something that I have no idea what it is.
After a moment she looks up.
"You've been throwing some punches lately," she muses.
"Me?"
"On your website."
"Oh."
"You know you're getting attention."
"I know."
"Devil worshippers on the off shore isles, Al Qaeda, the Johnston Press. You can really pick em."
"I know, Mycroft, I know."
She attached a zorgotron to a vortzilator and noted a reading on a dial.
"They'll be coming for you," she said softly.
There was a moment of stillness.
"And I'll be waiting," I answered grim as death.
She didn't speak again for a long time.
I moved towards the door.
A thought struck me.
I half turned.
"Whatever it is you're looking for there, don't break the laws of God to find it," I advised.
Mycroft didn't look up.
"Umm," she said.
"The cure for human illness will be found in the spirit, not the cell structure," I pressed.
"Umm," she said again more firmly.
It was a dismissive Umm this time.
I stepped into the hall.
She pushed the door closed behind me.