Jones' Laboratory

A cramped private research laboratory where desperate science collides with institutional fatigue. Blueprints and abandoned schematics overlap across cluttered workbenches, their edges frayed from frantic revisions. A single swinging desk lamp casts jagged shadows from the uneven glow of a sputtering Bunsen burner, while oscilloscopes buzz intermittently, their static mixing with the acrid scent of solder and overheated wiring. Stale coffee lingers in chipped mugs, its bitterness barely masking the sharper metallic tang of contaminated slag samples and fungal cultures. Against one wall, a massive chalkboard bleeds equations and mutant strain vectors, its equations scrawled in haste by the Doctor’s erratic scrawl. Specimen jars cluster near overflowing microscopes, their contents whispering of grotesque larval transformations. In the center, a half-built model of a Brutalist structure looms like a silent accusation—proof of Cliff Jones’ original vision now warped by corruption. This is where theory meets crisis, where the green sludge on the Brigadier’s sample predicts not just infestation, but metamorphosis.