"Aaah!"
"Call this clean?"
"How could anyone possibly clean better than this?"
"Goddammit..."
Considerable time had passed.
They'd likely intended to overhaul the entire hospital initially, but reality had set in midway. Eventually, everyone was herded into the dissection lab.
The scene inside remained bizarre - if anything, worse than before.
On one side lay three cadavers I'd used for practice, preserved in formaldehyde. The decay was significantly delayed, so they didn't look too terrible. Of course, any remaining organs would have rotted by now, but we'd removed them all beforehand.
'And beside them... fresh cadavers as always.'
This was unavoidable. Formaldehyde alters cadavers, and without proper textbooks, preservation remained challenging.
Thus we maintained two separate tracks - resulting in a peculiar dichotomy. The scent of formaldehyde clashed with the stench of decay.
"Ugh, look at these damn rats! Disgusting!"
Consequently, rats, flies, and maggots still thrived. The nauseating aroma had also induced vomiting among medical students and doctors, leaving puddles of stomach contents everywhere. But the rats were the most unsettling.
Liston shook his head at the dozens caught just today. "For fuck's sake."
The maggot situation was equally horrendous. Clearing them out helped somewhat, but true relief remained elusive - we hadn't disinfected anything. Who knew how many invisible pathogens lurked here? The decomposing cadavers alone must be breeding grounds.
The thought turned my stomach.
"Ughh."
Ironically, it was Blundell who started retching first.
"How much miasma accumulated here?"
"Should I fetch the microscope?"
"No! Absolutely not!"
Colin's suggestion made Blundell wave his hands frantically before sighing deeply. His gaze drifted beyond the dissection lab to... the maternity ward.
Originally, this proximity had been considered tremendously convenient - allowing quick access between dissections and patient care. The maternity ward's high mortality rate also facilitated cadaver transfers. Blundell had probably appreciated this... before understanding pathogens.
"I've likely killed quite a few," he murmured.
I realized then his nausea wasn't just from hygiene concerns. His entire demeanor radiated regret and self-reproach.
Liston, though less affected, was equally somber. "I'm no better. 'Butcher' suits me perfectly."
Seeing Liston deflated was surreal - the man normally brimmed with energy. I worried they might quit medicine altogether. These were exceptional physicians by 19th-century standards, and more importantly, my friends.
"We'll do better moving forward."
"Obviously."
My concerns proved unfounded. They snapped out of it almost instantaneously, rallying everyone - myself included.
"Pyeong."
"Yes?"
"Earlier, regarding handwashing..."
"Yes?"
"Was there a reason you recommended chloride of lime?"
Ah.
Sharp as ever. He'd likely deduced that mere cleaning wouldn't eliminate miasma, recalling my handwashing advocacy.
'Must phrase this carefully.'
Saying "it kills germs effectively" would raise too many questions.
"It seemed sufficiently... potent."
"Exactly!" Liston's melancholy vanished as if scripted. He began pacing the still-fetid lab with unsettling enthusiasm, gesticulating in a manner eerily reminiscent of a future Austrian madman.
"Potency... we need potency! They haven't returned the microscope yet?"
"No, sir."
"Good. Don't give it back."
"Steal Lord Damien's property?"
"That senile coot won't remember. The man owns half of London."
Liston continued excitedly: "Here's your assignment, Pyeong - listen closely. We're each finding potent substances. Tomorrow... we'll test their miasma-killing efficacy in the lecture hall."
"Ah... I see."
Right. Our era's physicians took experimentation to extremes. These men had poured questionable liquids on themselves and students to test miasma theories.
Terrifying... but effective. Even half the stubborn Paget faction had converted after witnessing such demonstrations (though Liston's intimidation probably helped).
"Stop gawking! Get moving!"
As everyone scattered, Liston detained me.
"Pyeong... didn't want to show you these."
He produced threatening letters.
"You could die."
"These came for you too?"
"I'm Liston. Who'd dare?"
Fair point. Targeting Liston would require treason charges. At worst, an assassin might try shooting him - but this era's muskets were laughably inaccurate.
"The police know. The director's trying to calm your detractors. But... 'heretic,' 'Joseon sorcerer' - the rumors spread."
"Sorcerer? Joseon practices shamanism, not wizardry!"
"Regardless, going alone could get you killed."
The letters, some written in blood, carried disturbing vitriol. Why such hatred for a physician?
"Honestly, there are doctors I'd kill too," Liston mused. "Like Butcher Harry."
"He's dead?"
"Very. Probably on that slab."
So he'd been dissected too...
"Harry had friends. They're the real threat. Stay with me always. I've got ideas."
His "ideas" turned out to be... alarming.
The shopping list included hydrochloric acid, sulfuric acid, and phenol.
This would annihilate pathogens... and people. Especially the acids - hadn't some comic villain gone insane from acid exposure?
Phenol seemed equally dubious from its pungency alone.
As I lay stunned on my bed, Joseph and Alfred burst in excitedly, followed by a brawny man Liston had hired - a former Royal Navy sailor turned bodyguard.
"You didn't buy anything?" Alfred asked, unpacking sinister-looking substances.
"Sulfur," he announced, presenting yellowish chunks.
"Mercury," Joseph added. "It cured my syphilis... by killing the miasma, perhaps?"
Infuriatingly, this wasn't entirely wrong.
But I had an ace from France - something potentially more effective than their poisons.
'They've already surpassed expectations.'