One of the things you hated about Mr. Llyan was his tendency to use forty words when two could have done just fine.

Mr. Llyan, in a bid to sound interesting, said everything except what he actually meant.

You often thought that Llyan’s idea of conversation was finding a word, explaining it, then explaining the explanation until no one cared anymore. Then, and only then, could Mr. Llyan could focus on his work.

However, the board, who tried justifying hiring around seventy-nine, underpaid and overworked scientists, liked to call Mr. Llyan a ‘smart man.’

Given how understaffed the place was, it is safe to assume you are opening your lab door at three in the morning, to find Mr. Llyan mid-sentence, and already miles off-topic.

Mr. Llyan flinched at the door’s squeak. Somehow, it was enough to make him restart his rambling.

“Dark matter.”

Your narrowed your eyes, leaning against the doorframe. You spoke, your voice raised,

“Or you could just focus on what we are supposed to be researching, for gods sake!”

You didn’t bother to ask about his greeting. Instead, you crossed the room, pulled a book from the shelf, and slammed it on the papers of… whatever he was reading.