hey guys! chapters might be a bit slow for a while because my pi needs me to finish this manuscript for this really random journal soon (bleugh >x<). i’ve already had like five publications in this journal (i think it’s called like nature or something) so idk why he’s on my ass again!!! anyways, i’m really sorry~~~enjoy this chapter!
I come out of the shower and my stepmother is already yelling at me :(. She’s asking me why I spent the last five hours in the shower. I tell her that I hit my head and went unconscious but the real reason why is because I was shaving every inch of my body for tonight. She rolls her eyes and walks away, but I don’t care because in one hour, I’ll be at the Inflammasomes concert.
Even though the other members are cute, I really only have one in mind: Terrington Nathaniel Francisco Alpha, or as the Inflammafans call him, TNF-α. I like him the most because he’s the bad boy of the group. He’s always wearing red and is prone to rage.
My friend tells me she’s almost at my house so I phagocytose a sandwich and touch up my makeup. I almost forget my copy of Janeway’s Immunobiology (9th edition) which I plan to read during the concert. Even though we’re two rows down from the furthest seats in the stadium, I can’t help but hope he’ll see me.
We head to the venue and get to our seats. I look around me to see all these basic DCs and neutrophils. I’m not like them. I’m a macrophage, and an educated one too. The lights dim and everyone starts screaming. I pull out my textbook and start reading, but after a few seconds, I feel my eyes drift towards the stage…
We’re at least five-hundred feet away from each other but I swear that TNF-α’s staring at lil ol’ me. I look around to make sure it’s true when the music suddenly stops.
“Hey you! Yes—you with the 9th edition of Janeway’s Immunobiology.”
I freeze. A spotlight almost blinds me, so it takes me a while to see my perfectly freckled face projected onto one of the screens on stage. I can’t believe it, but TNF-α is speaking to me!!!
“Hi,” I say, non-chalantly.
“What kind of immune cell are you?” he asks.
“Um…a macrophage,” I squeak (because I’m so petite like a mouse).
He pauses for a second and I hold my breath. A million thoughts race through my head: What if he only stimulates DCs? What if he finds out my TNFRs are defective? What if he thinks that I’m a boring anti-inflammatory M2 macrophage?
“Perfect. Come see me after the concert,” he says, smirking.
To be continued…
The Procrastinator 