Chapter 42: THE RESPONSE BEGINS
Game night at Apartment 4A had developed its own rhythm over the months.
I arrived with Leslie at 7 PM sharp—Sheldon's preference, though he'd never explicitly stated it as a requirement. The usual chaos greeted us: Howard already arguing with Raj about something, Leonard setting up the Xbox, Sheldon in his spot reviewing what appeared to be a physics journal.
"Nathan! Leslie!" Howard waved us in. "You're just in time. Raj is defending an indefensible position about the superiority of console gaming, and I need backup."
"I'm not getting involved in that," I said, grabbing a beer from the fridge.
"Coward."
"Survivor."
The first hour passed in familiar patterns—Halo matches, pizza debate, Sheldon correcting someone's pronunciation of a word nobody else cared about. Normal. Comfortable.
But during a loading screen, Leonard noticed my distraction.
"You okay? You've died three times in a row, and that's not like you."
Might as well tell them.
"Got some news today," I said. "Someone at MIT published a response to my Nature paper. Methodological concerns, he says. Basically questioning whether my results are valid."
The effect was immediate.
Howard's controller hit the coffee table with a clatter. "MIT? Those inferior second-rate wannabes are coming after you?"
"Howard," Leonard said wearily, "you went to MIT."
"Which is how I know they're second-rate!" Howard was on his feet now, pacing with the energy of genuine offense. "Who is this guy? What's his name? I have contacts. I know people who know people."
"His name is Dr. Gerald Simmons, and I don't need you to—"
"Simmons?" Howard pulled out his phone. "I'm looking him up. I'm finding his weaknesses."
"Howard, please don't—"
"Too late. Already Googling."
Raj held up his phone with a message: Is his criticism valid?
"Some of it raises legitimate questions," I admitted. "But his interpretation is more negative than the data warrants. He's positioning himself as the authority by questioning my methodology."
"Standard academic territorial behavior," Sheldon observed, setting down his journal. "I've observed similar patterns in physics. When a newcomer's work threatens an established researcher's perceived domain, the response is predictable: challenge the methodology, question the rigor, imply insufficient experience."
"You sound like you've been through this."
"I've been on both sides of it." Sheldon rose and moved to his laptop, typing rapidly. "Dr. Gerald Simmons. Let me review his publication history."
I watched, surprised by the level of engagement. Sheldon didn't typically involve himself in other people's professional conflicts.
"Interesting," he said after a few minutes. "Simmons' methodology critiques follow a consistent pattern across his response papers. He targets experimental design, never theoretical framework. His statistical objections focus on reproducibility rather than significance." Sheldon looked up. "The implication is clear. Strengthen your reproducibility data, and his entire argument collapses."
"That's... actually helpful."
"Of course it's helpful. I wouldn't waste time stating the obvious." Sheldon returned to his laptop. "Additionally, his H-index suggests he's peaked. His citation rates have been declining for three years. He's challenging your work because you represent competition he can't otherwise address."
[STRATEGIC INSIGHT: SHELDON'S ANALYSIS CONFIRMED. SIMMONS' VULNERABILITY IS REPRODUCIBILITY-FOCUSED CRITIQUE. COUNTER-STRATEGY: OVERWHELMING REPRODUCIBILITY DATA.]
"Thanks, Sheldon." I meant it more than the casual words conveyed.
"You're my ongoing investment," he replied without looking up. "I protect my investments."
Leonard exchanged glances with me. Sheldon's version of loyalty was unconventional, but it was loyalty nonetheless.
Howard had been typing furiously during this exchange. "Okay, I've created something."
"Howard—"
"Just look." He turned his phone around. The screen displayed a crudely assembled presentation titled "Why Simmons Is Wrong: A Visual Essay."
The first slide featured Simmons' faculty photo with cartoon devil horns drawn on. The second slide compared his publication metrics to mine with arrows pointing to where mine were better. The third slide was just the word "MIT" with a thumbs-down emoji.
"Howard, this is—"
"Beautiful? Petty? Exactly what you needed?"
"All three, somehow."
"I'm sending it to you."
"Please don't."
"Already sent."
My phone buzzed with the incoming file. I saved it despite myself. There was something deeply touching about Howard's immediate, unquestioning defense—even if his methods were questionable.
Leslie had been quiet during all of this, watching from her spot on the couch. Now she stood, jerking her head toward the kitchen.
"Help me get drinks?"
I followed her, recognizing the maneuver for what it was.
"You're going to obsess over this for weeks, aren't you?" she asked quietly, once we were out of earshot.
"Probably."
"Maybe months."
"Possibly."
She sighed, leaning against the counter. "I've seen this before. With colleagues. They get challenged, and it becomes their whole personality. Six months later, they've forgotten they have relationships outside the lab."
"I won't—"
"You might. You have tendencies." She held up a hand before I could protest. "I'm not criticizing. I'm just... naming it. So we can plan around it."
I waited. Leslie always had a plan.
"Date nights. Scheduled in advance. Non-negotiable." She counted on her fingers. "Minimum one per week. No cancellations for 'just one more experiment.' No bringing work. No talking about Simmons unless I ask."
"That's—"
"Reasonable? Healthy? Good relationship maintenance?"
"I was going to say strict."
"It's proportional to the threat level." She met my eyes directly. "I like you, Nathan. A lot. But I won't compete with an academic rivalry for your attention. Either you're present in this relationship, or we have a different conversation."
The ultimatum wasn't harsh—it was honest. Leslie didn't play games or hint at things she meant directly. It was one of the things I loved about her.
Love?
The word surprised me with its accuracy.
"Okay," I said. "Date nights. Scheduled. Non-negotiable."
"Good." She pulled two beers from the fridge, handed me one. "Now let's go watch Howard plan his campaign against MIT. It's entertaining if nothing else."
We returned to the living room, where Howard had indeed escalated to campaign planning.
"—and then we systematically cite Nathan's paper in response papers of our own, building an overwhelming consensus that drowns out Simmons' voice—"
"Howard, none of us work in biochemistry," Leonard pointed out.
"We can learn! It's science! How hard can it be?"
Raj's phone appeared: He has a point. I could probably understand the basics in a few weeks.
"That's touching but unnecessary," I said. "I have a strategy. Thanks to Sheldon, actually."
Sheldon preened slightly. "Obviously."
"I'm going to generate reproducibility data so comprehensive that Simmons' critique becomes irrelevant. Every question he raised, answered. Every concern addressed. By the time I'm done, anyone who reads his response will see it as nitpicking rather than genuine criticism."
"How long will that take?" Leonard asked.
"Six weeks. Maybe eight if complications arise."
"And then?"
"Then I publish the response and move on."
Leslie nudged my shoulder. "And maintain scheduled date nights throughout."
"And that."
[STRATEGY CONFIRMED: REPRODUCIBILITY OFFENSIVE. TIMELINE: 6-8 WEEKS. RELATIONSHIP CONSTRAINTS: INTEGRATED. SUCCESS PROBABILITY: HIGH.]
The evening wound down gradually. More Halo. More pizza. Howard continued developing increasingly elaborate anti-MIT schemes that Raj dutifully documented on his phone. Sheldon returned to his journal but occasionally offered strategic insights when the conversation drifted to my situation.
By 10 PM, Leslie and I were preparing to leave. She'd claimed exhaustion, but I suspected she wanted to give me processing time before we talked more.
"Your friends are weird," she said as we walked to my car.
"Our friends," I corrected.
She considered this. "Fine. Our weird friends who immediately mobilized to defend your honor."
"Howard created a presentation."
"I saw. It was terrible."
"It was perfect."
She laughed—a genuine laugh that I felt in my chest. "Fine. It was perfectly terrible."
I stopped walking, turning to face her in the parking lot. "Leslie."
"What?"
"Thank you. For the reality check. For the boundaries. For—" I struggled to find the right words. "For not letting me disappear into this."
She studied my face in the dim light. "That's what partners do, Nathan. Keep each other grounded."
Partners.
[RELATIONSHIP STATUS UPDATE: LESLIE WINKLE. DESIGNATION UPGRADED: SERIOUS PARTNER. COMPATIBILITY METRICS: EXCELLENT. EMOTIONAL INVESTMENT: HIGH.]
"Partners," I repeated. "I like that."
"Good. Now take me home. You have a rivalry to win and I need sleep."
I drove her home, walked her to her door, kissed her goodnight with more intensity than usual. The day had been complicated—challenges and support and strategic planning all tangled together. But underneath the complexity, something simple remained.
I had people who would fight for me. Who cared enough to draw devil horns on rival researchers and demand scheduled date nights and offer genuine strategic analysis.
I have a tribe now. They fight my battles with me.
The thought stayed with me during the drive home, settling into my chest like warmth.
Tomorrow, the research offensive would begin. Six weeks of intensive work, IQ allocation, experimental refinement. Simmons had thrown down a challenge, and I would answer it with data so overwhelming that his critique would look like jealousy rather than science.
But tonight, I would enjoy the simple fact that I wasn't alone.
[DAILY SUMMARY: THREAT IDENTIFIED (SIMMONS). STRATEGY DEVELOPED. SUPPORT NETWORK MOBILIZED. RELATIONSHIP BOUNDARIES ESTABLISHED. OVERALL STATUS: PREPARED FOR NEXT PHASE.]
Level 13 was close. The NZT recipe at Level 15 was closer than it had ever been.
And for the first time, I was looking forward to the challenge rather than fearing it.
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