(Underground, just a short drive from Geneva)
You wanna blame someone for this quark-gluon plasma explosion? How about you start with the GODDAMN SAFETY OFFICERS. Their whole job is to restrict access to secure parts of the facility and to build automatic shutdown protocols to prevent, oh, you know, some asshole visitor from accidentally triggering a reaction that leads to a FIVE POINT FIVE TRILLION DEGREES KELVIN QUANTUM SOUP FROM MELTING THE FUCKING ENTIRETY OF LYON IN THE TIME IT TAKES YOU TO THINK ABOUT SCRATCHING YOUR BALLS.
Could I have stayed with the tour group? Could I have done something other than kick my way into a supply closet, shimmy into the air vents, fall through one of said air vents into a control room, and start pressing buttons all while screaming "NO WHAMMY BIG MONEY?" Yeah, I could have. It's easy to second guess decisions when they don't work out, especially for you media assholes.
But I did kick down that door and I did fall through that vent and I did mash that control panel like an escaped orangutan on PCP. And I'd fucking do it again, because the plan was sound.
"What plan?" THE PLAN TO USE THE LARGE HADRON COLLIDER TO MAKE ME A GODDAMN OFFENSIVE LINE OF MARVEL SUPERHEROES, YOU ASSCLOWN. It's simple math. You take a high schooler, you put him next to some science, and next thing you know you gotta a giant who can poop grenades.
And yeah, I checked. There's no rule against grenade-poopin' defensive tackles.
But it turns out that fucker Stan Lee doesn't know shit! I took eleven recruits, chained 'em to the particle beamline intersection points, and got to accelerating. (That was a big step for me; I think neutrons should just control the clock and try to win field position. CERN's a fuckin' gimmick scientific body but I'm trying new things.)
Know what I got? Eleven dead teens, eleven forged permission slips, and a shitload of terrified Swiss scientists.