Stan grimaces at the explanation. Or, you know, what his brother obviously thinks will pass as one. And the thing is, he's right. Stan isn't gonna' push it. They both know. Neither of them want to, he's sure, but they know. Is it 'unorthodox' to experiment on shit that ain't even there? Is that what all them science nerds with their lab coats and fancy degrees would call it?

Yeah. He guesses it must be.

But he's here anyway. He's here because this is his brother and the idea that Ford always knows best, knows more and better no matter what the rest of the world thinks, Stan wants that to be true. That's what he remembers being true back when he was a kid, back when things were good.

And even if it ain't, well. This is his brother, and the least he owes him is a chance.

Even if that means he's about to get his eyes sprayed by super special toxic acid, or whatever. He glances around the room, frowning, and the frown only gets bigger and deeper once he steps in. He's okay, though, he's cool. It's his brother leading him in here, okay, so it's fine to close the door behind him, he only hesitates a couple seconds before doing it and nevermind how stiff his whole posture gets when he hears the thing hiss shut.

"Couple minutes, huh?" he asks, shutting his eyes so the chemical whatever don't get in. And maybe, a little bit, because that feels like it ought to help. "You couldn't cut that wait down a little?"