The New Hire - Luis Serra x Reader (Beneath the Rot Part 1)
Summary: While working on a new strain of Las Plagas, Luis encounters the Los Illuminados' newest hire.
Masterlist
If it wasn’t for the white lab coat adorning his body, Luis would be freezing his ass off right about now.
Of course, rationally, he knows that the cold temperatures of the lab were for the parasite’s own good. Even a few degrees too warm, and it would interfere with their growth, and, his overall research. But even then, he can’t help but feel a slight shiver course down his spine as the chill nips at the skin of his face.
The cold, sterile air seems to cling to him like a second skin no matter what he does. No matter how much time he spends outside the lab, rejoicing in the warm, humid air of Spain, his bones still retain the chill like the laboratory is where they belong.
In his hands, the metal tools glint up at him, gleaming in the fluorescent light. Behind him are refrigeration units, humming softly. Somewhere in the facility, there’s the rattling of machinery.
Luis barely notices any of it anymore.
Currently, he’s leaning over an examination table, gloved hands steady as he adjusts his microscope lens another fraction downwards. This particular parasite that he’s currently working on is adjusting very well to the prior experiments. It’s gotten stronger, and when he peers at it through the microscope, he can see that it’s wet, tiny limbs are twitching.
It’s not a random twitch. No, this movement is controlled. The appendages move in his direction, like it’s trying to get closer.
Fascinating.
“Still ugly.” He mutters to himself absentmindedly.
Another twitch from the parasite, body reacting to the sound of his voice.
According to the higher ups, this progress is encouraging. Promising, even. A sign that all of Luis’ hard work and their money is worth it. Exciting results.
Concerning results, according to the part of Luis’s conscience he’d gotten very good at ignoring.
His hand goes down to the notepad next to his lab equipment, scribbling down notes and chemical formulas. Things he’s going to have to try. Ideas that he’s going to need to rule out. Either way, this is a breakthrough. Or, in his mind, a potential catastrophe. The parasite is reacting to the presence of organic material. It’s fascinating in the worst of ways.
Behind him, the laboratory door buzzes open with a slight hiss.
He doesn’t bother looking up, eyes still squinting to look through the microscope.
“Unless someone is actively dying,” he said, adjusting a dial lazily, “I’m very busy over here.”
A dry voice answers instead. “New recruit.”
Ah. That gets his attention.
He finally glances up from the microscope, eyes flicking towards the door. At the door is his boss. A rough looking man, with tanned skin and sandy colored hair. He’s used to seeing him. The man breathes down his neck constantly, after all. But what intrigues Luis is the woman next to him.
She’s standing slightly behind the man, eyes scanning the room curiously. A beige colored message bag is slung across her body, her hands carrying a bundle of papers. When she meets his eyes, her mouth tilts up into a smile.
His boss keeps speaking, “Mr. Serra. This is your new researcher, Ms. Y/N L/N. She has a background in parasitology and toxicology. I imagine that she will be of great help to our cause.”
Our cause. The phrase still makes his skin crawl after all these years. As if Luis is part of those crazy cultists.
He leans back slightly, resting his weight against the table as he studies you. You’re around his age if he had to guess, with intelligent eyes and a guarded but friendly face. Your posture is alert but still casual. That rules out a military background, at least.
His boss turns and leaves, leaving the two of you alone.
“And here I thought they were finally promoting me to sainthood.” He offers a small smile. “Luis Serra Navarro. Welcome to our humble little basement of horrors.”
When he extends his hand, you seem cautious to take it, your body hesitating before your palm meets his.
“... That’s not exactly reassuring. Is it always this cold in here?”
He shrugs, turning back to the microscope with practiced ease. “You’ll get used to it. Hell isn’t always hot, Corazón.”
He can hear you step a little further into the lab, your shoes tapping on the tile floor. When he glances back at you, your attention has already drifted across the laboratory, curiosity tinting your eyes.
Like a scientist. Or an optimist.
Both are equally dangerous things to be here.
You speak again, eyes rolling as you set your messenger bag onto one of the spare chairs, “Well, aren’t you a charmer, Mr. Serra.”
He chuckles, finally facing back to you again and stripping off his disposable gloves, “Ah, too formal. Call me Luis, please. ‘Mr. Serra’ sounds like someone with better life choices.”
Your head tilts when you see the microscope, a brow raising. “I take it that you’re looking at…?”
“The newest strain of the plaga.” He watches as you step forward, body already leaning down to look into the lens, “I assume you’ve been given a rundown on what we’re researching?”
You nod, though don’t bother looking back at him. You’re too busy looking down at the parasite.
“This is…”
He expects the next words you say to be many things. Disgusting. Horrific. An affront to god. But instead, when you speak again, your tone is light. “Fascinating.”
He chuckles, “Really, now? I’m used to hearing repulsivo.”
Even as you shrug, your eyes don’t stray away from the specimen. “My line of work isn’t pleasant. I’m used to that. It takes a lot to scare me away now, Luis.”
You seem to be testing the name on your tongue. For some reason, the way you say it makes something unfamiliar tighten in his chest. Your voice is intelligent but warm, lips turning upwards into a smile even as your hand adjusts the microscope slides.
You mutter something to yourself before asking, “Tell me, what stimulation have you given it to respond like this?”
He chuckles, head shaking a little, “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, genia. I have not poked or prodded it at all. Its movements have been programmed into it by hereditary traits only.”
At his words, your head finally turns, eyes squinting as they meet his. “Hereditary?” you repeat. “So the behavior is being passed between generations?”
Luis grins a little at the immediate understanding in your expression.
“Exactly.” He steps closer to the microscope again, resting one hand against the edge of the examination table. “The original specimen reacted aggressively to direct stimulus only. Pain, sound, movement. Predictable things.” He gestures vaguely toward the writhing parasite beneath the lens. “But this one…”
Your gaze drifts back toward the microscope. “It’s anticipating.”
The answer leaves your mouth so quickly it almost catches him off guard. Not many people keep up with him this easily. His grin widens despite himself.
“See?” he says lightly. “Now you’re making me look good.”
You snort softly under your breath before straightening, arms folding loosely across your chest as you study the parasite. You’re sure in your movements. No signs of fear. No flinching.
Most newcomers either stared too long or looked away too quickly.
You’re not doing either.
Interesting.
“What’s the long-term goal?” you ask after a moment. “Adaptability?”
There’s no judgment in the question. Only curiosity. It should make answering easier. Instead, Luis finds himself hesitating. Because the official answer and the truthful one were two very different things. He reaches for the notepad beside him, mostly to avoid your eyes.
“The cult wants fewer weaknesses,” he says finally. “Greater control. Faster synchronization between host and parasite. Less resistance during implantation.”
Something flickers across your face as he speaks. Not something disturbed, necessarily. But you go quiet, gaze moving between him and the microscope.
“And what do you want?”
Oh.
Luis glances toward you again. Most researchers here never asked questions like that anymore. They cared about results. Funding. Approval from men upstairs pretending to be prophets.
But you?
You sound like you actually expect him to have an answer.
For a moment, only the low hum of refrigeration units fills the silence between you. Then he laughs softly through his nose, though the sound lacks its usual ease. “That,” he murmurs, “is a dangerous question for your first day.”
A faint smile tugs at your mouth. “Should I save it for the second?”
Something unexpectedly warm flickers low in his chest. God help him.
Luis shakes his head, looking back down toward the parasite before answering.
“When I first came here,” he says slowly, “I thought we were standing at the edge of something revolutionary.” His fingers tap once against the metal table. “A parasite capable of rewriting the relationship between the body and disease? Controlling infection itself? You can imagine the possibilities. We could learn so much with these things.”
Your expression softens slightly. “That sounds almost hopeful.”
Almost. The word hangs there between you. Luis stares at the twitching specimen beneath the microscope.
“It did,” he says. Past tense.
“And now?”
Another chuckle. It’s hollow and fake, scratching against his throat like sandpaper. “Careful, now. I’m not looking to scare you away from your job just yet.”
Again, your face betrays some kind of emotion. One that he can’t place, but he would say almost looks sad. Remorseful, even. Before he can question it, you’re talking again.
“Trust me, Luis. I’m not one to run. Besides,” You smile at him, “I’m here for more reasons than just science.”
“Oh, really, now? Like what?”
The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead. For a second, you don’t answer immediately. Instead, your attention drifts past him, toward the thick observation windows lining the far wall of the laboratory. Beyond the glass, shadowed hallways stretch deeper underground, disappearing into dim red emergency lighting.
The deeper parts of the facility.
Luis watches the subtle shift in your expression. It’s not fear. It’s something quieter than that.
“Let’s just say that I got tired of hearing the word ‘impossible’.”
The way you say it almost sounds like you have hope.
Hope. Not the blind, stupid kind the cult liked to preach upstairs. Not salvation or divinity or any of Saddler’s bullshit. Just human hope. Messy. Desperate. Real. The kind that he didn’t have anymore, and hadn’t had for quite some time.
“They told you this research could change everything,” he says quietly.
Your eyes meet his again. “They told me it could help people.”
The sincerity in your voice hits harder than he expects. For a moment, he almost envies you. Not because you still believe in the work. But because you still believe in people. Luis looks away first.
His gaze settles on the parasite writhing beneath the microscope lens, tiny appendages flexing against the glass like searching fingers.
“You should be careful with that kind of optimism down here, corazón,” he murmurs.
A faint crease appears between your brows. “That obvious?”
“To someone like me?” He gives a soft snort. “Painfully.”
That finally earns a real laugh from you. It’s soft and unrestrained, tickling his ears and petting his hair. The sound echoes strangely against the cold metal walls of the laboratory.
Very suddenly, he’s aware of how long it’s been since he’s heard laughter down here that didn’t sound cruel. Something about that realization unsettles him more than the parasite ever could.
He clears his throat lightly, stepping away from the examination table. “Well,” he says, reclaiming some of his usual charm, “before this place corrupts you entirely, I should probably show you where they keep the coffee.”
