Epstitch, the lowly lab assistant went eagerly for the beaker. Only as he tried to bring the bubbling, crystal clear concoction to his lips did he realize he couldn’t drink through the biohazard suit. Looking left and right he weighed his options, considering the various potential risks in the lab.
He considered them, but he must not have considered them very carefully since he frantically scrambled out of his protective suit, stripping to the waist. His mind was on fire, burning with a fever for lemon-lime relief, a blaze of desire so strong and searing so brightly as to obscure all other memory, logic, and reason. The Sprite must be his, must enter him, must consume and be consumed by him.
For a moment he was worried by this intense desire for a drink of dubious origin, but said desire also overruled worry. So he drank, holding the beaker with a sweaty hand and sending the bubbling, fizzing liquid down what felt like an eternally parched throat to fill his belly with sugary citris joy, or so he hoped.