The duchy of Scientia was a pleasant one, wedged between the earldom of Artsia and the barony of Mathematica in the wide land of Academia. It was inhabited by three tribes; the Biologists, who investigated the living; the Chemists, who looked after things which went ‘HISS’ then burnt holes in the table, and the Physicists, who spent their time making up equations and ignoring things as they saw fit (several of their most famous members walked off cliffs or into the gaping mouths of Momentum Dragons).

The Chemists, with whom we are concerned, were a very thoughtful bunch rife with opinion. They used this opinion to wright great experiments, which gave the opinion power enough to eat lesser opinions. In less mathemagical lands, these opinions are known as ‘hypotheses’, which don’t fight back. They don’t even squiggle interestingly.

Anyway, one highly gifted Chemist (known to his friends as ‘Pete’) discovered the 119th element. It lent deep meaning to every compound it clove to, but had an unfortunate tendency to obscure bright detail. As Pete had taken Art in senior high school, he promptly named this substance Shellacium.

His rival and colleague, Anna, was outraged. She firmly believed that this element should be called ‘One-hundred-and-nineteen-ium,” as it sounded more scientific. Of course, she had plans to name it in Latin, but as she didn’t speak very much Latin that would have to wait until she got hold of a dictionary.

Both sides built up support. Pressure rose. (The Physicists had a long and complex equation describing this, but none of the Chemists cared. They were too busy killing each other.) The Chemists exploded into uncivil conflict. They prodded one another with beaker tongs, accidentally dripped nitric acid on their opponents, and were generally unsafe in the lab. (The Biologists and Physicists kept out of it. Especially the Physicists, whose own recent schism had formed the mysterious and rather confusing sect of “Quantum Physicists,” determined to think away the ground from under their own feet. They discovered things smaller than the electron, and so earned the hatred of all Chemists.)

The uncivil conflict escalated until the majority of chemists were being admitted into hospital with embarrassing stand-and-clamp injuries. A proclamation was issued.

The naming would be decided by war. On the agreed date, the two armies marched towards one another on the battlefield. They swarmed like ants, some wearing lab coats, some wearing goggles, all armed with latex gloves.

It was a long and terrible battle; beakers were flung, chemicals spilt, no regard was shown for human life or expensive glassware. A shadow fell across the battlefield. The Hundred-And-Nineteen-ium Chemists looked on in fear. All was silent, save the rustling grass. Most of the grass had been burnt away, and it was full of glass shards, but it still managed to rustle.

“It can’t be...” A hoarse whisper broke the silence.

A woman screamed. “It’s a burette!”

“Titration,” said a voice from the back of the crowd. It was an old voice, creaking with wisdom and exhaustion. The owner of that voice was none other than Munther Al-Chemist, a brilliant man born in a far land. Someone screamed and fainted. It was the woman who had screamed earlier. “Titration,” Munther repeated. “An art so terribly accurate and time-consuming.” He didn’t finish.

As they watched, frozen with terror, the burette was righted. Its operator climbed up on a chair and began to tip an acid into the fluted tube. The liquid steadied at the zero mark. An assistant (the Useful Assistant) used a pipette to obtain precisely 25 millilitres of a mysterious solution and placed it into a conical flask, along with a vivid orange indicator. The Shellacites began to chant.

“NEU-TRA-LISE! NEU-TRA-LISE!”

With painstaking care, the burette’s operator began a rough titration. The beaker’s contents swirled with pinks and oranges, until finally it settled into a bright pinkish colour. He shouted a number. An attractive woman, evidently the Lovely Assistant, recorded it.

The Operator, rubbing his chunky chin, stepped off the chair. “I call a challenge.” A gasp went up. A titration duel! Murmurs rippled through the One-Hundred-And-Nineteen-ium Chemists. The Operator held up a hand. “I charge you to select a champion to face me in a duel of titration. Such a duel has not been seen for five hundred years.”

The Shellacites fell silent as a new solution was prepared. This time, if possible, the operator (a short man with small glasses and a large chin) was even more careful. Well before the beaker glowed pink, the small man stopped. He began to drip acid into the flask. One drop at a time.

Both armies stared as the beaker exploded in rosy radiance. The Shellacites began to chant again, stomping their feet and clapping their hands. The operator, rubbing his chin again, smiled at the One-Hundred-And-Nineteen-ium Chemists. “Who is your champion?”

A young girl stepped forward. Her red hair glinted in the sun. “I am,” she said in a clear voice. “I, Krystal, of the Chemists.” Shouts, now along the lines of ‘Go Team Krystal!’, ‘We Love You, Krystal!’ and other such inspiring cries, echoed behind her.

Munther kept pace with Krystal as she walked towards the Shellacites. “Remember,” he said, “You have been training to be a Knight of the Periodic Table for years. You can defeat any of them in a suitably epic fashion. That odious little man with the big chin should pose no problem.”

Krystal smiled. “I know.”

It almost hurt her to be so precise. Krystal’s hand twitched, almost emptying the great burette. This was just a titration, she reminded herself, as her right hand swirled the flask. It turned pink, blinding pink. Just a titration.

She tipped her beaker into the special machine, stolen from the Quantum Physicists. It counted electrons or quarks or subatomic waves or something equally technical-sounding. The machine beeped. She stared at it, almost disbelieving.

She had lost. Krystal, of the glinting hair and Chemistry Nobility, had lost. To a stupid little man with a stupid outsized chin. She spun on her heel and flung herself back to the One-Hundred-And-Nineteen-ium Chemists. Some comforted her, some turned away.

Across the field, the Shellacites celebrated.

For thousands of years, the Great Burette War was recounted in epic tales. Some, who had not been at the front, called it the Hundred mL War. Krystal eventually married Shakir Al-Chemist, Munther’s grandson and a fellow Knight. Their descendants were all great titrators, legendary in their prowess.

And Shellacium reacted happily ever after.