You're cold. You're tired. You're hungry. Attempt #50 of a new fuel source lies inert in the bottle, and if you continue to waste materials like this it'll for certain be added to The Tally.
You root around in your bin, managing to scrape the very bottom of the bin for the netherwart you need. It looks... funky, dirty almost and you think you might've scraped some mold out of the box with it as well but that's fine. This has to work.
As the netherwart steeps, you measure out your magma creme, your sugar, your redstone. A timer dings! and you add it to the ignition chamber and -
Oh gods it's in your hair on your face on your clothes on your chest why aren't the emergency bottles working, why is it STICKY OH GODS PLEASE IT BURNS -
You eventually learn that your carelessness, your absolute stupidity, something "No alchemist in my time has EVER had the LACK OF BRAIN TO DO" that somehow. You managed to make a Potion of Fire. You take the glint in his eye as deserved anger, and the week of food docked as a deserved punishment.
And yet, he manages to turn anything into gold, as a true Alchemist does. There's enough grants, enough donations wanting to contribute to the tragedy that he's able to build a new factory, a shining new production line. He forbids you from touching another brewing stand, instead putting you on ingredient duty under the strict eyes of the Farmer. The halls echo with the fate of workers thieves, strung up by the iron automotons roaming the halls, and you are relieved.
They weren't grants. Soldiers and generals and politicians gather in a room, joking about fighting fire with fire. He claims it was a stroke of genius, a flash of madness but you know better. You know what you have to do.
Blue fire roars in the factory. You see the hatred and disgust in his eyes. You see the iron golems, wrenching his copper arm, his copper LEG off before hauling him back from the emergency exit.
You see the dark forest as you run.