01-10-2022, 12:38 PM
The moderately-sized queue in front of the Human Resources department in the Citadel of Valravn was almost completely silent, if not for the rare turning and beeps of uniglass devices from the men and women closer to the exit. Every hour or so, a new number would be extracted, and the intercom would call upon whoever was patiently waiting for their files to be revisioned and polished to a mirror sheen, much like what the Technocrats do with their bodies. Removing the weak parts. Replacing them with stronger ones. The HR Department was hardly any different from an Augmentation clinic: you face yourself and your past, and you reject it by replacing it with something that should never even belong in you.
A tired-looking doctor in a white labcoat with the trademark dark-iris insignia was sitting on one of the many chairs populating the waiting room. He looked impatient, and would only give side glances at the other Technocrats in the room out of fear they would recognize him. Or worse, if he recognized one of them. There was no telling if they would ever report that failure of an R&D Doctor neglecting their duties again to the likes of Winslow or Hachette. The words of trust from her Keeper weigh heavy on him, as well as the expectations she had set for him to begin with. He was no mad scientist, he was no computer whiz. He was simply a foolish man who believes that he belongs both in and out of a lab. He tried very hard to convince her that he is not weak or pathetic. Or that his only place in the entire universe is not in front of machines.
"492, please step into the revision room. 492, step into the revision room."
The monotonous female voice spoke from the intercom. It was either going to be a quick dive into his past, or an entire analysis (and inevitable refusal or acceptance) of everything about him. He was anything but ready to be judged for what he had done in his past, much like how he was unready to face the inevitable consequences of his actions and inactions. The doctor stood from the chair, and crumpled a small piece of paper that read the number "492". Paper is rather antiquated for a society like ours, he thought to himself. His long white coat fluttered in his every motion, as he approached the small steel door that welcomed him into a wide office.
There, a curly-haired woman in her forties would wait for his arrival from behind a wide steel desk. The office itself, despite its low ceiling, was littered from top to bottom with small server capacitors and uplink archives. A strange cushioned chair was sitting ominously on the left side of the room. A cranial device of some kind was also abandoned in place on it, with plugs and wires connected to some sort of monitor. Her large, reflective glasses completely hid her scrutinizing eyes. Was this some kind of fashion statement? Or a refusal to adjust her pupils with augmentations?
"So you're the doctor I was told about." Spoke the woman, noticing his child-like curiosity to every piece of machinery in his vicinity.
"Did the labcoat give it away?" Answered the man, relying on sarcasm and silliness to quench the growing pit in his stomach.
"Charming. Have a seat."
The doctor sat on the lone chair in front of her desk, and crossed his legs in anticipation. He could feel the knee augmentations quietly creaking, readjusting to the new position.
"Name."
"Lazurith."
The woman typed something on her device with a remarkable speed, and then turned her face to the man.
"That is your ident code for sorties and otherwise, meant to keep your identity veiled. Name."
"Again, Lazurith."
She turned away again from the man to type again quickly.
"Nonexistent. Name."
"I have been working here for well over five years. Don't give me that now."
"Please state your name."
The man hesitated, his posture changed. The pit in his stomach turned into a crevice.
"Kristoff Avellone."
The woman turned again to her device.
"Age."
"Have you finally found my file in the databse?"
"Age."
"...25. I swear, you bureaucrats are all the same. It's unbearable." Answered the doctor, while glancing away with a dejected look of sorrow.
She resumes her typing.
"Place of Birth."
"A hospital."
"Place of Birth."
"It's usually the gynecology wing. Ever had a kid?" The man answered with sarcasm in spades.
Unhappy with her response, the woman stood from her chair, and approached a large machine on the side of the wall.
"If information is murky and unclear, I may be able to mend it. We have a recovery unit, and you will plugged to it until we can determine the problem, Templar Avellone."
"That isn't my name."
"Please enter the Memory unit. Failure to comply will result in dire consequences."
"Oh, you too? You'll have to join the queue. After Hachette, and Revenant. And possibly the Navarch too, I heard she has a thing for me."
"It's not that difficult, Doctor. I'm here to revision your files, so please position yourself on the Unit's chair, and allow me to connect the infra-neural arrays to your encephalon. Do you have any cranial augmentations to speak of?"
The man sighed."Only the XOB-25, the standard issue one that picks up whether I'm alive or fucking dead."
"So you're a pilot and a doctor. "
The doctor remained in silence after her comment. He looked at her, she looked back with an inexpressive face, as though she had seen his exuberant, insecure, and insufferable type over and over again through the course of her life. He took his labcoat off and haphazardly threw it on her desk, among her files and her notebook-sized servers. The dark turtlenecked doctor sat on the cushioned orange chair, which was facing an almost opaque dark steel wall. And just when he was able to squint his eyes at his own reflection, the intern connected the cranial unit to his head, colonized by short dark hair. After two seconds that felt like an eternity, his entire body went limp.
He could feel his skull leaning on his right shoulder. His whole body was entirely motionless, except for his facial muscles and eyelids.
"Wh... what did you do to me..."
"I'm accessing your neural activity. You filed the form already while waiting in the queue, yes?"
The doctor shook his head in apprehension.
"This will be over before you know it, Avellone."
The intern left the limp doctor on the chair to turn off the bright neon lights of the room. A small projector light from behind Laz sparked to life, casting light on the wall in front of him. The projected image wasn't really an image - it was a wide, white rectangle that fit nicely in the steel wall.
"Capillary and nerve atrophy is required to make the apparatus function. Simply put, this machine effectively disables your body to spark every neuron in your brain, to run it at an estimated 154.5% efficiency. It seems you were always a rather curious one, Avellone."
The projector's light began casting shades of light brown and blue sky on the screen. The image began shaping in seconds.
"...Huh...? Is that..."
"Hrm. Planet Denver. It is a good indicator on where I can begin to assess your information. There will be background checks, and other investigations will follow. For now, have a rest."
The Technocrat could no longer keep his eyes open, as the orange skies and the buildings merged into stupid, unfathomable colors before fading to black.
A tired-looking doctor in a white labcoat with the trademark dark-iris insignia was sitting on one of the many chairs populating the waiting room. He looked impatient, and would only give side glances at the other Technocrats in the room out of fear they would recognize him. Or worse, if he recognized one of them. There was no telling if they would ever report that failure of an R&D Doctor neglecting their duties again to the likes of Winslow or Hachette. The words of trust from her Keeper weigh heavy on him, as well as the expectations she had set for him to begin with. He was no mad scientist, he was no computer whiz. He was simply a foolish man who believes that he belongs both in and out of a lab. He tried very hard to convince her that he is not weak or pathetic. Or that his only place in the entire universe is not in front of machines.
"492, please step into the revision room. 492, step into the revision room."
The monotonous female voice spoke from the intercom. It was either going to be a quick dive into his past, or an entire analysis (and inevitable refusal or acceptance) of everything about him. He was anything but ready to be judged for what he had done in his past, much like how he was unready to face the inevitable consequences of his actions and inactions. The doctor stood from the chair, and crumpled a small piece of paper that read the number "492". Paper is rather antiquated for a society like ours, he thought to himself. His long white coat fluttered in his every motion, as he approached the small steel door that welcomed him into a wide office.
There, a curly-haired woman in her forties would wait for his arrival from behind a wide steel desk. The office itself, despite its low ceiling, was littered from top to bottom with small server capacitors and uplink archives. A strange cushioned chair was sitting ominously on the left side of the room. A cranial device of some kind was also abandoned in place on it, with plugs and wires connected to some sort of monitor. Her large, reflective glasses completely hid her scrutinizing eyes. Was this some kind of fashion statement? Or a refusal to adjust her pupils with augmentations?
"So you're the doctor I was told about." Spoke the woman, noticing his child-like curiosity to every piece of machinery in his vicinity.
"Did the labcoat give it away?" Answered the man, relying on sarcasm and silliness to quench the growing pit in his stomach.
"Charming. Have a seat."
The doctor sat on the lone chair in front of her desk, and crossed his legs in anticipation. He could feel the knee augmentations quietly creaking, readjusting to the new position.
"Name."
"Lazurith."
The woman typed something on her device with a remarkable speed, and then turned her face to the man.
"That is your ident code for sorties and otherwise, meant to keep your identity veiled. Name."
"Again, Lazurith."
She turned away again from the man to type again quickly.
"Nonexistent. Name."
"I have been working here for well over five years. Don't give me that now."
"Please state your name."
The man hesitated, his posture changed. The pit in his stomach turned into a crevice.
"Kristoff Avellone."
The woman turned again to her device.
"Age."
"Have you finally found my file in the databse?"
"Age."
"...25. I swear, you bureaucrats are all the same. It's unbearable." Answered the doctor, while glancing away with a dejected look of sorrow.
She resumes her typing.
"Place of Birth."
"A hospital."
"Place of Birth."
"It's usually the gynecology wing. Ever had a kid?" The man answered with sarcasm in spades.
Unhappy with her response, the woman stood from her chair, and approached a large machine on the side of the wall.
"If information is murky and unclear, I may be able to mend it. We have a recovery unit, and you will plugged to it until we can determine the problem, Templar Avellone."
"That isn't my name."
"Please enter the Memory unit. Failure to comply will result in dire consequences."
"Oh, you too? You'll have to join the queue. After Hachette, and Revenant. And possibly the Navarch too, I heard she has a thing for me."
"It's not that difficult, Doctor. I'm here to revision your files, so please position yourself on the Unit's chair, and allow me to connect the infra-neural arrays to your encephalon. Do you have any cranial augmentations to speak of?"
The man sighed."Only the XOB-25, the standard issue one that picks up whether I'm alive or fucking dead."
"So you're a pilot and a doctor. "
The doctor remained in silence after her comment. He looked at her, she looked back with an inexpressive face, as though she had seen his exuberant, insecure, and insufferable type over and over again through the course of her life. He took his labcoat off and haphazardly threw it on her desk, among her files and her notebook-sized servers. The dark turtlenecked doctor sat on the cushioned orange chair, which was facing an almost opaque dark steel wall. And just when he was able to squint his eyes at his own reflection, the intern connected the cranial unit to his head, colonized by short dark hair. After two seconds that felt like an eternity, his entire body went limp.
He could feel his skull leaning on his right shoulder. His whole body was entirely motionless, except for his facial muscles and eyelids.
"Wh... what did you do to me..."
"I'm accessing your neural activity. You filed the form already while waiting in the queue, yes?"
The doctor shook his head in apprehension.
"This will be over before you know it, Avellone."
The intern left the limp doctor on the chair to turn off the bright neon lights of the room. A small projector light from behind Laz sparked to life, casting light on the wall in front of him. The projected image wasn't really an image - it was a wide, white rectangle that fit nicely in the steel wall.
"Capillary and nerve atrophy is required to make the apparatus function. Simply put, this machine effectively disables your body to spark every neuron in your brain, to run it at an estimated 154.5% efficiency. It seems you were always a rather curious one, Avellone."
The projector's light began casting shades of light brown and blue sky on the screen. The image began shaping in seconds.
"...Huh...? Is that..."
"Hrm. Planet Denver. It is a good indicator on where I can begin to assess your information. There will be background checks, and other investigations will follow. For now, have a rest."
The Technocrat could no longer keep his eyes open, as the orange skies and the buildings merged into stupid, unfathomable colors before fading to black.