EMMA

  I didn’t need friends. I didn’t need allies. And I most certainly didn’t need wide-eyed idiots cluttering my day with pointless questions.

  And yet—there he was. Again.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit… frigid in here, Emma?”

  Aron’s voice—thin, reedy—cut through the precisely tuned acoustic dampening of my office like a paper cut to the brain.

  It was, I noted with weary precision, the seventh time in the last fifty-eight minutes that his discomfort had manifested as verbal pollution.

  I didn't grace him with my attention, my gaze fixed on the complex data streams flowing across the holographic display projected from my desk terminal.

  My fingers moved with practiced economy over the projected keyboard, the faint tap-tap-tap a permitted, predictable sound against the low, steady hum of the environmental controls and the server banks hidden beneath the polished floor panels.

  "Sixteen degrees. Kills germs, saves oxygen. Basic science, Aron. Try reading a textbook."

  "Right, but… people get sick when it's this cold," he persisted. I caught the peripheral flicker of movement as he hugged himself tighter, his thin regulation jumpsuit offering negligible insulation.

  A useless, theatrical gesture aimed at eliciting an emotional response I was incapable—or rather, unwilling—to provide.

  Ridiculous.

  An internal sigh, carefully suppressed so as not to disturb my own respiratory rhythm.

  "Cold doesn’t create viruses, Aron. It just makes your pathetic immune system slower. Put on a sweater."

  I paused my typing, letting the silence amplify the statement.

  "And no," I added, preempting his inevitable follow-up plea, "I have no intention of adjusting the thermostat.

  A tense silence descended, heavier this time, thick with his unvoiced frustration. I could almost feel the messy static of his irritation radiating outwards, a discordant frequency disrupting the carefully calibrated harmony of my workspace. His jaw was likely clenched, his respiration rate probably elevated—inefficient expenditures of energy.

  "Shouldn't you try to be a little more… I don't know… empathetic?" he finally mumbled, the words laced with a bitterness that was new. A slight variance in his usual pattern of complaint. Interesting.

  Empathy. The word itself felt foreign, inefficient.

  My mother’s voice hissed in my memory: Sentiment is noise.

  I flexed my gloved fingers.

  Three marriages… incinerated.

  I wouldn’t repeat her mistakes—I’d burn brighter.

  'Results, Emma,' her cool voice echoed in my memory, sharp as fractured glass. 'Focus on the data, the patterns, the objective truth. Sentiment is noise. It obscures the signal.'

  She had been right, of course—a truth learned through trial and error.

  Her unyielding standards, her intolerance for anything short of measurable perfection, had shaped me.

  Molded me into something… effective.

  I finally lifted my gaze, my eyes—often described by others as 'chips of ice'—locking onto his.

  My expression was a carefully constructed mask of neutral disinterest, honed over years of practice in front of reflective surfaces until it was second nature.

  "My role, Aron, is to optimize complex systems and solve high-order problems—not manage your temperature complaints or emotional whims."

  I gave a sharp, deliberate nod toward the sealed exit.

  "Should the established environmental parameters prove incompatible with your personal requirements, the egress pathway is clearly marked."

  I paused for maximum effect.

  One. Two. Three seconds.

  "I have complete confidence that Human Resources will process your voluntary termination documentation with their standard, predictable efficiency."

  He averted his gaze first, his lips thinning into a white line.

  Victory.

  Predictable.

  …and therefore, utterly bland.

  The fleeting satisfaction derived from such minor dominance displays was negligible, a mere confirmation of established intellectual hierarchy. I returned my focus to the shimmering lines of code and analysis on my display.

  Every rotation cycle felt like a monotonous loop—a parade of inadequacies. Emotional bias or cognitive failures would spawn trivial issues, inevitably met with a solution that only I could formulate swiftly and precisely.

  Now, my fingers flew across the terminal, finalizing parameters for the sub-level containment field—weeks of others’ inefficiencies undone in moments.

  Aron lingered, defeated but irritatingly present, his restless fidgeting punctuated by sniffles and the rustling of cheap fabric.

  Distractions. Endless distractions.

  Pointless data polluting the environment.

  He was the latest in a string of 'assistants.'

  John had lasted three weeks, four days, seven hours, and approximately forty-three minutes before succumbing to the pressure.

  Sarah before him, even less time. They all broke, or simply quit, eventually. I only hoped Aron wouldn't prolong the inevitable, tedious process of burnout.

  I had argued, logically and repeatedly, with the Sector Supervisors. Presented irrefutable data correlating my solo work periods with significant increases in project completion rates and decreases in error margins. I was not merely capable of working alone; it was demonstrably the optimal configuration.

  Other personnel were simply uncontrolled variables, introducing noise and inefficiency into my perfectly calibrated workflow.

  They'd conceded the logic—the numbers were undeniable—but countered with infuriating corporate platitudes about 'fostering synergistic interactions' and 'enhancing interdepartmental cohesion,' thinly veiled code for their discomfort with my lack of conventional social integration.

  Improve my social skills? As if navigating the illogical swamp of human interaction was a skill worth cultivating beyond basic necessity.

  Monkeys were social creatures too, and they smeared feces on their own faces.

  "Screw them," I snapped, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

  Regret followed instantly. Too vulgar. Too... mononeuronal. I straightened, forcing my tone back into precision.

  Internally, I had already suggested several precise anatomical locations where they could file their concerns.

  Aron looked at me as if he had seen a ghost.

  "Please concentrate on your own work," I said, my voice steadier now.

  My relentless logic, the kind my mother had both instilled and demanded, inevitably shattered against the baffling, resilient wall of their ingrained, nonsensical administrative irrationality.

  They tolerated me because my results were irrefutable, essential even, for Pandora's true purpose:

  CONTAIN – ANALYZE – NEUTRALIZE.

  The uncontainable. The unnatural. The threats even the IAEA wouldn’t touch.

  Yes.

  I was a necessary tool—efficient, but tiresome.

  [Execute]

  The simulation began, dull as always.

  [Complete]

  Today’s workload, finished. At last, time for what truly mattered: the relentless pursuit and assimilation of knowledge.

  Pandora's central databank and its adjacent, archaic physical library housed exactly 32,032 bound volumes, 4,534 classified research dossiers, and 23,453 peer-reviewed scientific papers – a vast repository I was systematically absorbing.

  My internal estimate placed my progress at fifty-two point seven percent completion.

  At least my years at Pandora Headquarters had passed swiftly since my transfer from the Nova Institute for Gifted Youths—a transition made four years ago, marked largely by routine, interrupted only by rare flashes of genuine intellectual challenge.

  Naturally, my mother had been ecstatic, heralding it as "unparalleled validation" of her methods.

  I chose Pandora not for ambition or opportunity but to escape Nova—a suffocating place, dulled by sluggish minds and a curriculum that lacked substance.

  Boredom, for me, was not mere ennui; it was a specific and excruciating form of cognitive torture I refused to endure.

  I rose, my ergonomic chair adjusting silently.

  My workstation—a pristine white slab of nano-composite—was spotless, devoid of personal effects save for the integrated terminal and a dispenser of medical-grade sterilizing gel.

  The office followed a strict standard: white walls for focus, grey floors for sound absorption, and minimalist furniture of chrome and glass.

  Aseptic. Controlled. Perfect.

  Except for the corner Aron had claimed, where his desk stood as an affront to order—cluttered with scattered files, coffee cups, and a tangle of personal effects that seemed to multiply daily.

  It was a mess. A maddening imperfection in an otherwise flawless environment.

  "Bathroom break?" Aron smirked, as if he could hear my silent critique.

  "None of your business."

  "When the temperature drops too low, blood vessels constrict to conserve body heat, raising blood pressure. As a result, the kidneys filter more fluid and, well… you can guess the rest," he says, mimicking my tone.

  I shot him a murderous glare.

  The satisfaction in his voice irritated me more than I cared to admit.

  "Cold-induced diuresis," I snapped. "What, you skimmed a search engine for that?"

  His expression darkened, the tension in his shoulders betraying his irritation. "I have a PhD, you know," he said.

  "Sure, sure," I replied, dismissively. "And don’t touch the thermostat."

  "Bitch," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

  I didn’t react outwardly—just a slight flicker of triumph as the insult confirmed what I already knew. He’d had enough.

  I moved towards the door, my hand instinctively reaching for the cool metal release panel when a corrective subroutine triggered in my mind.

  Contaminants.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

  I took a deep breath. I had to be careful. I had to keep my irritation level under control.

  Three precise steps back to my desk. Second drawer down, left side – designated P.P.E. storage. I retrieved a sealed packet containing a fresh N95 respirator mask. Unwrapped it with swift, economical movements, fitted it snugly over my nose and mouth, pinching the malleable metal strip to ensure a perfect, airtight seal against the bridge of my nose.

  Only then, ready.

  To the library.

  I internally recoiled at the necessity. A repository of invaluable data, yes, but also an assault on my senses. The cloying, pervasive odor of decaying cellulose fiber, of dust mites feasting on centuries of accumulated organic matter, mingled with the faint, damp chill endemic to the deep subterranean vault.

  And for what?

  An absurd excuse—'security in physical copies.'

  They stubbornly refused to digitize the oldest archives, even after I took my time to explain the lifespan of paper and ink.

  Fools.

  Thus, the unhygienic nightmare remained as it was.

  A potential breeding ground for molds and microbial colonies I preferred not to contemplate.

  Just as my gloved hand—one of many pairs of sterile, disposable nitrile gloves I always kept in the deep pockets of my standard-issue white lab coat—brushed the cool, smooth metal of the door release, the portal hissed inward, snapping open and nearly colliding with me, breaching my carefully maintained buffer of personal space.

  "Gods, Emma dear, it really is an icebox in here!" The voice, sharp and carrying an undertone of authority I recognized instantly, belonged to Doctor Aris Thorne—Director of the GenomaX Project, overseer of half this sector, and technically, my direct superior.

  Her keen eyes, the color of dark flint, swept the office, pausing momentarily on Aron.

  He looked poised to seize the opportunity, to leverage her presence into a complaint about... well, me.

  I shot him a quick, sharp, and precisely calibrated look—an exact replica of the expression my mother used to quash any sign of dissent or emotional display in my youth.

  Aron visibly deflated, snapping his mouth shut.

  Dr. Thorne’s gaze returned to me, her expression professionally neutral but with an intensity that suggested this was not a casual visit.

  "Emma. With me. Now."

  It wasn't a request. It was a directive. I gave a single, curt nod, falling into step behind her as she turned and exited my frigid sanctuary.

  We moved through corridors that became progressively less familiar as we descended deeper into the complex.

  "So, you and Aron—getting along?" Dr. Thorne asked.

  And there it was again—her tone, shifting unpredictably from calculated precision to unwarranted familiarity. Bipolar syndrome, perhaps?

  "Negative," I replied, flatly.

  "You know, he is a handsome young man."

  "Dr. Thorne, aren’t you married?"

  She hesitated.

  "I mean, for you, girl… maybe a boyfriend can help you with—"

  "I'm fine."

  The standard flat-panel illumination gave way to more recessed, atmospheric lighting. The smooth, jointless plasteel walls transitioned to panels reinforced with visible metallic plates, bolted securely, hinting at increased structural integrity or perhaps shielding requirements.

  Our footsteps echoed slightly on the polished metal grating beneath our feet. Security cameras, multifaceted lenses gleaming, tracked our progress from ceiling junctures.

  "I was just like you when I was younger," she said, her voice light, yet insistent.

  I nodded, still trying to piece together where this was going.

  "Always focused on work and academic prizes—until I met him… my husband."

  I kept my mouth shut, letting the words hang in the air.

  "Someday, you’ll meet someone too. And hey, it doesn’t have to be a boy… right?"

  I tilted my head slightly as we walked.

  Dr. Thorne leaned into my sterile personal space. "Ever kissed anyone, Emma?"

  I didn’t look up.

  "Define ‘kiss.’ CPR drills count?"

  Her laugh was sharp, almost cutting. "You’ll understand when it happens."

  We stopped before a truly massive blast door, constructed from what looked like meters-thick, reinforced durasteel, significantly more imposing than the standard sector portals.

  It was plastered with multiple layers of warning placards in stark, unmissable yellow and black:

  Biohazard trefoils.

  Radiation triangles.

  High voltage symbols.

  Memetic hazard warnings,

  …and the universal symbol for Level 5 Restricted Access.

  I didn't bother reading the specific sub-designations; the cumulative message was clear: Keep Out.

  "What about Kevin?"

  My heart skipped a microsecond. I clasped my hands behind my back, discreetly checking my pulse—slightly elevated.

  "What about Kevin?" I echoed, sounding almost mechanical.

  "Oh," her expression shifted—surprise? Euphoria? She looked as though she'd just discovered the cure for kuru. "So, Kevin it is..."

  "Excuse me?" I narrowed my eyes at her.

  "He's a pretty boy, and a smart kid," she said, grinning. "Nineteen, you know," she added, studying my reaction. "Just a year older than you."

  "He's a colleague," I said, each syllable clipped and deliberate. The word friend hung for a moment on my tongue—acidic, foreign. I swallowed it down. Data was safe. Data didn’t crack or bleed like Mother’s wedding portraits.

  She laughed again, and I despised it.

  Seriously.

  What was her problem?

  Dr. Thorne raised the high-security clearance card hanging from a reinforced lanyard around her neck and swiped it through the multi-spectrum scanner embedded in the wall.

  A sequence of sharp electronic beeps echoed through the silent corridor, followed by the heavy clunk-thump of internal locking mechanisms disengaging.

  Moments later, the door slid open automatically to reveal the room beyond.

  As the security bypass sealed shut behind us, Dr. Thorne adjusted her lanyard—a flicker of calculation in her eyes—before her smile hardened.

  “Stay close,” she said, and for the first time, I heard the steel beneath the sugar.

  I complied, falling into step behind her.

  The room beyond was a small, sterile transition chamber. Directly ahead, a thick wall of transparent, heavily reinforced material—likely ballistic-grade polymer combined with radiation shielding—separated this space from a vast, circular chamber further ahead.

  It was a colossal vault, a cathedral of high technology. Floor-to-ceiling racks of humming, liquid-cooled servers lined the curved walls, their indicator lights blinking in complex, hypnotic patterns.

  I paused for a moment, taking it all in—the sheer scale of the space was overwhelming, even for someone like me.

  As we walked further in, I let my eyes roam over the consoles glowing with cascades of data. Intricate schematics, genomic sequences, and multi-dimensional probability waveforms filled the screens, some of which I recognized from advanced theoretical physics papers.

  I tilted my head slightly, analyzing the waveforms, though the sheer amount of information made my thoughts race.

  Banks of unfamiliar equipment occupied the central space—complex assemblages of gleaming metal, crystalline structures, and glowing conduits.

  I slowed my pace instinctively, letting my gaze trace the paths of the illuminated conduits. Whatever these machines were designed for, their purpose eluded even my eidetic recall of Pandora’s extensive technical database.

  That realization left an unexpected, nagging discomfort.

  Dr. Thorne, ahead of me, kept her stride purposeful and steady. She glanced back briefly, as if to ensure I hadn’t fallen behind, though she said nothing. I adjusted the cuffs of my gloves, a habitual action to refocus my thoughts, before hurrying to match her pace.

  Behind the transparent wall, near a central command console array that appeared to be the nexus of the room's operations, stood a middle-aged man. He was impeccably groomed, his pristine lab coat identical to mine—though his was clearly custom-tailored to fit his broader frame.

  I noted the way he stood, his posture confident but measured, every movement deliberate, as if even his presence was calculated to dominate the space.

  Dr. Thorne slowed, finally coming to a halt. She glanced at me, her expression unreadable now, and lowered her voice.

  "Be respectful," she said, her tone sharp and serious.

  I nodded once, my gaze shifting back to the man behind the transparent wall.

  He offered Dr. Thorne a brief, almost imperceptible nod, then his gaze shifted, landing squarely on me.

  He smiled – a polite, professional arrangement of facial muscles, yet beneath it lay something… unreadable. Indecipherable. Like static obscuring a clear signal.

  "And there she is," his voice resonated, slightly amplified by an intercom system, smooth and modulated.

  "Welcome to the Black Box Project."

  I studied him, my mind running its automatic threat and personality scans: poised posture, controlled micro-expressions, measured tone. Strange.

  The usual tells, the minute fissures in the constructed facade that always gave me an analytical advantage, were absent. This man was either an astonishingly blank canvas—improbable—or, far more likely, a masterfully constructed persona.

  A carefully painted surface concealing unknown depths.

  Just like my Mother.

  Dr. Thorne spoke beside me, her voice low, pitched for my ears only.

  "Emma, feedback suggests your… unique intellectual capacity has found recent assignments… insufficiently engaging." She chose her words carefully.

  Boring. Simplistic. An insult to my processing power, I mentally corrected. But my internal threat analysis detected the subtle undertone of evaluation in her voice. A test.

  I reined in the automatic surge of arrogance, cloaking it in professional neutrality. My mother's voice again: 'Never reveal your full capabilities until strategically advantageous.'

  "I have found the assigned tasks manageable and completed them within optimal parameters, Director," I replied, keeping my voice level, my gaze steady on the man behind the glass.

  His smile widened fractionally, reaching his eyes this time, yet the underlying inscrutability remained, perhaps even deepened.

  "Excellent," he said, his voice retaining its smooth modulation. "I am Doctor Allan Smith. Lead Scientist and Director of this initiative."

  Allan Smith. The name struck a discordant note, pinging against my internal pattern recognition filters. Too generic. Too blandly Anglo-Saxon for the diverse, multinational staffing profile typical of Pandora's high-security projects.

  An alias. Almost certainly.

  Assigned to a man I couldn't immediately read.

  "A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Smith," I replied, the courtesy a thin, brittle veneer over my ongoing internal assessment.

  "Doctor Allan Smith," he corrected, firm yet measured, the honorific carefully emphasized.

  A flicker crossed his expression—pride? Insecurity? Perhaps deliberate misdirection. A false, obvious flaw meant to disarm me, to lower my defenses.

  I offered a minimal inclination of my head. Acknowledgment, not deference. "Doctor Allan Smith," I repeated, committing his preference for the title, and the potential weakness it implied, to memory.

  He chuckled then, a short, dry, controlled sound devoid of genuine humor. "Outstanding! I have a feeling we shall interface exceptionally well. And to think, some personnel reports described you as 'abrasive,' 'lacking interpersonal dynamics,' even"—a slight pause for effect—"'a temperamental, spoiled brat.' Ha!"

  A sudden spike of heat, unexpected and unwelcome, flashed beneath my sternum.

  Irritation.

  Quantify and suppress.

  My mother’s lessons echoed: Emotional reactions were exploitable data.

  I relaxed my facial muscles, steadied my breath, and suppressed the adrenal spike. No visible reaction. No advantage conceded.

  Dr. Thorne cleared her throat softly beside me, a subtle signal. Dr. Smith's hollow amusement vanished instantly, replaced by crisp professionalism.

  "Moving on," he continued smoothly, as if the barb had never been uttered.

  "We have a situation, Emma. A problem. One that, I am quite confident, will provide a significant… intellectual stimulus." His eyes gleamed with something that might have been genuine anticipation.

  He slid a thin, standard-issue gray data folder through a narrow, recessed slot beneath the transparent wall partition.

  I hesitated.

  Analog media… again. I clenched my jaw. Fools clinging to dead trees.

  His hand, visible only for the brief instant it lingered near the slot before retracting, had looked slightly damp.

  Perspiration? Nerves? Or a potential biological vector? The possibilities flickered through my mind in rapid succession.

  Unknown risk profile.

  Without breaking eye contact with Dr. Smith, I reached into my lab coat pocket again. My fingers brushed against the spare pair of sterile nitrile gloves I always carried—precautions for unforeseen circumstances.

  Using the subtle cover of my body, I slipped them on quickly and efficiently, layering them over the pair I was already wearing.

  Double barrier. A redundant layer against potential contaminants.

  I could sense, more than see, the faint tightening around Dr. Thorne’s mouth and the brief flicker in Dr. Smith’s eyes – disapproval, perhaps, or maybe just curiosity – but neither commented on my protocol adjustment.

  My safety parameters were non-negotiable.

  I took the proffered folder. Its surface felt cool and smooth through the double layer of nitrile.

  I opened the cover. My eyes immediately began scanning, absorbing information at my peak processing speed.

  Data streams, complex risk matrices, failed containment protocol summaries, incident reports filled with redacted names and catastrophic outcomes.

  Keywords leaped out, forming connections in my mind: unstable quantum tunneling, localized reality distortion, cascading system failures, multiple failed extraction/neutralization attempts, significant personnel losses.

  My internal processors began constructing complex simulations, identifying flaws in previous methodologies.

  Containment Protocol X-Gamma: predictable failure due to miscalculation of exotic particle dispersion vectors.

  Retrieval Attempt Bravo: over-reliance on kinetic solutions, critical failure to account for psychological manipulation factors.

  Amateurish.

  The memories of the accident surged through my mind. The Hekaton reactor failure. The explosion. Ground zero.

  They called it "the Incident of the Seven"—a reference to the seven-minute window during which the reactor's core destabilized beyond recovery. Seven minutes of cascading failures, unheeded warnings, and irreversible damage.

  I flipped through the pages rapidly, my mind racing ahead, formulating potential pathways.

  The final page hissed, static sparking at the edges as I turned it.

  The boy in the photo glared back—jawline razor-sharp, eyes ancient and ravenous, incongruous with his youth.

  SUBJECT DESIGNATION: LUGEL DRAIVEN.

  AGE: 17

  I committed the name and the face to memory.

  THREAT ASSESSMENT: Unknown.

  R-VECTOR: Regenerative factor. Level 8.

  A flicker—not of excitement, but of focused, analytical interest—sparked within me.

  The so-called 'intellectual stimulus' they promised.

  A level eight.

  At last. A problem, perhaps, worthy of my attention.