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I don't know why I find her beautiful when girls who have features like hers don't usually appeal to me. Her eyes are strong-willed. Her lips seem to be half-snarl, half-smile. Her hair hangs above her shoulders and behind her ears.

I like girls who look absent because I know I can outsmart them, but she presents herself as more intelligent than the Government gives her credit. She can't be defined by banal terms such as 'failure' or 'lovesick'. To me, she is flecked with nuances.

"Experiment?" She scoffs, and I know I've attacked her weakness. I can see her visibly attempt to compose herself by nibbling on her lips once, and then looking away. "Never mind."

"So you aren't curious?"

"I'm curious," she replies, "but I'm not desperate."

"Don't you want to know what happened to your Exon?"

Her eyes light up. With a savage scowl, she returns, "I know what happened."

Interesting. She has the wrong impression. Should I tell her?

"I don't need you to come with me."

How unfriendly. I won't tell her. "I'm coming anyways."

Resigned, she walks to her department and occasionally throws an expectant glance my way. She presumes I'll eventually leave her be, but no. I'm far too attracted to her story to casually abandon her.

“So tell me,” I begin. “Emer, correct? How is life as a lackey?”

She responds with a voice that matches her gaze – curt and assertive, yet vulnerable. By the drag in her footsteps, I know she despises her occupation. Of course. Who would want to see their second success be met with failure?

“It’s acceptable.”

“It must be lovely working for the Government.” With my hands folded behind my back, I stroll the halls beside her. We’ve descended to the second floor, and now the first. When she leads us down yet another group of stairs, I duck my head underneath the short ceiling and observe, “Although I suppose your department is too detached to be considered united with the Government.”

“How much longer is your appointment?"

I grin. "You're trying to kick me out."

Her quiescence confirms my statement. She stops walking. "I'm not sure I'm approved to bring you any further."

"I believe the official saw me go. Can't you see? I'm unrestrained."

Uneager to argue, she brings me to her department, which she opens with a low technology security device. The door closes behind me, and I scrutinize the small room. The only valuable artifact is a map, with its gray wires and dark bulbs running the entire stretch of the wall. I stand before it and gaze at its organized complexity. When I sense her behind me, I inquire, "What is this for?"

"It tells me whenever I have a chore to do.”

“But how does it work?”

She replies tediously, “A signal is sent from a wristwatch that turns on one of the lights, depending on where that person I’m supposed to serve is located.”

"I assume it turns off automatically once the chore is finished."

"Generally, yes. Sensors in the floor which recognize my weight and walking pattern send a signal to the map to reverse the light." She recalls, "Although today, it didn't work."

"In what way?"

"I came back to the department, and the light was still on." She points to the bulb in topic. "It turned off eventually, but there shouldn't be issues with the system. It's a private network.”

A hypothesis forms as I listen to her explanation. A private network should be unobtrusive. However, a person with the correct resources and an intelligent mind can easily intercede the connection, if briefly or even accidentally. To confirm my suspicion, I ask, "Around what time did this occur?"

It takes her thirteen seconds to respond, "About ten in the morning."

I am positive that intrusion was me. I have to laugh; before Riis interrupted me, I was testing the Institute's network, which have been closely regulated by the Government since the Market incident three years ago. As a scientist, I cannot live in an unexplored environment; thus, I broke through the restrictions, aware that in the process I had momentarily burst through the Government's intranet. What I did not know was the effect it had caused - until now.

"Why are you laughing?" She asks me, her brows returning to an irritated arch.

"Because the Government isn't so invincible after all."

As I wait for her reaction, I see her pupils dilate. In fear, in recognition, in memory, I'm not sure, but her words are the only thing I know for certain when she says, "it never was."

Rarely do I find someone who agrees with me.

“Well, this has been a very informative conversation. I’ll be going now.” I turn around. I hear her rush after me as I briskly find my way back to the Government’s entrance.

“That was it?”

I glance at her bewildered face. “What were you expecting?”

With a slight falter in her step, she answers, “I’m not sure.”

“I have previous engagements. Maybe we can chat over a cup of tea in the future, and you can tell me all about what happened three years ago.”

“Wait.” She tugs on my jacket. Startled by her touch, I halt. “Back there … what did you mean by experiment?”

I smirk. “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

She releases my jacket and steps aside. “He wasn’t just any Exon.”

I take note of how she referred to the outlier and tightly smile. “I’m not your average scientist.” I wipe the spot on my jacket that she had touched. “Enjoy your position while you can, Emer. You’re going to be replaced by Exons soon.”

Disregarding her entirely, I head for the entrance, where my colleagues are waiting for me. Everyone looks peeved except for Riis.

“How was it?” He asks as he joins me in crossing over the gate.

I massage my jaw. Polite conversation is such a wary activity. “We have a long way to go.”

I do not join Riis and his group in visiting the Argent region but instead, return to my office, where I grab my journal before going to the production site. As usual, it’s a hubbub of mechanical activity. A couple of factory workers supervise the machines, but the production of microprocessors and appendages is seamless. The design of the assembly line is fluid and precise, thanks to the update I suggested last year.

“How is the production coming along?” I ask a worker nearby. “Any discrepancies?”

“None,” he answers. He picks up one of the completed microprocessors from a tray. “We haven’t placed these in the final product yet.”

“It should be fine, but let me take a look.”

He directs me to a crowd of 3rd Generation Exons. They are a magnificent league of computers and metals. Upon their featureless faces, I can see the distorted reflection of my own.

“Twenty were made this morning, and ten more will be made.”

“Stop after that batch,” I caution. “We’re waiting on the Government’s orders. We don’t want to pass our budget.”

“We’re stopping production after this,” he calls to his coworker, who raises his hand to show that he heard the announcement. He turns back to me and asks, “Is there anything else that needs to be done?”

“No. Go ahead and leave the microprocessors out until I tell you otherwise.”

“Yes sir.”

“Has anyone entered the vault today?”

“No sir.”

“Perfect.” I pat him on the shoulder. The affirmative action leaves a cold feeling in my chest. “Continue working.” Tucking my journal beneath my armpit, I start for the vault instead of the laboratory. Emer’s reactions give me reason to investigate the radical occurrence from three years ago. I have questions, and there can be no such thing as unanswered questions.

The path to the vault is long and grim. Since it is not used often, the Institute has not bothered to spend their revenue on renovating the lights in the hallways. I walk on a cement floor with hollow reverberations bouncing between the narrow walls. When I reach the white door, I place my palm on the scanner. Once it clicks, the screen introduces an additional security warning – a pin code tailored to match my handprint. I type the ten-digit code and wait.

Inaudibly, the door splits in two. As soon as I step inside, the doors shut behind me, almost snagging the tail end of my coat. I make a mental note to decrease the sensitivity of the doors, and then I take my glasses from my pocket and lay them onto the bridge of my nose.

The medium-sized room vividly comes into focus. Positioned against three of the four walls are six-feet tall glass tanks, each illuminated by a dim red light. Within the cylinder tanks are Exons that were retracted from the public due to their questionable activity. On the left wall are 1^st Generation Exons, many of which hold physical disfigurations. 2nd Generation Exons occupy the remaining tanks. They are arranged in the order they were published, from the first to the last. If their eyes were not closed, I would be disturbed by the legion of deactivated Exons that surround me; but since I am a scientist who aided in the development of nearly half of these creations, I face them proudly.

I peer at the face of the first 2^nd Generation Exon in line. Fully clothed in the garments every Exon wears upon being submitted to its owner, it stands inside its glass tank with an innocent and serene face. My gaze drifts to the plaque attached to the outside of its quarantined home.

2E – 1L – 20

“Tell me,” I greet. “How did you bewitch Emer?”