I'm back!! Here's a semi-long chapter to make up for my months of absence. Missed you guys a lot. It's good to be here.

When the morning comes, the shrill beating of the clock above my head wakes me. I reach up and wave my hand in front of the sensor to turn off the alarm. Seconds after, the AI recites my to-do list for the day.

The time is 6am. First log: Class in the East Wing at 8am. Second log: Second class in the East Wing at 9:15am. Third log: Weekly meeting in the science wing at 10am.

The monotone voice drones on. Once it reaches its eleventh log, I say, “Give me the last log.”

Sixteenth log: Dinner with guest at 7pm. Appointment pending.

I sit up in bed, wary to engage the AI properly. I don’t remember creating this reminder. “Give me the details.”

Submitted yesterday at 11:12pm.

I was asleep by then. Searching for ways to unravel the Exon’s past had worn me out. It continues, Log request was sent by Riis in the marketing wing. Message attached.

“Play message.”

“Hello Lay,” Riis’s voice bursts into the room. I groan and retrieve my glasses from my bedside table. After cleaning the lenses with the hem of my shirt, I place the frames on my nose. “I tried to visit you, but it seems you’ve retired for the night. I wanted to tell you that you’ve been invited to a formal dinner tomorrow evening with the lead representatives from each department as well as our very precious guest. She’s the Argent, if you remember. She will be visiting us over the course of three months to investigate our business. The head of the science wing will be absent, so he asked me to extend the invitation to you. It is entirely optional, although I do hope you choose to attend. It will be a great time to meet before this inspection officially takes place. Let me know as soon as you get this, so that we can prepare accordingly. Thank you.”

There is a click, and the AI concludes, Message ended. Saved to file.

I just met this man yesterday, and yet he’s already meddling with my schedule. Upon first consideration, I want to deny the invitation since I would much rather visit the vault than attend a boring dinner; but when I consider the dead ends I had come across the other day (as well as the prospect of a promotion), I reason that talking to the girl who intimately knew the Exon might benefit my research.

“Confirm appointment,” I reply.

Appointment confirmed. Sixteen logs in total. The time is 6:12am.

After showering and eating breakfast, I walk into my office in the adjoining room and open my leather bound journal. My fingers skim over the bas-relief design on the back. As I wait for my first activity of the day, I write down project ideas I could assign to my class. Unfortunately, that girl’s name slips into my conscience, and soon my pen draws the letters I never thought would escape my fingers without a prepositional description attached.

Emer.

I shut the book. I will unravel this woman’s secrets, and I will find my answers. I can’t allow my brain to dwell on undiscovered premonitions for too long. I risk wasting my intelligence.

Donning my coat, I grab a folder and resume my role as a professor. The morning passes quickly, as it always does when the things I discuss are as easy to explain as the periodic table of elements. I come upon only one wrinkle, and it is my most candid student. She sits in the back row, underneath a shelf that paints a shadow on her face. She is expressionless save for the times when I voice a question to the classroom; even then, she only cares to respond with an amused smirk. She reminds me of myself when I was a student. I also thought I knew everything - no, I did know everything.

She stops me on my way to the weekly meeting. “Professor. I heard about what happened at the Government. That you called them monsters.”

“What about it?”

Unlike the other students, who are always disheartened by the way I speak, she responds, “I applaud you.”

“So do many others.”

“It’s true. They’re monsters. They call us the problem, but they’re the reason these problems aren’t being resolved. Isn’t that what monsters are? People who blame other people for the trouble they’ve caused?”

She has piqued my interest enough for me to risk my being prompt at the meeting. I close the classroom door. “What do you want?”

“I want you to show me how you devise the pills.”

“You’re asking for a secret.”

“Professor,” she prods. “Do you want to become a monster, as well?”

Not a single student in my class has the gall to confront me in such a manner. I’m impressed. “Remind me your name.”

“Rye,” she answers. “And I’m free after 2pm every day except Fridays.”

Behind her abysmal eyes is an eagerness as bright as her brilliant mind. As her teacher, it is my responsibility to show her that the world is filled with more monsters than she realizes. In fact, there’s one in every single one of us.

“Come to my office next Thursday. Remind me.”

When I arrive at the meeting six minutes late, the other professors stare at me as if it were a rarity. Each time, they exercise an attitude of disappointment, as if it were not my intention to be the last one present. Although I find their reactions entertaining, it is upsetting at times, especially since I was actually trying to be punctual today.

“Well, we’re going to start the meeting,” one of the professors says. “Lay, do you want to start?”

And as always, I know exactly what to say.

The day drifts on in a boring seam of appointments. When I return to my office for a quick nap before visiting the vault again, the AI interjects with its reminder.

Four minutes until formal dinner with Institute Representatives and Argent.

I’ll be late, but there’s no helping it. It takes seven minutes to walk from my office to the dinner location.

A 3^rd Generation Exon greets me when I arrive. Riis and the others say nothing. I stare at Emer, who is wearing a white monochromatic ensemble and serves as a cheerful contrast to our metallic environment. An entirely white outfit was the uniform worn by our 2^nd Gen Exons whenever we delivered them. I assume she mimics their attire because she knows that.

“Good evening,” I tell her. “You look pale.”

Riis clears his throat before she can stutter a response. “Now that everyone has arrived, we wanted to cordially greet you, Emer.” He urbanely gestures to each person in the room. “I’m Riis, the marketing representative. This is Naya, our finance representative. This is Dian, our production representative. And this is Lay, who is subbing in for our science representative.” He pauses. “I think you’ve already met Lay.”

“Yes,” she replies. She still cannot decide whether she is insulted or astonished by my earlier comment.

“I’m sorry the head of the Institute couldn’t make it,” Naya says. I haven’t seen her since the last quarterly meeting. I forgot how annoying her silver eyelashes were. “I wish he could have met you.”

“He’s quite an evasive character, isn’t he?” Emer questions. “Or at least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“He is,” Dian agrees. I find him tolerable despite his ostentatiously large frame. “None of us have even met him.”

A short silence falls, which Riis tries hard to salvage. “We’d like to take you on a quick tour after dinner. One of our 3^rd Gen will accompany us.”

"The 3rd Gen?" Emer asks.

"Yes!" Riis replies eagerly. "They're splendid, and nothing like you have ever seen before. All departments worked together on this new generation. The science wing changed the way it functions. The production wing altered its design. And the finance wing kept it all within budget.”

"What about your wing?"

"What’s that?"

"You didn’t mention the marketing wing."

Riis smiles sheepishly. "We were just credited for getting the word out there."

“Feel free to eat,” Naya encourages her. “If you don't stuff yourself with food, he won’t stop talking.”

I watch Emer calculate each representative. She seems to think her observations are subtle, but she is inexperienced in the art of investigation. Why the Government chose her for a purpose other than to satisfy their craving for humor, I cannot fathom.

”Shall we get going?” Riis asks when dinner is finished. Emer rapidly follows him while Naya, Dian and myself trail behind. Naya and Dian, who have a history of frivolously expressing their romantic interests, are more engrossed in how often they can flirt with each other than in impressing our guest.

“You are currently in the East Wing,” The 3^rd Gen Exon guides us. “This is where the lecture halls are located. Here we have several offices and conference rooms. Up ahead are the living quarters for students and guests.”

“Do you live here as well?” Emer asks the representatives.

“Oh, no,” Naya replies, momentarily ungluing herself from Dian. “Those of us particular to a department – finance for myself, for example – live in the West Wing, where our departments are located. It’s far more convenient.”

“The West Wing is where the finance and marketing departments reside,” The Exon continues on the same tangent. “The South Wing contains the science department, and the North Wing contains the production site. It houses some of the Institute’s more popular devices, such as the Grinder.”

Emer cringes at this. “May I ask a question?” She turns to Dian. “Now that you’ve created these 3^rd Gen Exons, what do you do with the older editions?”

“Recycle them.”

“All of them?”

He smiles gelidly. “All of them.”

“Not a single one is saved? Even for history’s sake?”

“The Institute is not made up of sentimental people. If we were, we wouldn’t be here.”

The Exon optimistically announces, “We are now entering the living quarters.”

“I think we’ll stop here,” Riis says. “Emer, you will have many chances to look around during your stay here. We’ve already had the Exons bring your things to your room.” He points to a closed door with the numbers ‘2120’ blinking on the scanner. “Only your handprint can open it, so you don’t have to worry about anyone coming in and out.”

“I wasn’t – “

“No need to lie,” I say. “Our sectors dislike each other. Let’s not pretend as if you didn’t have privacy concerns.”

“I do have my concerns,” She argues. “As do you. Is it possible for you to treat me civilly while I’m here?”

“I’m concerned for you, though.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not sure you can exemplify what you ask from us.”

“I certainly can – “

“No,” I shake my head. “After three months have passed, you won’t know what ‘civil’ means anymore. When you live surrounded by people bent on success and machines who encourage that, ‘civil’ does not exist. Only survival. And survival can make even the kindest person cruel.”

“That won’t happen to me.”

“Tell me that when you next see the Government and have nothing to report. Tell me that when you’re desperate for information. Tell me that when your life is compromised.”

“We’ll get going,” Riis says. Although his voice is calm, his gaze is furious. “I hope you have a good night, Emer.”

“Thank you.” By the way she lingers I know she wants to say something. Instead, she places her hand on the scanner. Riis waits for her to close the door before roughly grabbing me by the arm.

“We need to talk.”