Maxwell
Maxwell exited the observation room, his crimson suit stark against the cold sterility of the laboratory corridors. His footsteps, deliberate and sharp, echoed faintly as he approached a group of scientists clustered near a terminal. The group parted slightly as he arrived, their hushed conversation halting. Amo, Maxwell’s personal assistant and monitor, trailed behind him, his movements silent, his expression as neutral as ever behind his round-narrow gray eyes.
Although the inmates called him Amo, the lab officials referred to him as “Koma.” The name suited him in some way, Maxwell thought. The boy had a preternatural calm about him, his expression permanently neutral, his movements efficient and measured, much like Maxwell, whom he shadowed at all times of the day.
One of the scientists, a woman with steel-gray hair pulled into a tight bun, stepped forward. Her lab coat bore the insignia of the ZerdinTech research division. “Doctor Baxter,” she greeted, her tone clipped but respectful. “We’ve compiled the initial data on Patient DM-693.”
Maxwell’s pale gaze slid to the monitor she gestured to. “And?”
The woman hesitated, her eyes flicking to the others before continuing. “Her vitals are within acceptable ranges, though the psyche scans show significant volatility. Early compatibility tests indicate a high probability of rejection if further adjustments aren’t made.”
Maxwell’s lips quirked into a faint, almost predatory smile. “Rejection is merely nature sorting the weak from the strong. Let her resist. If she survives, she’ll be all the better for it.”
One of the younger scientists, a man with wide-rimmed glasses and an air of nervous energy, shifted uncomfortably. “But her psychological state—”
“Is irrelevant,” Maxwell interrupted, his tone as sharp as the scalpel-like precision of his thoughts. “You’re analyzing her as though she’s human. That’s where your perspective fails. She is no longer merely human. None of them are. They’re vessels, conduits for progress.”
Amo stepped forward slightly, his black eyes flicking to the data displayed on the terminal. “Her designation as a gold-tier intake. It’s unusual.”
Maxwell glanced at him, his interest piqued. “Indeed it is. Tell me, what do you make of that, Amo?”
The boy tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. “Gold-tier implies significant backing or influence. But the circumstances surrounding her intake are… inconsistent. Her background doesn’t align with standard parameters.”
“Precisely,” Maxwell murmured, his tone tinged with satisfaction. “Sydney H. Clarke. Daughter of Jonathan H. Clarke. A name that carries weight, even here. And yet, there are irregularities.”
He turned back to the group, his pale features illuminated by the glow of the monitors. “She was convicted of altering critical ZerdinTech files. A crime with implications far beyond the scope of her age or supposed inexperience. Either she is far more capable than she appears, or…” His gaze sharpened. “She’s a pawn in someone else’s game.”
The gray-haired scientist frowned. “You believe her placement here is intentional? Manipulated?”
Maxwell’s smile returned, cold and calculated. “This facility thrives on manipulation. Nothing is accidental within Ashgate’s walls.”
The younger scientist cleared his throat, his unease palpable. “But her condition… the beating she received before intake… Should we prioritize her stabilization?”
Maxwell’s expression hardened, his eyes gleaming with an almost unsettling intensity. “Stabilization is secondary. She has already proven herself durable, surviving both the fight and the initial phases of preparation. What matters now is whether her resilience can be harnessed.”
Amo’s voice cut through the tension, soft but firm. “And if it can’t?”
Maxwell turned to him, his smile returning, though it was devoid of warmth. “Then we’ll learn something valuable in her failure. Either way, progress will be made.”
He straightened, his crimson suit catching the light as he gestured toward the corridor leading to Sydney’s holding room. “Prepare the next phase. I’ll observe directly.”
As Maxwell strode away, the scientists exchanged uneasy glances, their whispers filling the space he left behind. Amo lingered for a moment, his expression as inscrutable as ever, before following Maxwell, his footsteps nearly silent against the polished floor.
Maxwell and Amo stood at the edge of a wide observation window overlooking Sydney’s preparation chamber. The dim light of the corridor cast their silhouettes sharply against the polished glass. Amo’s black eyes reflected the faint glow of the monitors, his expression as blank and unreadable as always. Beside him, Maxwell’s pale, sharp features were set in a contemplative frown.
The door to Sydney’s chamber slid open with a soft hiss, and a team of four entered, dressed head-to-toe in biohazard suits. Their movements were deliberate and practiced, the faint rustle of their protective gear audible even through the thick glass. One carried a metal case, the others pushing a cart with an array of surgical tools and vials.
“An unconventional intake,” Amo said finally, his tone devoid of inflection. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, his posture as perfect and mechanical as his voice. “Gold-tier, no prior enhancement, but exceptional compatibility ratings. Rare.”
Maxwell didn’t look at him, his focus remaining on the scene below. “Rare doesn’t begin to describe it. Cases like hers come with implications. Someone powerful placed her here, and someone else approved it.”
Amo tilted his head slightly. “Do you trust the ratings, Doctor Baxter?”
Maxwell’s lips twitched in a faint smirk. “I don’t trust anything, Amo. But I trust in opportunity, and she represents exactly that.”
The conversation lapsed into silence as one of the suited figures uncapped a syringe, its needle glinting under the sterile light. The liquid inside was an unnatural whitish green, almost luminous, like an alien phosphorescence trapped in a vial. The figure approached Sydney, whose restrained body jolted weakly as the needle pierced the vein in her arm. Within seconds, her thrashing slowed, her limbs going limp as her breathing grew shallow and uneven.
“She’s responding well to the sedative,” Amo noted, his gaze tracking the monitors displaying her vitals. “No immediate signs of rejection.”
Maxwell hummed thoughtfully. “Good. She’ll need to be as pliable as possible. The shin will resist anything less.”
Amo turned his unblinking gaze to Maxwell. “They have chosen a Diaotic entity. Why not something simpler for her first splicing? Why risk a shinmanaokimagi alignment from the start?”
Maxwell finally glanced at him, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his crimson eyes. “Because simplicity yields mediocrity. The shinmanaokimagi are notoriously difficult to anchor, but their potential is unmatched. It’s a protective barrier around the host’s soul, granting resilience most can only dream of. If she survives, she’ll be formidable.”
“Formidable,” Amo echoed, as if tasting the word. “And if she doesn’t?”
“Then she will serve as an excellent study in failure,” Maxwell replied, his tone almost dismissive.
The suited figures began their work, meticulously unfastening Sydney’s restraints. Her drowsy, unfocused eyes fluttered open briefly, but her body was too heavy, too lethargic to resist. The figures moved with precision, stripping away the remnants of her prison uniform and discarding it onto the sterile floor. They proceeded to scrub her skin with harsh brushes and a pungent chemical solution that caused her skin to redden under their relentless movements.
Sydney whimpered softly, the sound muffled but audible through the observation room’s speakers. Maxwell didn’t flinch; his attention remained clinical, detached. Amo’s gaze lingered on the scene for a moment before he turned back to the monitors.
“Bolakuar entities are known for their… temperamental nature,” Amo said, his voice a measured monotone. “Merging with one often destabilizes the host’s psyche. Many Diaotics succumb to madness.”
Maxwell’s smile was razor-thin. “Madness is merely the human condition taken to its extremes, Amo. If she survives, she’ll adapt. If not, she wasn’t worth the investment.”
The scrubbing continued, the suited figures ensuring every inch of Sydney’s skin was cleansed. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her eyes fluttering closed again as the sedative pulled her deeper into its grip. The figures showed no sign of discomfort or hesitation, their movements programed in their efficiency.
“What interests me most,” Maxwell mused, “is the shin’s nature. This particular entity, hailing from the fifth vein of the Kinescale Dimension, exhibits traits of cerebral augmentation. Enhanced perception, mental manipulation, even precognitive bursts. If the fusion succeeds, she’ll could become a very helpful asset.”
Amo nodded slowly, his expression unchanged. “High risk, high reward.”
“Precisely,” Maxwell said, his gaze narrowing. “And I am not in the business of low stakes.”
The suited figures finished their work, rinsing Sydney’s reddened skin with a hose that sent rivulets of water pooling on the floor. They stepped back, their task complete, and resecured her onto the gurney. Her body was limp, her consciousness flickering like a dying flame. The figures wheeled her out of the preparation chamber, leaving the space sanitized and empty once more.
“She’s ready for the splicing chamber,” Amo said, his tone as even as ever.
Maxwell straightened, his crimson eyes gleaming. “Then let us see what becomes of Sydney H. Clarke. She ascends, or she burns.”