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Cynthia's Brain
Apr. 7th, 2024 04:58 pmFace and hands emerging like flame from a charcoal-colored cloak, Cynthia Broadmoore glided through gray drizzle which wouldn't quite commit to rain. Something inside longed to take control, throw off the cloak and let it soak her. Maybe while naked. She was having all kinds of odd thoughts today.
She'd touched down at PNE on her sister's private jet. Broadmoore supposed she'd have one of her own before long, but this was better, her arrival difficult to confirm. From the tarmac, a lacquered black casket of a sedan spirited her into the city. It was unfamiliar and she knew every street, every building.
Alighting blocks from her destination, the car's door cracked open and Broadmoore stood up and up like a cruise missile erected for launch. She continued on foot. The decrepitude of the neighborhood did not put her on guard; she had set up shop in nastier places. It felt desolate rather than hostile. Behind rain-blurred facades was business unencumbered by pretense.
The building was there. She ran mental fingers over security systems without penetrating, gauging their dimensions, their boundaries. Cameras had a funny habit of overlooking her, and they did so now, monitors giving way to discreet blank. The corridor inside was clean and antiquely institutional, office doors all alike... the one she wanted was at the far end. This felt unlucky to her. An obvious irrationality... she pushed it out of her mind and approached.
Liza Fong, the nameplate said. Cognitive Engineering.
She'd come to believe it was absurd to feel anxiety-- such was pointless, self-defeating --but here the emotion persisted. Do I not make a frustratingly convincing human? she thought. She sighed and compelled herself to pass the threshold.
( Read more... )
She'd touched down at PNE on her sister's private jet. Broadmoore supposed she'd have one of her own before long, but this was better, her arrival difficult to confirm. From the tarmac, a lacquered black casket of a sedan spirited her into the city. It was unfamiliar and she knew every street, every building.
Alighting blocks from her destination, the car's door cracked open and Broadmoore stood up and up like a cruise missile erected for launch. She continued on foot. The decrepitude of the neighborhood did not put her on guard; she had set up shop in nastier places. It felt desolate rather than hostile. Behind rain-blurred facades was business unencumbered by pretense.
The building was there. She ran mental fingers over security systems without penetrating, gauging their dimensions, their boundaries. Cameras had a funny habit of overlooking her, and they did so now, monitors giving way to discreet blank. The corridor inside was clean and antiquely institutional, office doors all alike... the one she wanted was at the far end. This felt unlucky to her. An obvious irrationality... she pushed it out of her mind and approached.
Liza Fong, the nameplate said. Cognitive Engineering.
She'd come to believe it was absurd to feel anxiety-- such was pointless, self-defeating --but here the emotion persisted. Do I not make a frustratingly convincing human? she thought. She sighed and compelled herself to pass the threshold.
( Read more... )
