"Mister Doe, I cannot make it any clearer. Behaviour like yours is not at all appropriate for an academic institution such as this. It is shocking. Not only does it risk your expulsion the college, but it brings great shame upon your sponsor."
"Sir, either you are incredibly ill-prepared, or you are not quite saying what you mean. You and I both know who my sponsors are, and I am sure you understand by now that I do not exactly love them with all of my cold, black heart. You know as well as I do that I am a convicted multiple murderer. You must have seen my physical examination results. I did not exactly attempt to hide the barcode. I am sure you have also seen the personal effects I left at the entrance. I do not know why you and they wish me to be here, but I have no alternative."
The office was panelled with fake wood. The desk was real though. Very well preserved too. Clocks everywhere, analogue, and not a digital screen anywhere. This was the office of someone who wished to present an aura of timelessness, history and respectability.
An office, in short, for show, not practice. Phoenix wondered what the point of this interview was supposed to be.
"Yes, Mister Doe, I was attempting to avoid the more unsavoury aspects of your character. You are hereby officially warned. Any further breaches of the college charter, and you are out. You may leave."
Phoenix stood, and stretched lazily. It was all bluff, he was 94.823% certain. There was no way this puffed up little man would rebuff the Directorate, no matter how many exec's sons he knocked out or how many guards he threatened.
He turned to leave.
"Oh, John, those knives you smuggled in. I will of course be retaining them."
Phoenix left.
* * *
[See the second half of
http://www.writingforums.com/viewtop...173540#173540]
* * *
Morning. Phoenix is awake before the sun rises.
The college gym is pitifully ill-equipped. There is no firing range. It doesn't take long for calisthenics to become boring.
One foot after the other, he wanders the corridors, exploring his new home. They're empty at this hour, and, despite the faux-wood veneer, their complexity reminds him of the bare metal labyrith of his old haunt far below.
Eventually, others start to leave their rooms. Their presence reminds Phoenix that he has not killed anyone in over twenty-four hours. It feels a little odd, really.
And, to think, six months ago, he'd never consciously taken a life.
He watches his fellows as a hawk watches mice. Studies their movements, their expressions, their eyes. They aren't a threat, to him, of course, not immediately. But, equally certainly, in a few years, they will become execs, or, worse, R&D labrats, and then, they will be a threat.
Still, now, they're innocents, more or less. Teenagers, twenty-somethings. Physically mature, but inside, still children. And, Phoenix reflects, at 18, he's probably younger than most of them.
But his world is weapons, destruction, and violence. His friends are or were wire-junkies, street scrappers, tribals and outcasts. Their friends are each other, the pampered offspring of the ruling class.
After a while, their faces blur into one, a smiling, happy beautiful caricature. Somewhere deep inside him, he wants to punch it, kick it, destroy it. In a more rational part of his conflicted mind, he observes his own feelings; so this is what angst and alienation feels like.
Truth is, though, he can't help but sympathise for them. Trendy, cafe-going, trend-following, whatever. Six months ago, he was probably worse. He tries not to remember the life he led under his old name.
John Doe waves his wrist past the chip-reader by the door, and walks into his first class as an undergraduate. He knows what the name used to mean, of course. Seems like whichever Directorate operator decided to create him a new identity had a good memory and a bad sense of humour.
He swears that one day he'll tear the chip out of his wrist. John Doe is only an alias.
Coming here is only part of the deal. It's a means, not an end. He's here to learn about himself, and if the only way they'll let him plumb the depths of his own nature is through taking lessons that amount to nothing more than economic indoctrination, he'll that's the cost he will pay.
He slaves one core directly to incoming audio and visual. Gives it interrupt and over-ride control over speech. And, then, with eleven, he tries to comprehend eight.
The rest of the morning goes by in fifty-minute hours. Phoenix doesn't really notice, or care. The 'ware in his head hadles any questions he might be ask, and automatically records any pertinent information.
Four classes on and Phoenix has barely began to comprehend how he is still alive. A quick scan of core one's cache shows him that his own morning inside his head was both far more educational and far more interesting than the presentations.
As he eats his first meal of the day, he reflects once again on how much his situation in life has changed in a week. Even immersed in thought, he recognises the four approaching his table.
For the first time today, college is looking interesting. Phoenix glances around, taking in the exits, security cameras and people.
They sit down around him.
He smiles. Even if their faces weren't imprinted in his almost flawless memory, the medical 'ware strapped to them was a dead giveaway.
"Hello gentlemen. I see that you have friends today. Three groups, two of four, one of three. Perhaps that makes you feel confident. Perhaps you have some desire for revenge. What you think doesn't matter to me. If, however, you as much as touch me, I will break you. And your friends."
Their body-language is simple to read. As their eyes flicker from one to the other, their expressions change from hard resolve to fear and back again. Their shoulders hunch slightly, with one exception. Phoenix remembers that one well.
Action, reaction. They expected to be dominating and threatening. Phoenix could see it in their step. His words took control of the situation. And, now, they aren't sure what to do, and all turn to one for advice. Phoenix checks the nets, and smiles. Not a common thing, here. A Director's son. Generally, they're even too elite for a college like this. No wonder he picked up followers easily.
Phoenix's observations and deductions take less than a second. He presses home the advantage.
"Who was the young lady you were talking to yesterday afternoon? You seemed quite upset with her."
More confusion.
Phoenix slows down his eyes. He turns from one to the other, slowly, fixing each with a penetrating stare. He reflects on how luck it was that they chose to sit down. The game he's playing doesn't work so well when there is a clear difference in height.
Number One - Phoenix knows his name, but doesn't really care about that sort of irrelevancy - speaks.
"You attacked me yesterday. I don't know what you were doing defending downtown scum like that. Whatever you were thinking, you were wrong, and you put your nose where it didn't belong."
Phoenix senses the beginings of a monologue.
He bites a mouthful of his food. That's all it is to him, even here. Slowly, he chews.
The words roll on.
Phoenix smiles. His foot shoots out beneath the table, toes pointed. Bone cracks.
A gasp. Sudden silence. Pain flashes across the sculpted face.
Phoenix watches as the three others look bewildered, trying to understand their friend's sudden quiet.
Phoenix is impressed, in a strange sort of way.
The college guards walk past the table. Phoenix stands up and walks away. He watches their outriders moving towards him, seeing the nearby guards and realising the futility.
Out of the commons, back into the familiarity of the corridors.
Inside, a heated argument breaks out. No one believes that he has a broken leg, until he tries to stand and falls over.
No cameras under the table, of course.
