Director Thorne Vorenus’s decision to procure a child was, like many of Aethelburg’s most significant corporate maneuvers, founded upon a particularly trivial input.
“My son completed a full sentence yesterday, Thorne!”
It was a single, unsolicited data packet from Director Elias Wren, Thorne’s singular acquaintance within the labyrinthine corporate hierarchy.
For two cycles, Director Wren, a man whose personal portfolio now included a second genetic offshoot, had employed every available communication channel to broadcast the perceived charm and optimal developmental progress of his offspring. Thorne often found it a curious inefficiency; Wren, despite the sheer volume of his paternal pronouncements, never seemed to deplete his vocal modulator’s power cells. Yet, such was the calibrated enthusiasm of Director Wren.
Elias Wren, CEO of Cogsworth & Sterling’s subsidiary ‘Harmony & Hearth Division,’ occupied a unique data stream within Thorne’s otherwise hermetically sealed network. If Thorne Vorenus was a smog-choked, towering processing plant, perpetually belching efficiency and intimidation, then Wren was a well-oiled, brightly lit production line, specializing in the manufacture of domestic contentment. Despite their fundamentally divergent operational parameters, their professional interfaces functioned with surprising compatibility.
“So, when are you commencing your own marital venture, Thorne?”
“I’ve always envisioned a cross-corporate familial merger with your division!”
Wren would frequently deliver monologues detailing the alleged profitability of marriage and the inherent charm of children. He spoke of infants’ “optimized lower chassis contours” and “robust appendage articulation,” and the reported exhilaration when his eldest daughter, Wrenna, would execute a high-speed approach upon his return from a demanding fiscal quarter. It wasn’t merely boasting at this juncture; it was an active evangelization campaign for a lifestyle product Thorne had no interest in acquiring.
Ordinarily, Thorne would have filtered these data streams directly to his archive’s spam folder. But for reasons his internal diagnostics could not immediately identify, on that specific cycle, Wren’s rhetoric bypasses the usual protocols. Perhaps, through sheer repetition, the data had been permanently etched into his cerebral hard drive.
“A paternal unit is truly a noble existence,” Wren declared, his vocalizer resonating with an uncharacteristic saccharine frequency.
Yet, the individual delivering this assertion hardly projected an aura of nobility. Wren’s upper lip stretched into a bio-feedback display so overtly sentimental it bordered on the aesthetically unappealing. Prior to his marital merger, he had exhibited a similar facial contortion when discussing his fiancée; now, it was reserved exclusively for the subject of his progeny.
“They exhibit truly adorable characteristics! Why do you resist this empirical data?!”
Thorne, without deigning to offer a verbal response, merely executed a dismissive scoff, silently advising Wren to recalibrate his visual sensors before transmitting such nonsensical projections. He then boarded his executive hover-limo, instructing the auto-pilot to initiate transit.
That cycle, the Aethelburg thoroughfares seemed unusually congested with family units. Everywhere Thorne looked, he observed parents and children engaged in what appeared to be unregulated public displays of familial bonding. They all projected… *satisfaction*. An unquantifiable metric, to be sure.
Could such an inefficient system truly yield a net positive?
Resting his head against the reinforced window of the hover-limo, Thorne closed his eyes, contemplating this inexplicable data anomaly.
“...So, that’s the entirety of your input for this procurement?” Rivet queried, her voice a low rumble of incredulity.
She, the subject of this highly irregular acquisition, was dumbfounded. Despite the abruptness of the adoption protocol, the executive hover-limo remained stationary before the dilapidated façade of the Youth Reclamation Facility Beta-7. Cylas, Thorne’s executive aide, was currently inside, facilitating the digital transfer of guardianship. Outside, Enforcers Malcom and Probert maintained a secure perimeter. In the interim, Thorne had elected to present his newest acquisition with the operational rationale behind her sudden relocation.
He had adopted a child… due to an anecdotal observation from an associate?
During her two cycles of existence within the facility’s substandard infrastructure, Rivet had observed numerous adult units arrive with the intent of child procurement, each possessing their own unique set of parameters. Some cited prolonged system failures in their own reproductive cycles. Others claimed an inherent appreciation for junior human models. A select few, volunteering for facility maintenance, had experienced a critical emotional overload, resulting in spontaneous adoption. Some even sought to fill a void left by the deactivation of their own offspring.
Regardless of their stated objectives, all had exhibited some form of quantifiable affection or demonstrable interest in the children.
“Your reasoning parameters are demonstrably flawed, you know,” Rivet stated, her tone a flat, unapologetic assessment. “You’re an idiot.” She had never encountered such a suboptimal justification for an adoption protocol. Rivet offered him an unvarnished sneer, her optical sensors narrowed to analytical slits.
“A remarkably unfiltered diagnostic feedback from my newly acquired progeny,” Thorne observed, a faint click emanating from his throat, a subtle indicator of non-displeasure. In fact, he found her bold, defiant operational parameters significantly more efficient than the typical malfunctioning units who merely shied away and initiated waterworks in his presence.
“Regardless, this aligns with your desired outcome, correct? Otherwise, you would not have actively interfered with the previous processing procedure.”
Rivet grudgingly conceded the point. She had selected this specific, high-tier corporate executive as an escape vector from the facility’s miserable operational environment. It had been nothing more than a calculated gamble. Unexpectedly, the probabilistic metrics had favored her. Even so, her internal sensor array continued to register subtle anomalies, preventing a state of complete ease.
Gazing at the crumbling concrete and rusted steel of the facility building, Rivet spoke. Just then, Cylas emerged from the entrance, trailed by the Facility Manager, whose groveling posture bespoke a severe degradation of self-preservation protocols. Rivet’s round eyes narrowed further.
“...I have a request, sir.”
The Facility Manager’s biometric readings spiked, indicating acute distress. The other Supervisors, visible through the grimy windows, were in no better operational state.
“The Facility Manager and the Supervisors here are siphoning corporate credits.”
“A predictable operational oversight, as I suspected,” Thorne acknowledged, his voice devoid of surprise.
“They also neglected maintenance protocols, resulting in systemic abuse. And recently, they’ve initiated contact with a data scavenger, Vex.”
Thorne, who had been observing her tattered, grease-stained sleeves with a professional distaste, suddenly ceased all minor motor functions.
“...Do you comprehend the operational parameters of a ‘data scavenger’ in this context?”
“Of course I do! They traffic human data-slaves to fringe enterprises or sell them into unregulated labor contracts within the lower levels,” Rivet retorted, her teeth clenching with a metallic scrape. “They were planning to sell one of the older girls to him.”
“So, the directive is to initiate corrective action against them?” Thorne queried, his tone flat.
Rivet swiftly calibrated her response.
“Excluding Tech-Apprentice Cora. She was the sole personnel unit who maintained an acceptable standard of care.”
“The individual with the brown hair and a visible digit injury. Is that your assessment?” Thorne’s observation was precise.
Rivet’s eyes widened slightly. “How did you acquire that data?” she asked, a rare flicker of admiration in her gaze.
Thorne paid no mind to her momentary, wide-eyed data-intake. The way she stared at him registered a faint, almost imperceptible internal tremor, akin to a loose filament vibrating within his power conduit.
“She was the only one registering genuine concern for your cohort,” Thorne stated. Unlike the Facility Manager and other Supervisors, who either exhibited subservient groveling or cautious surveillance, Cora had maintained a constant, vigilant watch on the approaching executive. Each time a child unit had initiated a full-system cry, she had transmitted diagnostic looks saturated with resentment directly at him.
She was the sole operational unit in that entire facility truly concerned with the welfare of the children.
“When the Facility Manager entered his ethanol-induced maintenance phase, he frequently administered blunt force trauma.”
Thorne’s gaze dropped to Rivet’s arm, where a faint bruise, a faded purple anomaly, peeked from beneath her short, grimy sleeve.
“Was that trauma inflicted by him?”
“Negative. That was from another Supervisor,” Rivet replied, subtly adjusting her sleeve to obscure the discoloration. “The impact points administered by the Facility Manager are concentrated on my dorsal plating.” She relayed this information with the casual precision of someone performing a routine system check, as if brushing off accumulated dust from her chassis.
Rivet then proceeded to present Thorne with a comprehensive trauma log, detailing every instance of systemic cruelty and neglect she had endured within the facility.
As Thorne listened in silence, his dark red optical sensors sharpened, their intensity increasing by several lumens.
“Should I initiate terminal system shutdown?” Thorne inquired, his tone completely devoid of hesitation.
But Rivet shook her head decisively.
“Initiate extended system degradation protocols until their processors beg for permanent shutdown.” Her black eyes, deep and reflective, glistened like fresh lubricant on polished chrome.
Thorne stared at them intently, observing their peculiar sparkle, like scattered gold dust on a salvage yard floor. *Is this unit truly a child?* The first comparative data point that surfaced in his internal database was Wrenna, Director Wren’s eldest daughter. The compact female unit, resembling a small, red fox in its quick, darting movements, had possessed the necessary internal fortitude to meet Thorne Vorenus’s gaze without initiating a single tear. If his memory files were accurate, Wrenna, Director Wren’s primary genetic output, was six cycles old this year. Rivet, however, appeared even smaller.
Even factoring in the suboptimal nutritional and environmental conditions of the facility, she was far too lean. At initial visual assessment, she registered no older than five. Yet, in stark contrast, her speech patterns and operational vocabulary were demonstrably more mature than that of typical child units her age. Lexicon such as ‘siphoning corporate credits’ and ‘extended system degradation protocols’ were not standard data inputs for a child so young.
At that precise moment, Cylas returned with the digital transfer manifest. Thorne, without expending any unnecessary commendation, simply gestured with a precise twitch of his digits for the documents to be handed over. The data contained Rivet’s personal identification metrics.
“You are remaining here,” Thorne stated to Cylas.
Just as Cylas had finally initiated a momentary relaxation subroutine, anticipating a return to the executive tower for much-needed processing, the directive struck him as a devastating system error. Rivet registered his despair with a flicker of distant pity, but Thorne remained indifferent. He appeared entirely unconcerned with Cylas’s internal operational status.
“This facility is operating under critically unsanitary conditions. You will initiate an immediate environmental remediation protocol.”
Cylas’s vocalizer opened and closed several times without producing coherent sound, then his shoulders sagged, his posture indicating a critical system failure. His complexion turned pale, the color of depleted coolant fluid. “Ensure a thorough deep-cycle cleaning. Do not permit a single particle of extraneous matter to remain.”
Rivet offered Cylas an enthusiastic, if slightly menacing, cheer.
“While you’re cleaning, you should reconfigure their limb articulations! Implement a dorsal impact sequence with a reinforced power cable! Submerge their primary sensory inputs in industrial solvent! Shake them until every last micro-particle of malfeasance detaches! Ensure their operational recovery is permanently compromised.”
Cylas’s face turned a shade of corporate blue, matching the trim on his uniform. Thorne, on the other hand, registered a distinct increase in his satisfaction metrics, appreciative of her fiery, if mechanically explicit, spirit.
“Oh, but implement an exclusionary protocol for Tech-Apprentice Cora! She was beneficial to our operational welfare.” Rivet then added, with a final, helpful byte of data, “The evidence of siphoned corporate credits is located behind a loose panel in the server rack, within the biometric safe!”
The executive hover-limo began its ascent. Cylas, along with Enforcers Malcom and Probert, who had been assigned to remain, stood silently, observing the vehicle shrink into the smog-choked Aethelburg skyline. Rivet kept her head craned out the window, executing a repetitive waving motion until the dilapidated facility was completely out of her visual range.
“...Your Grace, she isn’t actually an undocumented genetic offshoot of yours, is she?” Enforcer Malcom inquired hesitantly. Had Director Vorenus scoured the lower-level facilities so thoroughly in search of a hidden biological connection? Such was the unsettling impact of Rivet’s presence. Furthermore, she exhibited the same dark hair and black optical sensors as Thorne himself.
“You are transmitting a highly improbable speculative query with an entirely neutral expression,” Enforcer Probert interjected, his comms voice aligning with his comrade’s sentiment.
Cylas appeared to be operating at critical exhaustion levels. The Enforcers registered a flicker of pity for his impending task.
“We should initiate the remediation.”
If they desired an expedited return to the executive tower for critical rest and processing, they first needed to execute Thorne Vorenus’s command—to ‘clean up.’ Cylas’s eyes sharpened, a renewed, if grim, determination flickering within them. There was a mountain of systemic filth to eradicate. The clock on their operational downtime had begun its relentless count.
***
Two cycles after