03-14-2017, 03:41 PM
“Log #7465. Classification level: Secret. Date and Time; available in the timestamp at the beginning of the log. Operator: Doctor Amanda Rivera.” a female listed into some kind of a voice recorder within an overseeing room of sorts. Taking a sip off of her coffee, she glanced at the dozens of monitors littered the walls around her, showing different camera feeds of a room somewhere else.
The feeds displayed a very bland room with its dull reinforced durasteel walls and lack of furniture. The room was boring in all senses of the word, designed to have absolutely nothing aside the necessary. The walls littered by dull, colourless robotic arms built to serve their purpose and nothing more. In the middle of the room sat an operating table lathered with multiple braces for tying down the unfortunate victim given into their caress. The tech in the room might have been the best they had, but it didn’t look the part.
The cameras zoomed in upon the captive; an attractive blonde woman in her early twenties dressed in a very basic medical gown. Her head lolling to the side, she was unconscious, maybe dead. Around her, the room bloomed to life as the servos whirred and engines buzzed, pulling the arms as the concealed operator commanded.
“Initiating memory wipe protocol 3475.” the woman spoke into the microphone, her voice stable and calm, as if logging to such a machine was a daily procedure. “Following the wipe, the patient shall have the standard forty eight hour resting period. After expiration, the patient will be reprogrammed using the standard protocol 8361 and its associated reprogramming methods.”
Within the confines of the operation room, the robotic arms placed a mask upon the woman, before another came along, jabbing her with a painfully sized needle into her arm. Jerking as whatever within entered her bloodstream, the patient trashed against her bonds to the best of her ability, the skin of her wrists bruising against the rough cuffs. Of course, despite her best attempts, the cuffs were more than enough to hold her down in whatever drug-hazed state she might have been in. Slowly, the resistance was quelled and the patient fell lifeless once more.
“Resistance as expected, subdued. Standard memory wipe 3475 taking place over the next twelve hours.” the proclaimed doctor narrated, before sipping her coffee once more.
Meanwhile, a dreadfully sour text blinked upon the monitor.
Subject incompatible with memory wipe techniques. Terminating program.
Upon taking notice of it, the poor woman spat her coffee all over the control interface, as her hand sought out the transmission button and cut it, initiating a call outside. “Get the patient into a cell. The system claims she’s incompatible! We need more time for research.”
Once Colonel Sturgill heard of this, Copeland would be in trouble.
The feeds displayed a very bland room with its dull reinforced durasteel walls and lack of furniture. The room was boring in all senses of the word, designed to have absolutely nothing aside the necessary. The walls littered by dull, colourless robotic arms built to serve their purpose and nothing more. In the middle of the room sat an operating table lathered with multiple braces for tying down the unfortunate victim given into their caress. The tech in the room might have been the best they had, but it didn’t look the part.
The cameras zoomed in upon the captive; an attractive blonde woman in her early twenties dressed in a very basic medical gown. Her head lolling to the side, she was unconscious, maybe dead. Around her, the room bloomed to life as the servos whirred and engines buzzed, pulling the arms as the concealed operator commanded.
“Initiating memory wipe protocol 3475.” the woman spoke into the microphone, her voice stable and calm, as if logging to such a machine was a daily procedure. “Following the wipe, the patient shall have the standard forty eight hour resting period. After expiration, the patient will be reprogrammed using the standard protocol 8361 and its associated reprogramming methods.”
Within the confines of the operation room, the robotic arms placed a mask upon the woman, before another came along, jabbing her with a painfully sized needle into her arm. Jerking as whatever within entered her bloodstream, the patient trashed against her bonds to the best of her ability, the skin of her wrists bruising against the rough cuffs. Of course, despite her best attempts, the cuffs were more than enough to hold her down in whatever drug-hazed state she might have been in. Slowly, the resistance was quelled and the patient fell lifeless once more.
“Resistance as expected, subdued. Standard memory wipe 3475 taking place over the next twelve hours.” the proclaimed doctor narrated, before sipping her coffee once more.
Meanwhile, a dreadfully sour text blinked upon the monitor.
Subject incompatible with memory wipe techniques. Terminating program.
Upon taking notice of it, the poor woman spat her coffee all over the control interface, as her hand sought out the transmission button and cut it, initiating a call outside. “Get the patient into a cell. The system claims she’s incompatible! We need more time for research.”
Once Colonel Sturgill heard of this, Copeland would be in trouble.
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