Settling in

[vile]

Neon green text in on a plain black backdrop. So retro. Such memories.

SPECIES=CAT
BEHAVIOR=DOMESTICATED (LAP)
PERSONALITY=NETURAL

Each main descriptor has its own tree to allow complete personalization. Under Advanced is a section for user-created code.

A slow rhythm pulses in the background and is reminiscent of ambient almost sci-fi in flavor. Every now and then there are voices but they only add to the mood instead of overwhelm. It aids in focus and promotes relaxation which is needed by the man listening in.

The room has sparse decoration. Hints suggest that it is something more than a temporary hotel room to the current occupant. Strewn around the open laptop are pieces of a project in mid-completion. Shiny bits of metal, a polished steel case with curves mimicking an organic body, lengths of wire and baubles. Cheap paper to-go coffee cups form a stack on one of the two chairs. Empty wrappers and a plain white styrofoam box overflow from a small trash bin. In the bedroom is an empty piece of luggage and ball of plastic bags leftover from a shopping trip. The place has the chemical smell of a freshly cleaned hotel room but it has notes of change. It begins to look, feel, and touch on the senses that life occupies it.

A man paces from one end of the kitchenette to the other past a fridge with a black and white MRI image on. Repeat several times but at different speeds. In one hand is a note pad and the other a pen in use more to tap the notepad than write. Instead of progress he continually flips through pages. Back two, forward one. An annoyed noise interrupts the serene music and notepad slapping on countertop soon follows. A miniature tantrum interrupts his hard work. "I'll just..." but then the thought ends. With a quick motion he snaps up the pad and scribbles line after line of letters and dashes. This continues on for several pages. Inspiration dwindles, the writing slows, until it draws to an end.

For long moments he stares through narrowed eyes at the page, the one before, the after, and so forth. One flick of his arm and the pen finds a home behind one of his ears like a decoration. A snap of his wrist and the notepad shuts. Westley turns on a heel and walks purposefully back to the table. "Lesse..." he mumbles under his breath as he flops down into the empty chair.

The pile of incomplete parts holds the focus of his hands while his mind still ponders chains of letters, dashes, and numbers. There's enough attention on his physical task at hand for him to pick up and ready the soldering torch, glance at an instruction manual on the correct page, and begin work. I should just fly William in. Why am I still working on this? There's a brief pause as he considers that but then shakes his head. I would have to explain to Joyce... A wince twists his face. And Lars.

The soldering iron lifts and his eyes slowly close. Maybe in a week. I have to come up with what I'm going to tell them. A deep breath in, hold for a few seconds, exhale. Not the truth. And then a thing that shocks him: What am I going to tell my job? Panic sets in and he ditches the project to hold his face. Transfer. I can...transfer. Why did this happen to me? Why do I deserve it?

Again he jumps up and bolts to the kitchen. Not this time to endlessly pace like a child's toy but instead to stare at the image on the fridge. It is a picture of his head, from the side, showing a detailed representation of his noggin. A black thing snugly nestles between the rear portion of his brain and skull. Black tendrils snake across, and likely through, his most important organ. There he stands, staring, thinking, being horrified.

Now what?