Authors Note: Trying to add more character to the protagonist, please lmk what yall think.
CHAPTER 4
Following the road north, taking note of the occasional fog filter, I'm greeted a grotesque tapestry of hulls and keels with a shine of desperation. My Projektor nodes flared, picking up presences here and there throughout the interior of the walled off town but Singling out two pairs of eyes. Ones glinting through a serrated gap in the metal—a wound pretending to be architecture. Murder holes. Charming.
I halt. A small smirk blooming on my face as I give a jolly little wave. "Doctor Emil Vogt, at your service." my words stretch longer than necessary. "Your jolly ghoulified compatriot in the Poseidon station suggested I might find... hospitality here." Sarcasm dripping off my tongue. A theatrical glance upward at the weeping sky. "Or at least a roof that doesn't dissolve in this delightful weather."
A gangly teen—couldn't have been older than sixteen—leaned through the murder hole, a toothpick dancing between his teeth. "Doc, huh? You any good with rad-aches? Old Man Finch been pukin' glow-green for—." THWACK. A calloused hand yanked him backward by his collar. "Goddamn idiot," growled a voice like gravel, shotgun barrel materializing beneath his chin. The new face that replaced the boy's was covered in scars. "You a synth?" Suspicion lacing his words." The weapon's muzzle flicked toward my glowing nodes. "Sure as hell look like one."
Pulling back my senses, crimson glow dying down. My thumbnail tapping one of the nodes, causing metallic tink to echo through the clearing . "Merely a rudimentary augmentation, like the one over here…" Rotating my neck, exposing my co-processor embedded on the side of my nape. "This one helps me remember dates, information, and occasionally my manners…" Giving a conspiratorial wink.
A beat. Then, with deliberate slowness, I raised both hands—palms outward—in the universal gesture of harmlessness. The movement made the Type 79's strap dig into my collarbone. "Though if your concern is synths..." My smile didn't reach my eyes. "I'd be happy to demonstrate how very warm my blood runs."
A wet chuff escaped the guard's lips. "Got balls, I'll give ya that… Ain't never seen a synth with your kinda… spark." He jerked his chin at the teen. "Open 'er up."
The kid scrambled to obey. Chains rattled like dying breath as the so-called "gate" groaned to life—not a door, but the entire front half of a gutted fishing trawler. its hull repurposed into a towering barrier. Salt-corroded metal shrieked against rusted rails as it dragged sideways, revealing a jagged mouth of a passage. The trawler's former portholes now served as murder holes, their glass long since replaced with welded rebar. Across its flank, bleached-white harpoons had been hammered into the metal like spines.
As the gap widened, The stench hit me first—fermenting seaweed and fish guts, thick as the ocean's rotting corpse. The teen grinned, three teeth shy of a full set. "Welcome to Far Harbor, doc. Try not to end up in the drink."
My boot sank into something unspeakable with a wet schlork, but I kept the disgust from my face as I stepped closer. The smile I offered was all practiced bedside charm—the same one that had calmed twitchy KLBR units mid-meltdown. "Actually..." I let the word hang, watching the teen's pupils dilate. "You mentioned a certain... Finch suffering from rad-aches?"
The effect was instantaneous. The kid stiffened like I'd shoved a cattle prod down his pants. Behind him, the guard's shotgun lowered half an inch—just enough to telegraph interest.
"Old Man Finch ain't right in the head since them atom crazies been preaching through out town—" the teen blurted, then clapped a hand over his mouth as the guard cursed.
I tapped my Projektor nodes, letting them flare crimson. "How fortuitous. My specialties might allow me to fix whatever ails him." My smile sharpened.
The kid releases his hold, and sighs. His eyes tinged with worry. "Old Man Finch ain't been right since them Atom crazies started whisperin' in his ear." He clicks his tongue "He keeps sayin' his glowin' piss is holy water for fucks sake!"
The guard snorted. "Damn fool's been drinkin' it too."
My tongue slid across my teeth as I exhaled. "Directions." Flat. Clinical.
The guard jerked his thumb north. "Blue shack by the guttin' docks. Smells like death and piety."
The kid leaned forward. "You really gonna—"
"Mm." My boots crunched over broken shells as I turned away.
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The cracked sidewalk crunched under my boots as I moved through the fog's spectral glow, the preacher's distant sermon dissolving into static as his head snapped toward me. His lantern's green radiance pooled in his widening pupils, reflecting back the inhuman geometry of my form - the pulsating Projektor nodes, the crimson irises burning with manufactured vitality, the genetically optimized symmetry of features too precise for this ruined world. His Adam's apple convulsed as his gaze crawled over my Gestalt fatigues, the monofilament weave rippling like liquid shadow with each step. His hand twitched toward the Atom symbol at his chest, fingers spasming like a man brushing against live wire. I offered him a smile—the same sterile expression I'd used on twitchy KLBR units— and watched his throat bob as he choked out the next verse: "F-for Atom's gaze pierces even the unworthy!" His voice cracked. The flock murmured their amens, oblivious. I walked on, the Projektor's hum a private vibration in my skull, its frequency mine alone in this broken world.
Plans reformulating...
The preacher's reaction proved what I'd suspected: my very presence was a weapon here. Let the Children of Atom weave their scripture around my crimson gaze and unnatural perfection. Let them call me prophet, herald, or divine punishment - all that mattered was the access it granted. Their radiation-resistant genomes would make perfect baseline for growing the biological cultures needed to fabricate Replika's biological components. Splicing it with my error correction genemod should prove an interesting challenge considering as my expertise in genetics aren't as great as my wonderful seniors.Their unquestioning faith would provide test subjects who'd thank me for the privilege of dissection. Hmm— Plans within plans….
A twitch in my cheek - the ghost of a Nation scientist's disapproval at this theist pandering. I silenced it. The Party hadn't hesitated to use pseudo-religious iconography of the Great Revolutionary and her Daughter when indoctrinating its citizenry. This was simply... practical syncretism.
The Projektor's resonance buzzed behind my eyes like a misfiring synapse as I studied Finch's shack. The warped boards wept greenish light—radium deposits or some mutated fungal growth, promising interference for neural reshaping. Standard KLBR protocols required adaptation afterall:
Phase 1: Amygdala priming (Theta-wave pulses to enhance suggestibility)
Phase 2: Episodic memory grafting (Weave new dogma into existing radiation visions)
Phase 3: Prefrontal reinforcement (Prevent total dissociation while eroding skepticism)
My left eyelid twitched. Senior Researcher Hirsch would've already heard the dissonance in Finch's neural oscillations from across the room.
Hirsch in Rotfront's medical bay, diagnosing a Gestalt worker's breakdown by ear alone—her head cocked like a musician identifying a flat note in a symphony of brainwaves. No scanners. No hesitation. Just that inhuman sensitivity the Party bred into its chosen elite.
The Projektor's heat spread through my frontal lobe. Hirsch wouldn't need protocols. She'd have conducted Finch's delusions like an orchestra, reshaping his reality without erasing the man beneath. No risk of locked-in syndrome. No approximations.
I flexed my fingers—steady despite the tremor in my breath.
But Hirsch isn't here. Just her second-rate junior and a rad-addled fisherman.
Exhaling, performing some calming mental exercises.
Let's begin.