The process of knowing demands sacrifice. Sacrifice demands caliber. Howard committed many of GenCo's onboarding mantras to memory. They were spartan comforts in those early days. Largely fueled by caffeine-induced mania, he described it as his bag of wind to speed him through his studies. Howard knew full well that GenCo had a Greater purpose. And that he was a vital part of it.

Just like Howard the pious scientist, GenCo must be dispassionate. It was only this way that the company could achieve its perfect potential, whatever fell away was vestigial. Unlike his subjects however, he was an active member of his ecosystem. The inertia of his routine seemed to be held together by a grim understanding that this was all there is for him. If his body could survive graduation, he could keep this job up.

Neither Howard nor his doctors ever pinned down the exact source of Howard's physical ailments. Despite the tens of thousands of dollars spent on dozens of exams, he would simply be labeled 'defective' by his parents and teachers, and that would be the end of it. It would not be until the alienation of high school that his bouts of profuse sweating, crippling migraine headaches, and muscle weakness would set in.

Like many young people, Howard was ever anxious about the fate of his already chaotic world. Stimuli he could turn on and off at a whim was an escape. Music, poets, podcasts aplenty were to be found on the World Net. The power of will and the spiritual resolute nature of thinkers like Martin Heidegger and Joshua Preston propelled him to overcome the challenges he found in his way. Their stories wove pictures of lives constructed with templates, known with measures that Howard found as comforting as practical. His relationship with science forbad any kind of true spiritual exploration. But he did admire the rejuvenating effects found in the dark woods of the world.

Later events notwithstanding, Howard wouldn't have been confused for a camper even if he were in the woods, it seemed he was almost designed to be a sore thumb. Despite this, he'd always felt a gnawing itch to go before nature; to test himself against the world, to be reborn in fire and deprivation not as he was, but something more. He liked nature not just for its physical beautify, but for the lessons that it taught so freely to those with but the eyes and will to see.

His eyes closed tightly, a memory manifested. A walk with his grandfather through the dark forest. The pair had spent their day woodworking, as was custom in the summer. With naught but bread and watery soup in their bellies, both returned from their worksite, wood fuel for the fireplace in toe, and prepared to comfort his witch of a stepmother. With little to eat the work was exhausting. But in brief moments, Howard could look back at the towering woods they left behind. The spectral tree line to which they would one day return. It was not safe, but he knew he was made whole by being there. Of this, Howard was certain.

Prior to his work at GenCo, Howard found flies to be some of the most loathsome creatures among the taxonomic order. And yet, so many years later, he would throttle himself for such a crude misjudgment. They had long since earned their place as respected company in his mind. They formed a perverse reconstruction of something warmer, something kind made in hell. Howard pushed away the thoughts. Distractions welcome destruction.

The level of investment companies needed to bear the risk of hiring talent such as he required a ridged schedule for testing and evaluation. This would take the form of randomized short conversations with Hans.

Howard was sure it was a nickname, but he was too afraid to ask. Each researcher stationed along the same subdivision shared an eval booth. Howard never saw them, but he could smell when people had been near, of this he was certain.

No matter what he did, he had been consistently weighed and found wanting by Hans, the most common reported flaws were later tabulated as inconsistency of data returns and poor behavior. During one unforgettable exchange, Howard learned he had the eyes of a rabbit scanning for escape. Hans always had a way with words. His voice was always cool, never angry, not even when he was. Before joining Howard was assured that his position would give him the exposure to create a long-lasting professional development bond between supervisor and scientist. Howard wondered how many years of his schooling would cost compared to the maintenance of this wiry brained specter.

At this point he knew his routine well. Splicing his subject's eggs, sorting specimens, and recording all monitored happenings was as involuntary to Howard as breathing. However tiring, reaping results was made a satisfying experience beyond measure for the observant researcher. It wasn't just the ballistic Ping expelled from the main speakers of his Organic Computer, it was his daily reminder that his work was over.

Howard's commute home, viewed chronologically in a dusty police file, adapted to the environment he lived in. The City had installed a new railway system that brought with it waves of loud sometimes violently drunk people that Howard had never seen before. But it was not so bad. Howard's unit technically doubled as a fallout shelter.

His dwelling, like many of the company standard homes, was a modest studio apartment with a yellow-egg light set off-center of the ceiling. Usually, inhabitants were expected to provide their own comforts like comprehensive lighting or kitchen appliances, but Howard took little comfort in these vapid decorations and put the money into a hyper-real TV and spent the rest on what he rationalized to himself were carbs, protein, and meal replacements to make up the difference.

Howard had been cornered in the worker's paradox. Each moment of his work was spent dreaming of his rest, but for all that foresight his leisure was always the same. Sleeping. His dreams often took him back to the lab. The world was a dangerous place, especially for someone with his condition. Thankfully technology brought the world right to him.

What his routine lacked in diversity it made up for in certainty. This was a worthy trade for Howard. Long hours of the night were filled with reruns of old replications of dramatized events, but he was not a historian, and these entertained as much as educated.

On many nights, Howard dreamt of his lab. In his dreams his movements were certain, understood, and at his command.

The crimson light from Howie's tank bathed the lab in a coat of red. The two working diligently, a god and its lab assistant, engaged in lengthy conversations. The pair explored the very connections between ideas and things. Science was the architect of Howard's dreamscape, this space was valuable, and he was determined to make it worth his while.

Elbow deep in calculations he was certain were spread out neatly before him, a hollow wheeze erupted from his console. The voice was slow, deeper, and more predatory than the kindly old program he was used to.

"Howard, where am I?"

"You're in the lab, Howie. Focus and get back to work." Unaware or uncaring of the irony, Howard continued to practice, flexing his digits in accordance with his daily routine in the lab. His fingers seemed longer, swishing against the distending masses, ever growing towards the bottom of a bottomless tank.

The heat from the lamp began to sear Howard's skin. He could feel the polyester itch of his now drenched shirt. The sweat from his forehead dribbled down to his nose and congealed into a thin clear slime.

"But we are not in my lab Howard. And I hunger"

Howard was warm and tired, too tired to notice the array of tentacles silently approaching his hands. Like lamprey well-seasoned in coordinated hunting, each arm was immobilized and tangled by the mind of an exacting science.

Howie's grip on his forearms tightened to the point of almost snapping one, he was now fully immobilized; his eyes drew to the stream of clear slime emerging from his nose. He was so tired, and Howie was much stronger than he expected. Howard's eyes returned to his once friendly partner, now arrayed like a predatory fish awaiting first strike.

"Let me show you, my true self" Howie's central tentacle jolted out from the pack, piecing the side of the tank like thin plastic and found its target, lodging itself through his left eye and directly into the center mass of his brain. Howard mouthed a silenced scream. He knew this process. Flashes of the more complex test subjects, digestees of other consoles just like Howie. Turning a sample into liquid data. Howard would be next, now he was certain. His resistance melted away and he fell limp into the embrace of his consumer.

But he could see so much more now. Deeper into the bottomless tank, a vast darkness outlined with nerve connections that ran for miles. Each with a node, a Howie, a Howard, and life itself. His only goal: to grow, and GenCo supplied him with everything he needed, but now Howie would need to feed.

Howard awoke soaked in sweat to his alarm silently beeping *32 minutes late. *

Every day he woke and worked and walked and slept, again and again. Today was the most important day to not make a mistake and he was already starting on the backfoot. Howard regularly comforted himself on his commute by examining the sketches and observations he created from the details that he could remember from his samples.

His time at the company was running long, and not having a quality lab return in hand before advancing to the next stage of his work would be disastrous. His drawings of his flies had become helpful distractions from the threats he observed each day. His dreams were strange, but the world was stranger still to him. It seemed they were everywhere, people

Howard knew not to associate with them. He had been informed so during many of his workplace safety practice webinars, and advised to avoid contact, as they frequently deal in illicit substances, contagion, and crime.

A fact that went unspoken but was known by all: the world was a dangerous place. Knife-crime, armed robbery, the disappearings. Howard knew his only lifeline was his work. But he knew not to expect mercy from Hans, only consistency.

"Good afternoon distinguished scientist of GenCo. Welcome to our regularly scheduled check-in. Please let me know how you are feeling by marking one of the faces on the happy to not scale."

Howard had heard this introduction at infinitum. Every GenCo policy has its purpose, and Howard knew that although he could not see the purpose of his work, it was there. Despite the lack luster toilet paper, GenCo did a stellar job organizing employee transit on-campus. Thanks to their various speedway tunnels and elevators you could travel to and from your office without ever having to interact with another person. Howard's only goal at this point was to keep this job.

"Like I said, it's good to see you. Let's get started by talking about your level with the company. Congratulations! Thanks to your hard work and tenacity, you have advanced to level Echo. Aside from that I need to keep this brief; would you stake your reputation to this claim: do you think you passed?"

Howard froze, he expected to discuss the specifics of his lab return. He needed to turn this around fast. "Yes?"

"Then you are wrong, you fail. Now leave here and prepare your next sample. Be aware that another failure would constitute grounds for a process improvement plan."

Howard's mind had gone blank. It took him a moment to realize that it had now been several seconds of dead air, a limp body before his supervisor. This was an unbearable humiliation, and he quickly left the advisor booth.

The neurotic egocentrism Howard would display in the coming days would ultimately lead police to conclude his disappearance was self-orchestrated. It would be certain.