The future waits in the mouth of the prophet .
***
The liquid of the brewed coffee remained still like a calm lake, and the pair of bread Infront of him, emitted a fluidic wave of smoke.
He took a piece of bread and bit into it. It was hotter than he expected. His face tensed involuntarily.
Looking out the window, he saw the lights sprawling across the continent. The aircraft exponentially gained speed, racing against the rising sun, slipping into the darkness of the planet's far side.
The aircraft gradually slowed as it approached a hangar embedded in a mountainside. The craft parked itself neatly in a designated zone, not even a thud when it touched down.
When he stepped out, no one greeted him. Just a few staff moving briskly, and a handful of guards stationed at quiet corners. He walked toward a reinforced steel door. It opened automatically as he neared.
The hallway beyond was sterile and quiet. As he walked, other employees spotted him and moved aside, even though there was enough space to pass comfortably.
After several turns and a short climb, he arrived at his office. A bronze plaque above the door read: Engineering Director.
Inside, the room was plain. A desk at the center, computers along the side, shelves and file cabinets lining the walls. Despite the availability of cutting-edge storage, some information were better kept physically.
He dropped into his chair. The leather adjusted beneath him, easing into his back and shoulders. He sat still for five minutes, unmoving like sack.
On the desk lay a brown envelope. He hadn't placed it there—likely one of the staff.
He opened it and skimmed the pages. Dense text, raw data, and reports. Only one part really mattered and it was the headline.
The Scepter System is now ready and has been approved by the higher-ups for testing. The test subject will arrive in approximately one hour after the start of your schedule.
He took a folder inside the envelope and opened it. Resting it on his lap, he crossed his legs, freeing his hands. The pages were dense, filled with clinical reports, criminal records, and psychological evaluations.
A miniscule drop of cold sweat formed near his temple. This was the first time he'd be involved in the company's gray zones.
He rubbed his glabella unconsciously. "Gabriel Vensey. Mass murderer. Unreasonably violent. No history of abuse from family. No signs of early childhood trauma... Diagnosis: brain tumor in the frontal lobe. It's likely the cause of his actions. Sentence: death via lethal injection."
He muttered incoherently, barely audible, and rapped the wooden armrest with his fingers. His eyes stayed fixed on the folder, reading deeper.
After a moment of blank thought, he turned his attention to the computer, emails, reports, project statuses, approval requests. He read, signed, commented. Feedback, corrections, delays. It was the usual and expected. He had grown numb to it.
Twenty minutes left before the scheduled experiment. He stood up, left the office without a glance back, and made his way straight to the elevator.
A soft hiss escaped as the doors slid open. He stepped into the empty compartment. The doors closed behind him.
"Testing facility, floor 9G." The elevator shuddered slightly, then began its deep descent.
When he stepped out, the atmosphere shifted. The hallway was massive, stark, and cold. Soldiers stood at attention along the walls. Between them, robotic guards. This wasn't normal. Usually, there were only a handful stationed here, enough to meet protocol but never this many. The sudden increase in security tightened something in his chest. He felt the tension creep in, though he kept it to himself.
Through another reinforced door, he entered a control chamber. The room buzzed with activity. At the center stood the Scepter.
Five meters tall, three meters wide. Two pyramids—one upright and one inverted, they were stacked together. A fusion of symmetry and weight. The top tip was tangled with wires and tubes feeding into the ceiling. The body itself was smooth, matte white, clean and dull like molded plastic. No shine, no reflection.
Surrounding it, platforms housed researchers working their stations, eyes locked on monitors, adjusting parameters.
A man approached in haste. Bronze skin, sweat trailing down his cheek, heavy bags under his eyes.
"Sir, the Scepter has finished warming up. Should we run a quick test?"
"Make it quick."
The man nodded and barked orders across the room. In a controlled rush, the staff moved to their positions. The room fell into practiced silence. A voice rang out through the comms.
"Scepter activation commencing. Ten... nine... eight..."
He kept his eyes on the machine. He remembered the day he first proposed the concept, back when he was just an intern. This project had consumed the better part of his early adulthood.
The Scepter glowed. There was no spectacle, just a quiet flicker like turning on a bulb. The pipes hissed and spewed thick white smoke. It was hungry for energy, that much was clear.
"Systems nominal. Temperature nominal. God particles are flowing at a steady rate. Pressure nominal. Energy consumption nominal. All green."
They ran final diagnostics, tested subsystems, and confirmed each failsafe. By the time everything was clear, the clock had already reached the time for the live test.
The lights in the room dimmed slowly. Only the Scepter at the center remained under a focused beam. The researchers stepped back to the walls, their faces lit by the glow of their monitors. No one spoke.
He remained still. As director, it was his place.
The door behind him opened with a low hiss.
A disgruntled man entered. His appearance was unkempt and tense, muscles bulging, veins visible even under his loose clothing. Two robots held his arms, not restraining but keeping close. Behind them followed a squad of soldiers in full armor, their equipment erasing any human features. Only the dark reflection of their visors remained in place of faces.
Last to enter was a woman in a maid's uniform. Her face was hidden behind a geometric steel plate. Her hair was tied into a long ponytail that moved with each step. In her hands she held an open laptop, the screen displaying a single message.
VOICE ONLY
He suppressed the reaction from showing on his face.
To think one of the executives would come here personally.
The mysterious maid stepped toward his side. Her face was unreadable beneath the geometric plate, and the laptop in her hands remained silent. Her stillness was enough. He understood the message clearly and moved without delay.
He raised a hand toward the far end of the room. Two researchers rushed forward, carrying a small table and a chair. They placed them in front of the Scepter. Another pair followed. One dropped off a thick stack of papers and a pen, then retreated. The other brought a briefcase, clutched tightly in both hands.
He turned to the two robotic guards holding the man and gave a nod. The machines guided the prisoner forward. The armed soldiers stayed at the edge of the spotlight, forming a silent barrier. The maid stayed behind, her laptop pointed directly toward the center of the chamber.
Approaching the setup, he reached out to the nervous researcher still holding the briefcase. "I'll take it from here."
The briefcase was opened. Inside was a headpiece, tangled with wires and embedded with foreign tech. The researcher handed it over without a word, then disappeared into the dark with quick steps.
He looked to the prisoner. "Wear this—"
Spat
The man lurched forward and spat in his face. "What're yer gonna do to me, you fucks! Aaaargh!"
He didn't flinch. The robots moved instantly.
One clamped its arms around the man's torso, locking him in place. The other grabbed his head, firm and unyielding, and turned toward the director.
"Sir. The headpiece." Its voice was dull and uncanny. Metallic arms extended.
He wiped his cheek with his sleeve and handed it over. The robots understood the assignment.
The headgear was forced onto the prisoner's skull. The metallic grip was unforgiving. There was a faint crunch beneath the pressure.
He gave a final nod toward the control team.
"Scepter activation commencing. Ten. Nine. Eight."
The man erupted again, thrashing wildly, but the machines held firm. He was caged by precision and strength.
Then the Scepter lit up. Quiet. Unassuming. Like a fluorescent bulb flickering to life.
Slowly, the man's resistance faded. His breath steadied. He dropped to his knees and pressed a hand to the floor.
When he stood again, something had shifted. The rage had drained. Only a trace of fear remained. No anger. No hatred. He looked ahead, with an unsure expression resembling a lost child.
His heart jumped in excitement. It worked!. But he hid it behind a stern expression, composed and unshaken, as if the result had been expected all along.
"Take a seat and begin answering the questions. You'll have an hour."
The man sat without protest and began. The test was long and structured — topics ranging from science, mathematics, philosophy, language, and general cognitive exercises. All in multiple choice.
This was the dullest portion of the experiment by far. He stepped away and stood beside the silent maid.
. . .
. . .
This is the longest hour of my life—
"He's doing it quickly, I see." The laptop finally spoke. The voice was masked, digitally altered. No way to tell who was behind it.
The sound startled him. He answered without hesitation. "It's to be expected, sir."
There was no follow-up. Silence returned, dense and heavy. Around 40 minutes passed.
Unexpectedly, the man stood up. He had finished early. A researcher emerged from the shadows, took the test sheets from the table, and carried them off to be graded.
Immediately after, the same researcher who had carried the briefcase earlier returned. Without a word, he gently removed the headpiece from the man's head. There was no resistance. The researcher then turned and walked away, clutching the device.
The man sat, dazed, his eyes unfocused. Whatever clarity or peace had momentarily possessed him began to fade. The robotic guards took him by the arms and led him back toward the exit. With each step, his calm demeanor unraveled, his shoulders tensed, and his muttering returned. By the time he disappeared through the exit, he was once again the disgruntled man from before, as if nothing had changed.
A minute passed, and another researcher approached, holding a printed report and handing it over. "Eighty-seven percent correct," he said.
He read the figure again in his mind. A man with a psychological disorder caused by a tumor—uneducated, morally bankrupt—had scored eighty-seven percent on a test spanning topics from multiple fields. Not only that, but during the process, his aggression had vanished. Even if temporary, it was proof!
He turned his gaze to the maid, to the laptop in her hands. Waiting. Breath held.
"...It's amazing," the altered voice finally said. "This technology will change the course of humanity."
The maid began walking slowly toward the center of the room. He followed, unsure, unwilling to interrupt.
"This can do much more," the voice continued. "I am sure of it. This will bring a new era."
. . .
Then the tone shifted.
"I've extensively reviewed your personal file. You've been with the company a short time, and yet your record speaks for itself. No desire for power, no indulgences. You reached your position through merit alone."
His heart quickened. The flattery made him uncomfortable. The shift from scientific breakthrough to character analysis was jarring. He had thought of scenarios like this on how power could be misused, but he had clung to hope that the good would outweigh the bad.
The voice resumed, almost gentle. "If you were like the rest of your peers, I wouldn't have done this, you're too naive, you don't have the hunger needed, the future of this project isn't fit for your hands"
Then—
Dozens of hissing noises echoed around the room. The lights snapped off, save for the pale glow of the scepter. Panic erupted. Voices rose in confusion, which quickly escalated into screaming. People collapsed, their bodies hitting the floor with heavy, gut-wrenching thuds. Coughing. Gasping.
A gas attack! His mind screamed.
He froze, his body seized by fear. Instinct took over, he covered his mouth with his sleeve, squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath.
The maid stood silently amidst the chaos, unshaken. The laptop's screen still glowed.
"As an engineer," the voice said calmly, "you should be more concerned with the state of your work and legacy. Don't worry. We've already created a 1:1 copy of your mind to continue your research. In time, it should work even better than you."
He wasn't listening. He didn't care what the voice was saying. This was betrayal!madness!
He scanned the chaos. Bodies littered the room. The doors were locked. The gas hissed lowly in the background.
Then he saw it. The briefcase. Amidst the motionless crowd.
Without thinking, he lunged toward it. His lungs screamed, but he held his breath and ran. The maid turned, silently tracking his motion. She held up the laptop, its screen still facing him.
Almost immediately his eyes turned red and his veins swelled in a purple colour. Holding and covering his mouth only helped a little. He frantically opened the briefcase and took the headpiece.
He then wore it.
Kneeling on the floor, throat, nasal, eyes, skin burning like a thousand needles piercing him from that mysterious gas.
He began to think or rather, more like willing something to happen.
The scepter is a system to connect and implant information to a human brain. It could be developed to do more, but then how will that matter in this situation? He repeated his will, tens... hundreds of times.
Take me! Take my mind! Take my soul!
Take me! Take my mind! Take my soul!
Take me! Take my mind! Take my soul!