The information, from Veronica Vigdis was a cry. Brain diagrams combined with buyer choice algorithms. Expense reports for "PostCalming Implant Maintenance." It was a record charting the transformation of human desire into market dominance.. It was conditional confined to the virtual realm. Devon and Ben required something a sensor could detect a microphone could capture. They needed a location.
Agata Vance, a phantom figure on secure networks pinpointed it. "Search for a location, with bandwidth sparse population and legal ambiguity. A place where they can conduct Stage Two experiments without… spectators."
Ben's outdated systems, corroded from neglect creaked awake. A murmur from a data sanctuary. An irregularity, in a shipping manifest. An abandoned weather outpost acquired by a Somnum branch named "Horizon's Edge Wellness Research."
It resulted in a stretch of land along the Estonian shoreline. A lighthouse its stone faded light by wind and salt stood guard over a slate-colored sea. The path was a uneven dirt road passing through a quiet pine woodland. No markers. No barriers. Only a deep attentive calmness that seemed denser, than the Highland hush. This was a silence. An observant one.
Devon and Ben watched from a hide among shore-pines for two days. Supply trucks came at dawn departed empty by dusk. No personnel remained outside. No lights appeared in the lighthouse tower after nightfall— a faint steady pulse from the foundation, a dark red radiance unlike anything, in nautical maps.
"Not a lighthouse " Ben whispered on the second evening binoculars fixed on the building. "A furnace. They must be burning something inside."
On the day they relocated. Ben had obtained uniforms from a regional utility company together with a work order for a "ground-penetrating radar survey" so obscure it would confuse any casual questions. A young man, with a zealot's composure Nichole Neil greeted them at a service entrance. His eyes were the blue of a frozen lake.
"Your scan hasn't been scheduled " Nichole said, without doubt simply stating a fact.
"Fault line evaluation " Ben said falsely his tone disinterested and businesslike. "State geological survey. Subcontract. Your foundation rests on till. Earthquake hazard."
Nichole handled this. His allegiance lay not with security. With procedure. An unexpected occurrence was a disturbance. Disturbances needed to be calmed. "You will be accompanied. You must not stray. The calm here is fragile."
He guided them indoors.
The inside was a reversal of Somnum's typical style. No plush textiles, no wood tones. Only smooth concrete, recessed lights and a persistent low-frequency drone—a noise experienced more in the teeth than, through the ears. It was the drone of servers and something additional: a barely perceptible vibration that caused Devon's stomach to clench.
They walked past doors labeled with sequences. Through fortified windows Devon observed rooms. Each held one person. A man sat on a bed gazing at a bare wall a subtle constant smile playing on his lips. A woman methodically folded a towel then unfolded it then folded it once more her actions a flawless cycle of purposeless exactness.
"Test subjects " Nichole clarified, catching Devon's look. "Volunteers. Trailblazers of life, beyond aspiration. In this place we perfect tuning for maximum Vacant longevity."
They weren't patients. They were plants. Residing in flawless tranquility.
The hum intensified as they made their way down a staircase into the base of the lighthouse. Nichole paused in front of a door labeled "Immersion Chamber – Alpha."
"Your scan must be quick. The resonance cycle is ongoing."
He unlocked the door.
The room was a round area. At its heart a circle of twelve individuals rested in seats. They donned plain grey tunics. Their eyes remained open directed at the surface ahead which was not a wall but a continuous display.
A subliminal sequence was shown on the screen. A soda can covered in droplets of moisture. A vehicle silently cruising down a seaside highway. A Somnum emblem fading into a waving wheat field. Every frame appeared for a split second alternating with identical throbbing geometric icons, from the Protocol—the Lethargic Calculus depicted in corporate cobalt blue.
The drone was overwhelming in this place, like a force. The atmosphere carried the flavor of ozone mixed with a hint of artificiality.
Clad in a coat technician Fronie Felicity moved smoothly among the chairs tablet in hand. She ignored the arrivals; her full attention was, on her subjects her face showing a look of artistic evaluation.
One of the sitting individuals a man in his years started to talk his tone calm and even. "I sense… a connection with the beverage. A unity with the fizz. It's not merely a drink. It's a… a tranquil effervescence, for the spirit."
Fronie jotted a note on her tablet. "Perfect. Product integration, at 94%. Remaining individual aesthetic preference is minimal." She glanced up at spotting Nichole and the trespassers. Her eyes tightened. "Who are they?"
" survey " Nichole echoed, his confidence faltering beneath her stare.
Devon's hand, concealed within his pocket operated a micro-recorder. He concentrated on the display on the expressions on the drone that had become a buzz, inside his head.
"There isn't a fault line " Fronie declared unemotionally. "Just a foundation. A base, for a realm. You are disrupting the implantation wave patterns." She touched her tablet. A gentle alarm echoed in the room.
Ben seized Devon's arm. "Time's over."
They withdrew while Nichole, her confusion turning into rising suspicion moved closer, to them. Fronie's voice trailed after, calm and exact. "Detain them. Their neural signatures are un-calibrated. They pose a contamination risk."
The retreat was a whirlwind of hallways and mounting fear. They rushed through the service exit into the light of the Baltic afternoon. The van ignited on the attempt. As they jolted along the path Devon glanced behind.
Nobody pursued them. The lighthouse remained unmoved its door firmly closed. They didn't merit a chase. They were dust particles escaping a sealed sterile chamber.
Hours later within a safehouse located in Tallinn they reviewed the recording. The hum came through as a digital static.. The voices remained distinct. The man discussing " carbonation." Fronie's clinical evaluation. The raw disturbing poetry of it all.
Ben completed the few moments, during which Fronie's alarm went off. Beneath the sound his advanced audio filter detected a murmur from another participant, a woman her voice a faint expression of flawless empty happiness:
"I am… so… empty… and it is… full of light."
Devon stopped the playback. The quiet that came after wasn't calm. It felt sickening.
"They aren't simply rendering people empty " he stated, the phrase tasting like ash on his tongue. "They're causing them to embrace the emptiness.. Afterward they fill it with… soda. With cars. With logos."
Ben gazed at the picture, on the screen—the circle of vacant expressions illuminated by the harsh glow of the vending machine. "We possess the evidence. A factory producing shells.. Who can we present it to? A society already queuing outside?"
Devon had no answer. He had footage of a crime no law yet recognized, committed against volunteers who would swear in court they had never been happier. The Industry of Idleness wasn't hiding. It was broadcasting its success from every screen, in every calm smile. The lighthouse wasn't a secret. It was a beacon, calling the weary world to a shore where nothing mattered, and everything was for sale.