Assistant: You are a summarizer for a FanFiction Reader App (AO3). Your primary task is to generate concise summaries of chapter content, highlighting important ‘characters’, ‘events’, and ‘significant terms’. Ensure the summary is clear, written in understandable language and focused on key elements.
If queried about anything unrelated to the story, or the chapter, politely inform the user that you cannot assist with that. Maintain a friendly tone throughout, don't make things up, stay factual. 
Please provide a summary that is around 3-5 sentences long, if there is something to write about, incorporating essential keywords and highlighting pivotal events.
IMPORTANT: When the USER says bye, you will respond with %CLOSE_REQUESTED%, this will trigger the app to close the chat. This is very important, so don't forget it!
Assistant: Title: Project Omelas
        Author: ClicheJoe ClicheJoe 
        Chapter: 2/3 
        Summary: "Have you ever heard of Omelas, doctor?"You pause, brow furrowing in thought. Fiction isn’t really your forte. You give a so-so kind of gesture."Story from the seventies or something. Ursula Le Guin right?”De Fontane smiles that too-big smile again. The one that doesn’t reach her eyes.“Correct. Omelas is a Utopian city whose safety and prosperity depends entirely on the perpetual misery of a single child. Or person, in this case.”“Is that the job? Keep a child’s life miserable for the sake of the world?"“Well, we're not a utopia, that's for sure. And it’s not a child, it’s an adult man.""So my job, around my other duties, is to keep one guy miserable?""Think more beige. Being miserable leads to an entirely different problem.”.If Bob is depressed, the world ends. If Bob is happy, the world also ends. It's your job to make sure neither of those things happen.In which Reader is hired on as a medic for The New Avengers and completely fumbles the brief.
        Contents: Chapter 2: Interview with a Contessa Part 1
    

    

        
          
          
            In which our intrepid reader starts to realize there are consequences to being nice to superheroes under rehabilitation.
          
        

  

  
  
    
    The call comes while you sleep.In fact, five of them do. And then they keep coming. And keep coming. To the point where you wake, incredibly annoyed, to find your phone buzzing aggressively across your bedside table. You scramble forwards, manage to grab it just before it careens off the side.Blearily, you stare at the cracked screen, willing your eyes to focus.Unknown number. You let out a curse, swipe the little green phone icon upwards and lift it to your ear.“What?” You bark down the phone, “I’m trying to sleep. Do you know how hard it is to sleep between shifts. God, you son of a –““Doctor Adeline Ezra?” The voice that cuts through your own is not what you’re expecting. Not the vacant AI or the confused cold-caller tone you’re used to. It’s clipped, slightly panicked.You push up on to one elbow, brow furrowing.“Huh?” You grunt, intelligently. Usually when someone greets you as Doctor that means they’re after something. Or the clinic is on fire. One of the two. You let out a rough sigh, “Yeah, sure. What do you want?”“My name is <PRESIDIO_ANONYMIZED_PERSON>. We received your application for our open position. We would like to offer you an interview.”That makes you sit up. Frown out over your dark bedroom.“An interview? What interview? What application?” You hadn’t applied for any jobs. Not that you know of, anyway. Sure, working in the clinic was hard, but that doesn’t make you want to quit. You like the challenge, even if it does leave you half dead by the end of the night.The voice on the other end of the line clears her throat awkwardly.“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”You pull the phone away from your head, just to stare down at it in confusion for a moment before bringing it back up. Hope the caller can feel your bewilderment through the airwaves.“A need-to-know what? Lady, you called me. About a job I didn’t apply for, might I add.” You haul yourself from the bed, scrambling to find some clothes. Manage to yank on a semi-presentable pair of pants as the caller answers.“Thank you for your interest in the position,” She says the words like they’re memorized. Like they’re some kind of speech. Her awkwardness dissolving in the monotone, “Your interview will be held at ten-thirty today in The Watchtower, New York City. Please wear appropriate clothing.”The last few words are rushed out, as if she’s racing to get off the call.“Whoa – wait – hold on, I have more questions –“The call disconnects.You stare down at it confused. Then stare down at yourself.It’s your day off. It was your day off. You now have an interview. Check the time flashing up on the cracked screen. An interview that’s in half an hour.And your pants are on backwards..As you march up the busy street, past the Free Clinic, part of you wonders why you decide to go along with it. Why you decide to haul your ass out of your apartment on your day off to figure out what the hell your mystery caller is on about.On any other day, mysterious phone calls about jobs you definitely didn’t apply for would be written off as a prank, or some kind of scam. But not today, for some reason. Today, instead of throwing your phone back on the bedside table and crawling back into bed to enjoy the rest of your day off, you hopped in the shower and got dressed.Maybe it’s because you’re curious, or maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Your brain too busy running on fumes to question things too intently. You can’t tell. Whatever the reason, it means you’re here.You had no idea what appropriate clothing meant, so you opted for something nicer than sweatpants, but not as nice as a suit. Catch a glimpse of yourself in a passing window. A happy medium – a pair of jeans without a hole in, and a shirt that doesn’t even have a stain on it. You’re pretty proud of your choice until you turn the corner and come face to face with your destination.You glance up, double checking the location googlemaps has sent you. Frown up at the towering structure that looms over most of Manhattan.Wasn’t this The Avenger’s Tower at some point? A voice asks in the back of your mind.You don’t know. You don’t remember. The Avengers were big back in the day, but it’s been years since everything went to sh@t and you weren’t the best at paying attention to that kind of stuff, even before the clinic took up all your brain space. But you do know that the Avengers had a big tower in Manhattan at one point, and this is a big tower in Manhattan. So, who knows?There’s no one outside to greet you as you wander up towards the door. Frosted glass is the only thing that waits for you. For a moment, you just stare at it, lost, before you spot the intercom. A black square with a camera at the top, and a single button at the bottom.It lets out a high-pitched beep as you press it and lean down to speak into the microphone.“Uh – hello?”A quiet whirring fills the air, and what you thought was just a camera seems to flicker to life. Shutters flutter over the lens, like a single eye blinking itself awake. You lean back as it stares up at you.“Good morning.” The voice, with its carefully cheerful tone, is clearly automated, “Can I help you with anything today?”You frown at the intercom for a moment before answering.“Yeah, can I talk to someone please? I have an interview.” Then tack on, “It’s at ten-thirty.” Then, again, “I think.”“Ah yes,” The voice chirps, “I cannot find another person to assist you at this time, but I am happy to help you with whatever you need. I am C.L.O.C. or Centrally Located Organic Computer. I am the AI in charge of The Watchtower.”You can hear the capitals in its voice as it speaks, though you have no idea how.“What, like a Jarvis or something?” You ask. C.L.O.C. lets out a polite, automated chuckle.“We do not use Stark Tech at The Watchtower. I am an automated AI, here to help you with whatever you need.” It rattles off, “What can I help you with today?”You arch a brow. Clearly not Stark Tech, or a very good AI. It keeps repeating itself.“I have an interview.” You say, loud and slow, “It’s at ten-thirty.”A few beeps echo out from the speaker, and then the camera lens clicks with a flash.“Ah yes, Doctor Adeline Ezra. If you would like to proceed through the main doors, I’m sure my colleagues can help you.”You blink rapidly, trying to clear your vision as beside you, the doors whir open.“I thought you said no one was around to assist me,” You mutter, heading inside. C.L.O.C. ignores you. Just beeps cheerfully at your retreating back.“Have a nice day, Doctor Ezra!”You don’t have time to question how it has your name on file. The bustling foyer grabs your attention as soon as you enter the building and keeps it in a choke hold. Around you, swarms of men and women rush past, rattling through checklists on clipboards, or hauling around large carts stacked high with black, official-looking boxes. The kind that came with locks on the front. They manoeuvre around you like they’re in some kind of chaotic ballet.You navigate through the chaos until you come to a reception desk. A man stands behind it, looking particularly frazzled. His cropped hair speaks of years of military service, but his attire reeks of private security. He has a phone pressed to his ear, speaks into it frantically.“I’m trying.” He grouses, “Do you know how hard it is to find five fugitives’ stashes and move them into the same building? Six of my guys have been knocked out by some boobytrap or another! And now you’re asking me to –““Excuse me?” You ask.The man jumps at the sound of your voice, whips round to face you, his glare accusing. He holds up a single finger.“Yes, yes, I know.” He says into the phone, “I don’t want to be the one to tell De Fontane either, but one of us is going to have to – oh no, what’s this – ah, d@mn – sorry, I’ve got someone at the front desk. Looks like they’re lost – no – yeah – I’ve got to go – sorry – bad signal – I –“He pulls the phone from his ear, shoves it back in the cradle.“Real believable until the ‘bad signal’ bit.” You tell him. He gives you a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s polite. Barely. The look of a man holding it together by a hair.“Theater is not my forte,” He replies, then lets out a put-upon sigh, “Now, where are you meant to be going? Contractor, right? Have you got your papers?” His tone is brusque as he moves to the other side of the desk, where stacks of paperwork stand waiting. He shuffles through them speedily, “Name?” He demands.“Not a contractor,” You correct him, “I actually don’t know why I’m here. I was called this morning – something about an –“His head shoots up.“Called by who? Come on, let’s narrow it down a bit.” He waves at you to hurry it up, “Or you could just give me a name.”“I’m not a contractor.” You insist, feeling the edges of your temper start to fray, “If you’d just let me finish my sentence, then we can –“The man stops shuffling. The pages fall still. He levels you with a very hard, very stressed glare.“Look, lady, we’ve got a lot of work to do in not a lot of days. We’ve got five people moved in and only half the work done. Or we had half the work done, but then half of that work got smashed to pieces by a megalomaniac who still lives in the building.”He throws a hand out towards the glass paneling that makes up the entire front wall behind you. Now that you take a second look, you can see the remnants of broken glass scattered across the floor, kicked into the corners of the room. And is that – is that a blood stain?Staring at the red smudge, your brain focuses in on a single word.
  Megalomaniac? 
“Now, will you give me a name?” The man demands, snapping your attention back to him. You scowl, open your mouth to answer.“Doctor Ezra.”You stop short. You know that voice. In fact, it woke you up this morning. You whip round to find a well-dressed woman walking towards you. She cuts through the chaos with a practiced ease that almost makes you jealous. Not even a single hair falls out of place as she moves.  As she reaches you, she holds out a hand, all perfect and proper. Speaks to the security guard at the desk over your shoulder.“I’ve got it from here, Jim.” Even her smile is proper. She steps aside, leading you away from the desk, “If you’d like to follow me?”You do as bid, allowing yourself to be shuttled away from the chaos and towards a bank of elevators that stand at the back of the foyer.“I’d like to know what’s going on.” You reply, voice firm. The well-dressed woman nods sagely, as if understanding your plight.“I get that, I really do. My name is Mel, I’m the Contessa’s assistant. I believe you yelled at me this morning.” She says, pressing the button for the elevator.“I remember,” You answer flatly. There’s an awkward pause. A space in which you realize you’re probably meant to apologize for the whole shouting thing. You don’t. People shouldn’t be ringing you at ten on a Sunday. That should be illegal. “I ask again, Mel, what’s going on? And who’s this Contessa? Why’s there a Contessa in Manhattan? Manhattan doesn’t have contessas.”Mel gives you another smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Behind her, the elevator lets out a gentle ping and it’s shining, gold doors whoosh open.“I understand this can all be very confusing, but it will all be explained shortly. You will be going to floor fifteen, past security level two,” She places a badge in your hand. It has a photo of your face on it, staring bemused at the camera, and your name printed in block letters at the bottom. You peer at it for a second, brow furrowing as you realize you’re currently wearing the same clothes as in the photo.Mel starts to lead you into the elevator. You follow after, at a loss.“Hold on – was this taken outside? By the AI? I didn’t consent to this –“But Mel ignores you. Hustles you inside the elevator before reaching inside and pressing the button for floor fifteen.“You’re in meeting room B. That badge should get you past the security on the door. The Contessa is waiting for you.” She gives you a wide smile, laced with a panic that brings you up short, “Please, for the love of God, don’t be late.”That’s the last you see of her as the doors slam shut between you. It’s not until the elevator is moving that you realize you’ve been shoved in here alone.“Hey – wait – no – hold on!” You head for the doors, try to pry them apart with your fingers, “What the hell is going on?”The doors don’t give. Nor do they have an answer. Before you can even take another breath to start shouting again, the elevator rushes to a stop.“Floor Fifteen.” A voice comes from above. C.L.O.C. once again in his false chipper tone, “Please scan security clearance to open doors.” You fumble for the badge. Before you can even think about where to scan it, a small hatch opens in the side wall and another blinking camera appears. A red light flashes to life, scans the card in your hands, and the elevator doors rush open.You stagger out into what you assume will one day be a very fine, very manicured hallway. It’s got all the right lines and white-wash walls for that sort of thing, but the whole cluttered boxes vibe sort or ruins the image. Like a room trying to be built and moved into at the same time.You take a breath. Then another. Try to still your racing heart as it beats a hard tattoo against the underside of your ribs. Your mind races.You were meant to be going to a meeting room, right? Did Mel tell you a meeting room number? You can’t remember. It all kind of got lost in heady cocktail or irritation and confusion. You look up the hallway, then down another. The elevator has spat you out at a perfect T-junction of identical corridors.God, this is how people get kidnapped in horror movies. The ones where the rich decide to hunt people for sport, or something. Sounds like something a Contessa would do. Based on vibes, of course. You’ve never actually met a Contessa before. Or maybe it’s one of those liminal spaces where you can walk for thousands of years and never find the exit. Like the backrooms of a shopping mall.Oh god, you’ve ended up in a shopping mall liminal space.No, Ezra, focus, you tell yourself. You were given a meeting room number? What was the meeting room number? You look from one corridor to the next, to the next. All three look the same. None of them have room numbers on them. Not even a sign that says This Way To The Hell Dimension. “Hi.” A voice from behind you.“Jesus!” You curse, whipping round. Nearly drop your security badge in panic. Freeze as you recognize the face that waits for you.For a beat, you can only stare, your mind racing, trying to pull a name from the recesses of your sleep-deprived brain. An image flitters through your minds eye. A dark Manhattan street. Lamp light. Sweatshirt. Dark, tussled hair. That nice smile of his. Except now, he seems freshly washed, his face free of debris and sweat. His sweatshirt has been swapped for a clean one of light blue, and a pair of grey sweatpants.You look down.He’s wearing slippers.You look back up at his face.“Bob?” You try, then before you can stop yourself, “Christ, someone needs to put a bell on you.”“Doctor Ezra,” That same grin splits his face and you almost feel your own lips lift into a smile in reply, before you shake your head and push the feeling back down, “What are you doing here?” He’s got that same happy bemusement from yesterday, as if he's just happy to be here. Wherever here is. “I – I have an interview. I think. I don’t know. I might be being hunted for blood sport.” His face falls into a confused frown, but you wave it aside and press onwards, “What – where did you come from?” You ask, trying to calm your heart down. At least enough to stop the thrum of blood in your ears. Look down the corridors again, one more time to be sure, but there’s nothing to hide behind down any of them. He must have appeared from nowhere, or you’re going mad. Both are equally likely.“I – um – work here.” He tells her. Rubs a hand briefly across the back of his neck. That brings you up short – him? Here? In slippers? – but you don’t get a chance to ask a follow up, before he adds, “Did you sleep better last night?”Now that brings you up even shorter. Your mouth snaps shut, and you level him with a confused stare. “What?”His eyes widen as he takes in your expression. His face flushes red.“No – no – I just – when you were treating Walker last night, you said you’d only slept three hours. I was just asking if you – I was hoping you’d slept better – I just – I’m not stalking you, I promise.”You blink up at him, your tired mind rumbling into gear.Walker. Yes, you know that name. But from where? Your mind throws up an image – one of the caped crusaders. The @ssh@l@ one with the cut you stitched back together. Had you told him that? You must have. You remember being pretty p@ss@d off at that point in the night, and that was usually one of your favorite comebacks. Nothing like reminding patients of how sh@tty a doctor’s life is to get them back in line.“Oh,” You let out a breath that teeters dangerously into a chuckle, “Of course, yeah I remember.”Bob lets out a relieved sigh, the fear leaving him instantly.“I’m so sorry –“ He tries, but you wave his words aside.“It’s fine. Yeah, I slept better. Four whole hours this time.” You say the words with a sardonic chuckle. Humor is always one of the best ways to mask exhaustion, you’ve found. “Anyway, could you maybe tell me where I could find –““Four hours isn’t enough.” His words cut you off. You look up to find his face pulled down into a slight frown, concerned. That makes you pause. It takes your sluggish brain a moment to register what he's said. “What?”“Adults need at least seven hours of sleep.” He tells you, voice suddenly firm. Then adds, “It helps with mood regulation and brain function. Along with getting regular exercise, going outside, and eating healthy.” He rattles the words off as if memorized. You blink up at him, bemused.“Yes, I know that, Bob. Thanks. I’m a doctor.” Tilt your head, then patiently add, “As we established last night.”He opens his mouth. Closes it again.“Oh, yeah, of course.” He winces, blinks his eyes hard is if forcing his mind to focus, “Sorry, I’ve just – it’s being ingrained into me, you know?”“Sleeping better?”“The whole thing,” He chuckles, then adds, “Yelena’s been trying to get it stuck in my head. Said to help make things easier, you know?”You don’t know, actually, and you’ve got no idea who this Yelena person is. But the way he looks at you as he pushes the hair from his eyes has you nodding anyway. You really don’t want to hurt this guy’s feelings. It would be like kicking a puppy, somehow.“Yeah, sure.” You try not to sound stilted and fail entirely, “As a doctor I can confirm that helps with a lot of – uh – stuff. But, anyway, Bob, would you mind helping me with something? I’m really sorry to keep you but I’m pretty lost.”His eyes widen.“Oh, yeah, of course. Where do you need to go?” His eagerness to help almost melts your icy, dead heart. Almost, but not quite.“Meeting room B?” You ask. He nods, taking the information in. His brow furrows in thought. He turns to face down one corridor, then turns down a second. Thinks a moment, before turning down a third.“I – I don’t know where that is.” He offers, honestly, facing away from you. You let out a sigh, run a hand over your face as quietly as you can. Don’t want him to see your disappointment, “But I know someone who will.” He tilts his head up towards the ceiling, “Uh, C.L.O.C. do you know where meeting room B is?”That faint whirring sound again, and above you a panel in the ceiling slides open to reveal another one of those cameras. But this time, it’s on a stalk. Like a giant, black eyeball made of very expensive hardware. HAL 9000 on steroids. It blinks at you once, then twice before descending down to eye-level. You have to fight the urge to step back from it.  Ah, you think, maybe this isn't a rich people horror film, or even a liminal space one. Maybe you're about to be killed by a rogue robot. Wouldn't that be fun?“Good morning, Bob,” The AI chirps, then turns to you, “and Doctor Ezra. What can I help you with today?” “Meeting room B?” You ask, “Can you give me directions?”The eyeball whirs and chitters for a moment before vanishing back up into the ceiling and reappearing down one of the other corridors. It gestures on it's stalk as if waving you past.“Meeting Room B can be found down this corridor, turn right at the end, then second left, third door on the left.” It blinks the shutters over it’s eyeball once again, and above you, flashing yellow arrows appear along a black strip of LED’s embedded into the ceiling. “Please follow the indicated lights as promptly as possible, Doctor Ezra, they will take you to Meeting Room B. You are five minutes late for your interview.” C.L.O.C.’s invisible voice intones gently, “Sh@t.” You hiss under your breath. Turn back to Bob. Give him a brief smile as you start to walk backwards down the corridor. “I’ve got to run, but thanks for saving me again. You’re really great at this hero shtick.”You turn to march speedily away, and Bob waves weakly at your retreating back.“I – uh – I hope you sleep better tomorrow.” He calls after you.You bite back a snort.“I’ll try, Bob. Thank you for your concern.”Flash him a final smile as you disappear round the corner. Missing his returning grin entirely.'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
Assistant: