For A Good Cause

As the Institute has totally 100 completely been shut down, yes, totally, that is absolutely what has happened, you might think Trepan is out of work. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

The need for talented, uhm, change management specialists has only risen. Bright young minds are carefully selected into apprenticeship with the goal one of building tools to preserve order and stability against threatened chaos. There's a lot of chaos, but it's not all hack and slash at the brain modules in attempt to brute force a solution: there are lessons, case studies, review, /tests/. (Some of them live, and passed with flying colors. Hey, Blast Off!)

It's at the end of one of these tests -- written, this time -- that Trepan reviews Feint's work. They sit in a terribly nondescript room in a quiet little clinic on the outskirts of Iacon. There is nothing about the building to draw attention. There are no secret levels leading to unseen laboratories filled with unspeakable horrors. (Those are two doors down.) "--unorthodox, but it should work. We'll need to work more on proper courses of follow-up treatments, however. It's a bit sparse."

"That's fine," Feint agrees, sitting with hands in her lap, legs crossed. "I have strings I can pull to get what's needed. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your assistance, Trepan. I realize that my praise and appreciation has nothing to do with the outcome of my grades, but nonetheless I felt it appropriate to express thanks where it's due."

Trepan smiles. With unfeigned delight, he says, "You're welcome. I appreciate your enthusiasm for the subject." He loves his work. That much is clear. Whether he /should/ love his work is another question that is best left unexamined. "You have a rare talent. You just need more practice -- which isn't in short supply."

"I will do whatever it takes to master this subject. I suppose you could say I'm a bit driven," Feint confesses easily. "I see the potential to help so many, do so much -good- for this planet. There are so many illnesses cropping up as of late. Someone has to do something about it, and I am not afraid to get my hands dirty with the work."

"Yes. Illnesses. Disorders. Of the processor, the spark, society," says Trepan as he draws a circle that spirals ever wider. Disorder can become a very /broad/ label in the right (wrong) hands. His smile widens before flickering to a briefly thoughtful expression. "Just be careful when you say you're driven. You want to be the one in control, not -- well, /be/ driven." Read: ideals are terrible. Don't have ideals.

"That's why I've put myself into your capable hands. I know that my own knowledge is very limited, and I need guidance and discipline to make the correct decisions," Feint agrees. "As for the upgrades... do you think it will work? I've read some theory on the cortical psychic patch, and I believe that my rather... /unique/ set of sensory systems will mesh with it."

Glance falling to Feint's fingers, Trepan reaches out to lift her hand in his own. He has an air of casual possession: his student, his hands. For all that he has the fine, delicate touch of a surgeon, his hands still markedly outmass hers. "It has to work, or else you'll be incapable of the, ah, deep work that you have such an aptitude for." He smiles again as he releases her hand. It's a smile that would leave any sensible person a touch uneasy: there's a deep thread of glee. "I'll be very interested to see how it integrates with the rest of your systems. The upgrades should be considered priority for you."

Yes, she's small; it comes with being an aerodrone. Her altmode is hardly larger than a dataslug, which makes her very effective at sneaking past things or observing others in silence. She's done it more than once, though it turned out badly for Axle in the end. "That reminds me - did you want to have a closer look at my more unique attributes while the upgrades are in process? It's only fair after all."

There is hunger in Trepan's smile as he watches her. He makes a visible effort to control the first impatient lunge of eagerness: "Yes," comes quickly before sliding into a softer, more thoughtful, "that'd be reasonable. Best way to direct your study is to know what you're really capable of, after all. You enjoy using them, don't you? Your sensors. You should."

"For the longest time I thought everyone saw the world as I do," Feint says. "It wasn't until much later that I discovered that no, others can't simply see every spark within a hundred kliks, ever pulse of electromagnetic noise, every stream of energon running through the lines of a mech's body." She's playing her own game, dangling bait in front of Trepan to seal the deal. It's what Solvent bought her for and what Tarantulas wanted to uncover - her outlier abilities. She feels only a slight twinge of guilt now for prostituting her gifts to get what she needs.

No need to close the sale. Trepan's already buying. "It must be remarkable to be able to see a lie as they form it," he says. His tone carries a somewhat depersonalized note of admiration: less for Feint as a person than for Feint's abilities as a thing. His gaze slips across her features, very nearly marking the lines he might cut if it were possible to open her out and pluck out her gifts to take them for himself. Alas. It's not possible. "The flaws in the system."

"It's not as much fun as it sounds - no surprises, for one thing," Feint sighs, a little wearied sometimes by her own gifts. "You see things you may wish you hadn't. Too much knowledge /can/ be a bad thing; you become burdened by it eventually."

Trepan sits back. For a moment, his smile fades. He considers Feint. Slowly, he admits, "The temptation to turn what you'll learn on yourself may be quite strong, then. To self-edit. It can be dangerous. Whatever burdens you pick up along the way, I'd suggest you find a way to value them."

She listens to that and considers it, taking it to heart, unlike some other mnemnosurgeons who will eventually pansy out due to FEELINGS and stick needles in their own heads. Yes we're talking about YOU, Tumbler. "Do you recommend a policy of strict emotional control then? While it may be tiresome to acquire stressful knowledge, I'm used to it. I have always felt that developing internal controls are the first and best line of defense, particularly with my abilities."

"No." Trepan's smile reappears: first a flicker, then wider, to a grin. "No, not necessarily. Just as a course of treatment that works for one patient may not work on another, you need to find what works for you." He gestures at her with a graceful turn of his wrist. "For you, maybe it's emotional control. I'd suggest you study our practices where we impose it on others to get an idea of how to best build it in yourself, if that's the case. Me, I find joy in it. There is something deeply -- /satisfying/ about what we do." He lingers over the word 'satisfying' as though deriving pleasure as much from the word as from the thought. "But to each their own," he concludes with a bright gleam of his eyes.

Feint nods, tapping her chin. "Variation, variation - hadn't thought of that; I suppose the more minds I get into, the more I'll see the unique data structures that compose them." You can see the computational processes, the deep thinking, going on in her mind over this from the intense glow of her eyes, as if she's reconstructing her perceptions of reality. She's off to the side for a moment, as if she's staring through the walls. Maybe she is. "Remind me sometime to share with you my perception of reality. I tried it once; the mech on the receiving end wasn't able to handle it well, but I'd wager with your equipment and training you might be able to process the data."

Trepan laughs. "Yes. You'll see a /lot/. Many minds, with many reasons, from many backgrounds. From the lowest miner to even a Senator, if it is necessary. Wherever there is disorder, we're there to /help/." The laugh lingers in the curve of his smile. "I would enjoy that. The better I know you, the better I know what you see, the better we can work together."

"Well, I'd have to be careful. I don't want to hurt you on accident." That thought bothers her, she's killed accidentally, and traumatized Blast Off just in trying to lightly press him for information. "I've done that enough for one lifetime."

"No. Act with purpose," Trepan agrees. His words are light indeed as he glides along past the implication of harming alongside healing. "We have a responsibility to act with determination, and sometimes that means learning and -- yes, control."

"Very well then; let's set a time and place," Feint agrees. She won't have much longer for this visit, as Halogen makes demands of her time as well these days. At his rate Blurr is going to become a distant memory! "I'm at your disposal."

That's easy enough: time, place. On setting both, Trepan rises. He touches her wrist, using touch to emphasize his reminder as he speaks. "Prioritize those upgrades. You are good. But with them--." He breaks off. His tone deepens in a laugh as he says, "Well, with them, you'll be remarkable." He lifts his hand to rest it at her shoulder, fingers fanning toward her neck; he gestures with his other hand toward the door in farewell. "And I'll see you then. I expect it'll be /interesting/."

"I'll be back as soon as the upgrades are complete." She's no Soundwave so she can't sense Trepan's emotions or intentions; she can't read his thoughts. She can, however, note the changes in energon levels in his body, his spark rate, and the movement of his internal mechanisms. He's very eager with whatever it is he wants to do.

Feint's glad she found him.