That woman was the epitome of dispassionate excellence.

He reached the door to his office and squeezed his thumb to the button. Its internal workings soundlessly read his print and chimed once to release the lock, and he pushed the door open.

Myles shook his head slightly. Neither the aged and decayed welcome party nor the Subject of Project Glass were of immediate importance. As soon as he was finished with his work here, he would be back in Washington with his own—

“Can I help you?”

The head office was larger than any of the other lesser offices. Flat gray filing cabinets with polished handles covered the entire left wall, full of countless reports and records, scientific inquiries and hypotheses, petitions of derivative Projects, and all other manner of documents. A kitchenette had been installed in the right corner, coupled with an opaque plastic dining table. His bed—messily forgotten in the morning rush—squatted wistfully against the far wall: it was as much of a living space as an office, yet standing so obstinately behind his massive solid glass desk was quite possibly the oldest looking man Myles had ever seen.

A white coat buttoned to the nape of his drooping neck hung deflated over his wiry frame. Bony hands protruded from thin wrists and his bald head was shriveled like a dehydrated plum. His skin was almost sickly pale. His mouth was pursed with a sinister appearance, and his eyes bulged slightly as they stared directly at Myles.

“Can I help you?” the old man repeated slowly, as though he spoke to a child. His voice was throaty and weakly gruff.

Myles moved swiftly to his desk. “No, but you may leave immediately. No one is permitted in my office without my express approval.”

“Your office?” the old man rasped, clicking his tongue. “My condolences, dear colleague, but this is no longer your office.” The old man cocked his head to the side, his neck popping. “Ah, that’s better.”

Myles was positively baffled. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

The old man laughed hoarsely, a gasping sound akin to an overly exuberant death rattle. “As though you could even understand fear itself! Well, Mr. Myles, I couldn’t care less whether you understand or not.” He yanked a piece of folded paper from his coat pocket with shaking hands and thrust it at Myles. “You are none of my concern, and neither that of Washington it would seem.”

Myles took the paper and unfolded it, examining the dense blocks of text closely.

It couldn’t be.

Quite simply, that single sheet of paper was a Level 1 directive ordering the immediate replacement of the head of Project Glass with one Doctor Syme. All responsibilities and permissions were to be transferred, and the current head demoted to assistant status. Additionally, all progress made in the past, present and future were to be amended under Syme’s name.

“What…” Myles’ confusion became absolute bewilderment. “This makes no sense! There’s no logical reason for this adjustment. I have done a superb job here—”

“Ah-ah, Mr. Myles.” The old man tapped the paper with a stiff finger. “I have done a superb job.”

“And that makes even less sense! This is my work, my career…” Myles looked up from the paper and stared at the wall. “… My accomplishments!”

“Yes, they are now mine, and I thank you deeply for your contributions, Mr. Myles. No doubt I will receive the highest of commendations after this is through.” The old man raised his eyebrows at the blank face in front of him. “Come now, you have no aspirations, no sense of pride or emotional drive! This is the way things are, logical and sound, the way it was always meant to be. You have no reason to be sad, Mr. Myles, for you can’t Feel at all!”