[Intermission] Runtime Error

Administrator's Log, Day 78 of Springfield Insertion

An exception to the standard procedure occurred today, only two operating days after the first since being inserted into this area of operation. A Class 2 Threat arrived with an unknown potential rating, one that proved capable against even Omega-level limiter release. By the combined efforts of my unlimited ability, the young Brighton Warden, and John-

The typing interface paused. It's green, holographic pane floated behind Tricia as she contemplated the three MMORPGs she was playing. These, too, were temporarily abandoned as she wrestled with the thoughts of Newman, and the drones buzzing to and fro in her bunker-like home paused in their tasks to cast worried looks to their master. A number of backspaces, and all she showed of it was a twitch of her eyebrow. The drones went back to work.

... and a local, Order-registered mage, the threat was neutralized. In the process of recovery, I have opened a second Eye, though it's properties are not yet known to me. My guardian's theory, that my overflowing emotions might express themselves suddenly despite my precautions, appears to have been proven true. It produced-

Again she paused, and grew frustrated with a knot building in her throat. "Confirm limiter integrity."

LIMITER INTEGRITY AT 100%.

"Inject one dose of grade 1 tranquilizer." The tension left her shoulders, and she logged out of two of her games just to be safe.

It produced a negative reaction in the local mage, but inflicted no physical harm. The reasons for this are unclear. The local mage has abandoned-

Tricia breathed deeply, letting the do its work.

The local mage vacated the premises before I could review the effects. I've confirmed with the Brighton estate that he visited them for debriefing and seemed healthy. I will advise my guardian of this new Eye once I've learned of it's properties, as it bears no direct relation to the Class 2 Threat.

There is one last subject, then, which bears repeating with this report: the emotional turmoil a Gorbachev suffers, and which gains intensity as one grows older, has not yet found its upper-limit in me. I am 18 years old, perhaps the oldest Gorbachev to have opened less than seven different Eyes... and yet, I opened some dozen distinct Eyes of Judgment during the Class 2 Threat. I am no fool: though my guardian keeps me away from sensitive data, it is obvious that I am... flawed. Despite my ability for healing magic, I fall short of the Gorbachev ideal. The facts as they must be accepted are as follows:

Fact #1: Gorbachev Baseline. The Gorbachev bloodlines all wield incredible power. Despite this, they are known first as saints and healers... not as weapons of mass destruction.

Fact #2: Emotional Fragility. A Gorbachev becomes hypersensitive and prone to bursts of emotions as they grow up, peaking during puberty. These outbursts are held to be responsible for the appearance of new Eyes. The opening of an Eye mutes or controls the emotion that preceded its first opening. Some Gorbachevs become normal, balanced human beings: others have significant gaps in their personalities, where an emotion was thought to have been "consumed" entirely by the realized Eye.

Fact #3: Emotional Control. A well-balanced Gorbachev opens at least seven Eyes, and can lead a peaceful, controlled existence. The greatest of them have opened more than twelve distinct Eyes, though could barely be called "human". The longer it takes for an Eye to open, the more intense the emotion becomes, and so more readily triggers the opening of an Eye.

Fact #4: My Fragility. After my first opening of the Eye of Judgment, I've not allowed any emotion to express itself in me. I used the traditional control bands as a child, and designed my first limiter suits before they were rendered ineffective. I had theorized that the emotional build-up, sensitivity to stimuli, and overall fragility of psyche had a limit. I believed I could control that limit.

Fact #5: My Lack of Control. The limits I thought I had found have been surpassed; therefore, there seems to be no limit, and the heights of my sensitivity and emotional fragility have reached unhealthy, illogical depths, enough so that the limiter suit is no longer sufficient to contain me. Without the suit, and appropriate doses of tranquilizer , I am no longer a functional human being. I have destroyed a previous record of fifteen years for being the oldest Gorbachev to have yet to open more than one Eye. It may be that I have ruined myself, as a human being, by denying my emotions until now.

Fact #6: New Development Regarding Anger. Despite opening the Eye of Judgment, my anger remains. More importantly, that anger's ability to summon the Eye of Judgment involuntarily is more than prevalent. Hypothesis: emotions that neighbor simple rage or anger are allowing it to re-express itself. If so, my previous conclusions are wrong: I am more dangerous than ever.

Conclusion: I am losing control.

Tricia blinked moisture gathering on her eyes, and she closed them to let the tears roll down her cheeks. If nothing else, it was only more evidence of her conclusion. More tears came.

It took a few minutes, of thinking of nothing but failure and isolation, but she overcame the small, simple bout of emotion and steadied her breathing. She looked down to her hands and let the suit's illusion of skin fall away. She took comfort in those black-wrapped digits. It was control. It was safety.

Former Primary Directive: using limiters for emotional equilibrium, seek graduation and career within one of the family's medical technology firms.

New Primary Directive: regain control, such that the former primary directive may be achieved.

My new objectives are as follows:

O1) (A) Develop new limiter suit that can scale to all future developments, or (B) find a safe and secure way to open all of my Eyes and become a proper Gorbachev.

It read like lunacy to her. She had denied it as a possibility for almost half her life... she was 18, but truly she never knew the emotional turmoils of puberty, love, or hate. This was madness... and so she set her sights on (A), if only to calm herself.

O2) Experiment with the new Eye and learn of its properties. Once identified, cross-reference with guardian to identify it.

She opened a footnote to the second objective and scribbled the events preceding the second Eye, which now warmed her face to consider. She rode a boy- no, a man, naked, and... lustfully. Lust, then? But then anger... no... jealousy? Want? There were too many emotions, mixed into a mad soup, for her to try and identify the Eye with her feelings alone.

O3) Re-establish rapport with the offended mage and confirm that he was not permanently affected by the new Eye. [Immediate Priority]

She finally turned from the one game left, logging out of it as she played it: with a spare thought channeled through the suit's quantum computer. She changed positions, and the thousands of metal stems beneath her rose and fell to shape into a chair that molded around her. Sprawled, a bit awkwardly twisted, but comfortably nestled in the grip of her home, she reviewed the short, simple list hovering before her. It was daunting... especially if she had to worry about future attempts. She had spent the rest of the day checklisting her security, contacting the Brightons enough times to irritate them into being "predisposed" for the rest of the night, and checking in with her guardian by texts to ensure no one else was under attack.

They were lone actors, she had been assured. They were all killed or captured. The captive mage admitted they hoarded her location and identity for fear that someone else might pluck her out of the school before they could smuggle her out. They had no reason to believe anyone else was aware of her.

She was safe.

She looked down at her phone... and at the text prompt for John Newman. Her frown deepened. "Inject a single dose of level 2 tranquilizers."

CONSCIOUSNESS CANNOT BE GUARANTEED. CONTINUE?

She breathed slowly as she tried to calm herself. "A level 1 tranquilizer, then." The seeped into her skin, and she felt relief wash over her. Her phone, like any of her networked devices, began to type out her projected thoughts through her false name and online identity.

Danielle Kislev: Good evening, or morning, Mr. Newman. I apologize for this message at an unusual hour, but I felt the need to address you as quickly as possible. I do hope you understand that my sexual unto you was not part of the non-sexual experiments I promised-

"God, no," Tricia hissed. The message vanished.

Danielle Kislev: Good evening, or morning, Mr. Newman. I apologize for this message at an unusual hour, but I felt the need to address you as quickly as possible. I have not advised you of my particular emotional instabilities, which would explain-

Again she shook her head violently, and like an Etch-a-Sketch the brief shake cleared the words from her smartphone. Additional drafts came and went, each time erased when her self-doubt, her fear, her ingrained insecurities, and all the worries of how someone she didn't deserve might take it, kept her from ever submitting any of them. Eventually, the tranquilizers had settled more in her mind, and a sterile, machine-like message was finally ready for submission.

Danielle Kislev: Good evening, or morning, Mr. Newman. I apologize for this message at an unusual hour, but I felt the need to address you as quickly as possible. The events of this past 24 hours were no doubt trying for you, but I wanted to assure you that I am back under control and will do my best to not allow myself to trouble you in the future with such disastrous scenarios. In the future, you needn't feel any responsibility for me; I appreciated your efforts, and would reward you with some monetary or magical support, as needed. You are under no obligation to do so, but I hope you will consider aiding me in future experiments, both to learn more about yourself and to support my aspiration to become a doctor. Thank you, and have a good weekend.

It was fairly clinical, even for her, but she couldn't afford something more than that. He can't know... no... I don't even know... if this is love. It would be an understatement to call me emotionally compromised; it's my very nature. I've no reason to love this man; he was simply the first to... reach me, in such a way. He wasn't the first to save me... A warmth spread through her, and she gasped in amazement. Short of being rendered then, she would always feel emotions about this attractive stranger in her life. I'm even trying to get him back in here... what's wrong with me...? I've known him for hours, not months. These emotions cannot be trusted. I must...

She screwed her eyes shut, and opened them wide as she realized it: she was doing it again. This denial... this damned denial that put her in this situation in the first place. No. She sat up straight, and the chair reformed to follow and support her. I have to embrace this, or I will never be able to change the course of my life!

"I will no longer deny it," she declared to the empty lab. The drones turned to regard her. "I will embrace my truths... no, my emotions, however fleeting, however vague!"

The drones cheered with their beeps, pumped gun-arms in celebration, and displays for data revealed eyes shaped like hearts or upside-down "U" characters. They were with and for her, all the way.

She felt fine shouting it here; she was alone, with naught but her machines as witnesses. But even this took courage she almost couldn't bear, and was trudged forward only because of her determination to embrace her feelings. She inhaled, and quietly shouted the words that wrote themselves out in her mind. "I love you, John Newman, in at least a sexual, and quite possibly an emotional, capacity!"

Some drones lightly protested this revelation; some cheered; some threw confetti into the air; others tossed their guns or tools in protest.

But they were drones, and so quickly picked up their tools, cleaned up the confetti, and went back to work as she let her words ring in her own ears.

Satisfied, she gave a huff of renewed confidence. "I'd like to engage my weekly resting period early," she whispered to her suit, pressing send on her text message. "Whatever fatigue my time without limiters may have caused must be washed away... in fact, make it a twelve-hour rest period, and forward a doctor's note to the Academy's office for my absence."

She yawned as new tranquilizers ran through her system. Sleepily, she stared at her message to John. She had to hope he would understand her intentions, veiled as she made them. No, he wouldn't, but maybe he'll pity me enough to actually help me. He did feel... SOMETHING, enough to save me... so maybe... maybe...

Tricia stared at her phone with half-lidded eyes. She blinked, confused.

She brought the phone closer, doing her best to blink away the chemical fatigue as she read it again.

Her eyes tried to shoot open as she read it a third time, but it was too late to be attentive.

Danielle Kislev: Good evening, or morning, Mr. Newman. I apologize for this message at an unusual hour, but I felt the need to address you as quickly as possible. The events of this past 24 hours were no doubt trying for you, but I wanted to assure you that I am back under control and will do my best to not allow myself to trouble you in the future with such disastrous scenarios. In the future, you needn't feel any responsibility for me; I appreciated your efforts, and would reward you with some monetary or magical support, as needed. You are under no obligation to do so, but I hope you will consider aiding me in future experiments, both to learn more about yourself and to support my aspiration to become a doctor. Thank you, and have a good weekend. I love you, John Newman, in at least a sexual, and quite possibly an emotional, capacity!
Sent 12:09AM

"Eh... wait... w-...wai... n..." Her thoughts slowed, and her limp body was slowly cradled back by the shape-shifting floor-furniture. A helpful drone took the phone from her hand before it could fall, beeping a happy 'good night' before flying off. "Come... ba... I... can't..." Desperately she tried to fight the next twelve hours of chemical sleep... she still had time to erase it, to try and hack through John's cellular network, to erase the message from the database and from his phone. It would be elementary to do, to save face, to prevent whatever terrible humiliation and alienation was promised by him reading those words.

A fleet of drones fell upon the snoring body of Tricia. Owing her worried expression to fatigue, they carefully carried her to her proper bed.