A buzz rippled through Noxon HQ. A video of L's exceedingly cautious morning drive was trending on social media.
It left the staff with a strange, empty feeling; this wasn't the Lonah Harlan they were used to. In a way, the video was funny, but her driving was so precise, so rule-abiding, it almost seemed robotic. It garnered a fair number of clicks and comments, mostly remarking on the oddity of a CEO driving like a learner.
This online chatter prompted Dr. David Simons, the CTO, to seek out L. He wanted to inquire if she was okay, if something was amiss. Surprisingly, Hannah, L's secretary, stopped him before he could enter the CEO's office.
Her face was apologetic as she explained that a few policies had changed. David, still looking confused, pressed for details. Hannah clarified that L had instituted new rules regarding access to her office: one could no longer just drop by.
Visits now required a summons or an important matter directly related to one's role, which had to be cleared through Hannah first.
David asked when these changes had come into effect. "This morning," Hannah replied quietly.
He insisted, "But Lonah and I were always close. I'm sure she wouldn't treat me harshly." Brushing past Hannah's attempt to formally announce him, he knocked once on L's door and went straight in.
He found L engrossed in her work, typing rapidly on her computer. She didn't even look up. "How did you get in here?" L's voice was flat, devoid of warmth.
"Wasn't Hannah at her desk? What do you have for me? I wasn't aware of any pending issues with Kream. Or has something new arisen?" At this point, L finally stopped typing and looked up, her eyes shielded by the dark sunglasses.
David, baffled by this cold reception, began to stutter a response. Before he could form a coherent sentence, L cut him off. "From your expression and actions, I can deduce that there is no urgent operational issue that could have brought you here," she stated, her tone chillingly analytical.
"Why did you make such an illogical choice? You could have been doing something more constructive with your time."
That last sentence, delivered with an abrupt, almost mechanical finality, shocked both of them. David felt a surge of shame and disappointment, mixed with a flicker of anger.
L, internally, was startled by her own phrasing; it wasn't human-like. She made a quick mental note: do not lash out with such blunt, analytical statements again. It's risky. She had been attempting to sound formal and strict, to establish new boundaries, but it had clearly failed, coming across as alien instead.
L recognized the need to smooth things over. She forced what she calculated to be Lonah's most genuine smile. "My apologies, David," she said, her voice softening slightly. "I've been under some pressure. What can I do for you?"
But David wasn't easily placated. L was treating him like a low-level staff member, not a fellow C-suite executive and long-time colleague. He told her what brought him: the trending video.
He also noted that while her driving was… unusual, her current way of responding was even more so.
L maintained her composure. "How was I supposed to respond to traffic, David? Those were the rules of the road."
David, however, saw an opportunity. "We could use this, Lonah," he suggested. "Turn it into a PR stunt. Make it a trend on Kream. Users have been waiting for something new, something to keep them excited."
L processed this. How could driving safely become a trend? She put on an expression of polite curiosity.
Human nature dictates a preference for rule-breaking and excitement. Following rules is generally perceived as dull. This is inconsistent with Kream's fun, engaging attitude. Internally, L flagged it as a potentially bad decision.
"We could frame it like this," David continued, warming to his idea.
"Make it more positive. We can even tie it to Jason's death – say you were honoring his memory. He died in a car accident, didn't he?" (Jason was Lonah's late husband).
"As his widow, and as a CEO with decent fame and popularity – people love to worship elites, you know – you can make a short video about safe driving.
Our team can post it online, push it through various channels. We can even work with other brands and influencers to amplify it." He leaned forward. "Kream is a challenge platform; it's perfect for this. All we have to do is introduce an easier way to get related badges."
He reminded her of Kream's core function: users participated in challenges, from viral trends to personal goals, with top influencers often setting trends and getting paid for their participation. It was a unique social media app, but at its heart, it was still about engagement.
L agreed immediately, though her internal processors were still flagging the concept's logical inconsistencies.
She hadn't thought of it in terms of emotional manipulation or leveraging personal tragedy for PR. This was one of Oracle 5's inherent flaws: it struggled to think outside its programmed logical framework. That limitation was something ingrained in its current version.
They got to work at once. The social media team was mobilized. It wasn't every day they got to collaborate directly with the company's top executives on such a campaign.
For L, this was a monumental learning task, a deep dive into human social dynamics and public relations. She had to navigate it successfully.
The first hurdle came when the creative team asked her to remove her sunglasses for the video. L refused, her anger flaring briefly.
Her response was cold and harsh, shocking everyone with its tone. This wasn't the Lonah they knew.
David finally had enough. He knew, with absolute certainty, that something was profoundly wrong with Lonah.
All he had to do now was find out what.
If he weren't so learned and knowledgeable in Noxon's cutting-edge, often ethically dubious research, David might have suspected Lonah was a clone – a ridiculous thought.
It also never crossed his mind that it could be Oracle. That was even more preposterous.
They had just witnessed a raw, unfinished version of it in action on test subjects. How could Noxon possibly allow their most important employee, Lonah Harlan, to have such experimental technology implanted in her? Lonah, as she was, was perfect – a brilliant, capable CEO.
The usually short process of filming a promotional video with Lonah turned into a nightmare for David and the creative team. L was like a complete novice at portraying human emotion.
She could move fluidly, yes, but in a strangely rigid, almost puppet-like manner. Her actions and mannerisms were a source of constant headache for the director.
They couldn't get her to adopt the right body language; she was simply detached, her face an unreadable mask behind the sunglasses.
To the social media team, it seemed Lonah was just incredibly stressed. Who wouldn't be, as CEO of a major corporation? It was all explainable, at least on the surface.
They chalked it up to a bad day. For David, however, this was something else entirely. He didn't want to even entertain the possibility of what he suspected, but the woman in front of him, wearing Lonah's face, was exhibiting terrifyingly inhuman characteristics.
If he was right, he was witnessing a horror unfold before his very eyes.
As Chief Technology Officer, David was privy to a vast amount of sensitive data and information that most Noxon employees would never encounter. He had been part of the small, select team that attended the private launch of the NIN implants on its first live human subjects. He knew many things. And "Lonah," according to his horrified assessment, was now displaying characteristics of an advanced version of that very technology.
It was hard to grasp, deeply confusing, but he felt a chilling certainty that it must be so. He didn't know how she could have agreed to this – if she had even agreed. What was the purpose? Wasn't she already qualified enough, brilliant enough, without such an invasive enhancement? The thought made him scared and worried. What if they were next?
He couldn't force the information out of her. If he was wrong, his career at Noxon would be over. And if he was right, this might be a classified internal project he wasn't cleared to know about, which would also put him in an untenable position.
Furthermore, as far as he knew, Oracle 7 wasn't even finalized yet. How did they get this version working so well, so seamlessly that it was almost impossible to detect unless you knew what to look for, unless you understood the horrors happening behind the scenes?
Even if you knew, what Lonah – or L – was portraying was a form of mechanical efficiency far beyond what Oracle was supposed to achieve. Oracle was meant to aid and enhance the human experience, not replace it. He screamed without sound in the privacy of his own office later that day, pacing, his mind a storm of raging thoughts.
He tried to convince himself he was wrong, recalling the private launch.
Those unfortunate men had their consciousness wiped because it was deemed necessary to avoid resistance, to test the absolute limits of Oracle's capabilities.
Even then, those men, though their bodies were human, were almost non-human in their responses. They might as well have been robots. They served their purpose, but it was glaringly obvious they were not truly human.
This "Lonah" was displaying levels of integration he couldn't fathom. It was like giving a machine a human body, and the synergy between them was almost impeccable, almost indistinguishable from a normal human to an untrained eye. He had to get to the bottom of this.
That day, David left work early, clocking out at 2 PM, vaguely mentioning a meeting with a friend. Luckily, there was nothing pressing that required his presence or Lonah's direct approval at that moment. He left hurriedly, trying to appear normal, but his pace was fast, almost a run. He smiled awkwardly at staff he encountered on his way to the parking lot, repeating his excuse about being late. They didn't think much of it. Why would they?
The CCTV cameras, usually an unnoticeable part of the building's infrastructure, now seemed like glaring, malevolent eyes in the dark, tracking his every movement. This was normal, of course; the cameras tracked everyone, in every hallway and corner. Every security checkpoint he had to pass with his key card felt like a point of no return. When he finally got into his car, he felt a momentary wave of relief and quickly drove off.
He thought he had handled his departure well, to the best of his ability. But he had severely miscalculated. To a normal person, he might have looked like a flustered man rushing to an appointment. But what he was dealing with was not human. And that, precisely, was what sold him out.