The elevator doors slid open with a gentle hiss, releasing John Ripley into the psych-ops wing of the tower. The air here smelled different—cooler, cleaner, designed to calm. He walked past a series of white-walled consultation chambers, floor sensors tracking every step with inaudible precision.
At the far end stood Dr. Ara Honami's office. The glass dissolved as he approached, recognizing his retinal signature. He stepped inside.
Ara was already standing, arms folded, her back to him as she examined a long vertical display of shifting cognitive patterns. Thin, luminous lines arced across the screen—brainwaves, behavior tags, emotional drift markers—all traced from Ripley's mental data archive.
"Sergeant Ripley," she said, without turning. "Take a seat."
He didn't. Not yet.
She finally turned. Ara Honami—Bineth's Head of Psychosis and Mental Health Revaluation—looked exactly as he remembered: composed, immaculately dressed, and hard to read. The only softness about her was her voice, and even that was surgical when needed.
"You submitted your report late," she began, gesturing for him to sit. This time, he obliged.
"Apologies," Ripley said. His tone was level. Polite. Practiced.
Ara stepped forward, fingers dancing across her holographic terminal. "I've reviewed your cognitive scans. You've been showing signs of irregular sleep patterns."
"New neighbor," John replied, "metalhead. hard rock at 3 a.m. daily."
Ara arched a brow. "A tech-breach like that shouldn't go unnoticed by your home system."
"It's…old tech. Haven't upgraded in a while."
She paused, then nodded. "I'll authorize a system refresh. Including auditory dampeners and environmental filters," Her tone cooled as she added, "You'll also receive a neuro-suppressant. Mild. Helps realign cortical balance."
A 3D-print pod on the far wall came to life, quietly assembling the drug capsules.
Ripley said nothing.
Ara studied him again—more carefully this time. She waved the mental report open into the air.
"You're not using it," she said.
John blinked, just once.
"Your Bineth enhancements. Minimal output. No extended engagements. No recorded strain. Just clean reports and half-used telemetry. It's like you're... coasting."
John kept his expression neutral. "I've been efficient. Most cases didn't require full output."
Ara didn't immediately answer. She tilted her head slightly.
"Bineth relies on feedback. Our enhancements grow with use. They learn. Adapt. You know this."
"I know," he replied. "I've just been lucky. Clean hits. Clean ops."
The silence that followed said everything else.
Finally, she nodded slowly, closing the display.
> "Lack of Bineth activity is noted. Be aware: persistent inactivity flags behavioral review. Full audits are unpleasant as you are aware."
Ripley nodded. A soldier's nod. The kind that said, I understand. I won't push it. Not yet.
Ara hovered over a final screen. A decision prompt blinked softly:
[Mark session as SUCCESS] —or— [Flag for PENDING observation]
She hesitated... then tapped SUCCESS.
"You're clear, Sergeant," she said, her voice now almost too casual. "Try the new meds. I'll schedule another sync in three weeks."
Ripley stood.
Outside her office, the calm veneer of the psych-ops wing faded. His comms buzzed again.
Pluckett.
"Hey Johnny, get off that damned rock, will you. I've got something."
Ripley paused mid-step.
The hallway lights dimmed subtly, a brief fluctuation in the tower's grid.
He exhaled through his nose.
Time to move.