Elsewhere, inside a dimly lit chamber far removed from the makeshift interrogation room, which had since become a treasure trove of illegal terminals for a certain Tech specialist to haul away and trace back to their origins, a shadowy figure sat before a data window, seemingly engrossed in whatever information was being displayed.
But just as he was concentrating on the screen, a crisp, cold notification sounded through his terminal, followed by a familiar voice.
"Sir Bram, it seems we're currently in need of a replacement dispatcher for Sector Four," a smooth, melodic voice announced through the speaker. "There was an abnormal fluctuation in the previous dispatcher's autonomic nervous system, which automatically triggered the internal safeguards."
"..."
The two individuals communicating through the floating screens spoke with such clinical detachment that anyone overhearing their exchange might've assumed they were merely discussing a malfunctioning piece of equipment.
