The Blank Slate

Three weeks later.

The Assignment Facility was a masterpiece of sterile, white perfection. The walls were smooth, featureless polymer. The air smelled strongly of antiseptic and ozone.

Dr. Sera Vance sat perfectly still on a cold metal chair in the center of the intake room. She wore a simple, white, state-issued tunic. Her posture was flawless. Her face was placid, smooth, and entirely devoid of any emotion.

Her mind was a vast, empty white room.

The deep-cortex memory wipe had been exceptionally thorough. It had to be, to scrub the sheer magnitude of the trauma, the love, and the treason from her synapses. She did not remember the Alpha-Prime with pale blue eyes who had died for her. She did not remember the three beautiful, impossible babies currently locked deep within the Ministry’s experimental weapons division, being raised in sterile tubes to become the next generation of super-soldiers.

She did not remember the pain. She did not remember the joy. She remembered only her name, her designation, and her absolute loyalty to the State.

The heavy steel door of the intake room hissed open. A Ministry official entered, holding a glowing holographic tablet.

"Dr. Vance," the official said briskly. "Your biological sequence remains an optimal asset to the Ministry. Your rehabilitation is complete. You have been placed back into the assignment pool."

"Thank you, Administrator," Sera replied. Her voice was flat, melodic, and entirely empty.

"Stand up, please," the official instructed. "Your new Alpha has arrived to collect you."

Sera stood up smoothly. She turned toward the doorway. A towering Enforcer stepped into the room, clad in pitch black, his face a harsh mask of authoritarian control.

Sera looked at him. She felt absolutely nothing. No fear. No recognition. No love.

She was a perfect, empty vessel once again, ready to serve the State in the cold, unfeeling dark of Neo-Angeles.