In a society dedicated to the replication of its own aesthetic, Howard would never be able to pass for stable even at his calmest of times. But it was not necessarily his outward appearances that gave him away. His short, jet-black hair combed neatly to one side, and a white dress shirt coupled with the proper corresponding black pants, were the perfect complement to his company-issued coat. All together, these would give the outward appearance of a collected if fastidious individual, it was certain. His wardrobe was inspired by his awareness of the truth as much as his style, or so he put it. The truth that each moment spent observed was a moment under the microscope of the other.

Howard's hair revealed the early onset of greying, and a fully emerged bald spot was peeking out over his hairline. Whether he had really emerged into adulthood was another matter of much contention. To an unobservant onlooker, he would have seemed to quickly find a look that worked for him and never stopped a good thing. No, what distinguished him against the stable-stock was his constant need for justification accompanied by the aggressive waving of heavy books that were often as dense as they were long. All to what may have seemed to him to be hopeful if fearful converts. For Howard, logic may well have been gospel.

However ultimately detrimental to his survival, it would not come as a surprise that he was considered by most to be a massive prick. Howard was aware of the reputation he was affixed with, and he reveled in it. He saw no distinction between the revulsion of his peers and the pressures of his debts. They would all serve him in the end, he was certain of it.

Unable to find the satisfaction he sought in person; he found another way. Taking up deep roots the WorldNet over, he learned at a scale previously undreamed of, great and horrifying. If pressed to answer, Howard was never certain if any of the people he talked with were actually real. Most Artificially Intelligent Computers have been developed to be exceptionally adept Turing test takers, doubtlessly accelerated by a hotbed of investment by interested parties, not least of which being scams. Howard was pretty confident in his ability to tell one from the other after years of thorough prosecution. Thus he lived safe in the knowledge that his isolation was, in truth, the process of being lifted up and away from the veil of society.

But despite his inclusion into these truths, he yet fails.

This evidence was antithetical to the existence of the man Howard saw in the mirror. How could he explain his failures to his parents? He rested back in his lab seat certain they would not ask. He could not remember how many years of evaluation on this single strand of genetic information had been spent creating something that would be thrown out with no explanation. Howard needed certainty. Despair leaked from his eyes and down into his shoes where they welled up, anchoring his feet to the floor before his computer. Deja reve was a natural impulse that dreaming beings experienced. Howie was just a computer, he was sure of it. But he could not forget the carnage he knew the larger units were capable of. But really the attack was no matter, the fluid system ran through nearly the entire complex, deep into the ground, even to the geothermal power units.

Nervously peering down into the darkness of the tank system, Howard could see no vastness, it was just dark. But GenCo policy always had a purpose, and his lab was liquid-sealed while he was inside for a reason. Hans put it simply: "it leaks, you die."

Howard opened the observation notebook that had remained safely tucked inside the inner most pocket of his locked backpack. He was not sure if it betrayed him or if he failed it, or if any of it mattered. Only evaluation can say for certain. Howard opened the book to his selections of sketches. He preferred to use dot graph paper in all of his writing notebooks, drawing and constructing his lines by his will. What others may have seen as an inconvenience, Howard believed to be an expression of his free will, and similar to the standard lines in every way but form.

His flies were noble, beautiful in their own way. Each lived a life that was devoid of anything that could give it meaning but did so dutifully anyways. Howard considered what the universe would look like to these flies, if to them their brief time among the living is more of a hell than a reality. But it did not matter, their deaths were made certain by powers beyond their comprehension; and yet they fought, until the very end. Their contribution to science would not be forgotten, of this he was certain.

There was no more time to waste. Howard had known full-well that Echo was the designated stage for nonproductive scientists, those in need of remediation. His humiliation knew no end. Those who could not provide value disappeared. Wordlessly transferred to another research facility far away, never heard from again.

His apartment might be small, but it was his. He would not be among the transferred. He would make it certain. His skills were too sharp, his resolve greater than ever. Now was the time for information and action.

"Howie, I need you to run a scan of our last sample. The subject you picked; it could have been a defective selection. I wish I had more information to go off of, but Hans was like he always is, heavy on the criticism light on the guidance."

By way of an upgraded auditory unit, grown by Howie independently, a voice emerged from the console. It was low and kindly, with a faint static in the background. Howard ripped out two elegantly detailed pencil sketches, his Subject, and the Standard Diptera Model designated by the GenCo's encyclopedia biologic. Both were carefully slid into his station scanner. To ensure the fidelity of company data and property, GenCo policy dictated scanned documents were shredded documents. Howie thoughtfully considered the patterns present in both sketches. In a response that sounded more human than Howard was comfortable with, Howie responded: "conclusion code: UE, nice sketches though. Are you okay? I think you should tap into your vacation time, do some soul searching and r&r."

"How is this possible?!" his anxiety swelled in his lungs and radiated into his body. He scanned the contents of his lab searching for the weak link, but in the end, he was left with himself. Sacrifice requires caliber. Howard knew what he had to do. His sample selection must have been an inconsistent body. Howard tried to trace back where in the process things could have gone wrong. At worst it could have been an incomplete application of the company's research RNA strands, one of his worse instructors called it 'skimping on the squirts.' Without the right components the genes would express themselves as if no action was taken at all. The mass production of a normal fly. He carefully prepared another tray of embryos and pulled up the readout of the genetic information, he would uplift these beings, for sure this time.

He looked at each row of specimens before him. He was convinced, his code could not be wrong. His data were perfection, the mistake must be mechanical in nature. Howard scanned over the flowing letter script, four letter patterns that represented the life he wanted to create. His work must be dispassionate, as a follower of Joshua he was a skilled practitioner in the alchemy of emotions. He was able to, conceptually speaking, funnel his discontent and stress into concentrated potential. His raw ingredients were the byproducts of the life he lived. By adapting to a hard environment, one by necessity may become hard. Of this Howard was certain. His will was undaunted. He would show that his work was worthy.

Better data practices required a randomized sample from a sufficiently large selection pool. This made organisms like flies exceptionally fit to survive here, and the perfect counterpart for Howard at the shallow end of GenCo. It is through their amalgamation that they become the most potent forces of science in the modern world. Unfortunately for them. Howard prepared another clip of vials to be injected one after another onto the perfect rows of eggs. Genes were now tiny tools that would imitate a trusted genetic material no different than the developmental cells found in any developing fly. This was a mixture printed just for this species, and it was enough to remove entire strands of its host and fit itself securely inside. It is through the controlled use of countless sequences just like this that one that an observant scientist may orchestrate the expression of the true self.

A sleepless night accompanied a frantic rush to get back to his lab. Along the train he received a push notification for a new podcast, it delved into the life and legacy Teddy Roosevelt. His algorithm was watching over him, this was a subject he loved. Teddy was a real American man. His was an era in which the measure of a person, no matter who they were or where they came from, could come before an objective court of their peers, and be evaluated, of this he was certain. The world had then, naturally, become polluted by evil-doers who, under the guide of false principles, would manipulate small shards of the truth to fasten together a picture as cutting and engaging as the real thing, Howard did not see a use in determining the difference. It was all soft science anyways. The things that mattered to him held measure and meaning. It was commonly known that our material reality had been revealed as an intricate if anticlimactic clockwork system beyond the ability of the human eye to see, nor the human mind to comprehend. We have in turn made our own immutable vastness to learn of its powers and forces and one day compel them to our own ends. The recordings of his grandeur-filled rantings would be the natural ancillary evidence to a wealth of others. It would be an open and shut case, naturally.

Science was a vastness itself. It had already vanquished the false powers of the past, all that lay before it was the future. Humanity was liberated from the endless, vicious cycle of mysticism, brought towards a new sleek guiding light. Its powers were unmistakable, to doubt them is to doubt the nature of reality itself. This was not a good idea for Howard. These thoughts were markers of social deviants, rumors both true and false can spread quickly if they're cruel enough, or so Howard put it.

He still had time. He could still prove his worth to the company. Of this he was certain, and eager to prepare another batch of subjects for study

The RNA sequence looked intact; attached as always to the Greater proprietary genetic information that his work was built into. It was a city of four-letter language unto itself. When applied, it injected a standard template of genetic expression that gave humans the power to augment the deepest layers of organic beings. To GenCo, the sky was not the limit, it was just another symbol.

To Howard, the idea of a civilization of peace was ludicrous. He believed in the freedom of the strongest to compete and produce the best value. The world was wilderness. Although much of it had undeniably been eradicated, the ecologies of the world that was are just as present in the one he lived in. They were just found in different forms, if not in function. A prime example was found in the test. Despised as they were, evaluations gave Howard a lens through which to measure himself. Without sufficient information as to why he was wrong, Howard could not accept that he was wrong. The difference must then lie in the sample size, or elsewhere.

Beaming over his genetically engineered flock with a benevolent creator's smile, he knew it would take until the morning light for their bodies to command them to rise and grow, larger and more beautiful than ever before. Of this he was certain.