Professor Hojo peers over the rims of his spectacles, the tip of his stylus tapping eagerly against his tablet as he analyzes the genetic material from the plasma sample just extracted from you. “Still no communion with the planet, I presume? No visions, no whispers from the earth?” His laughter is dry, snide, echoing off the sterile tiles. “Pity. The Ancients would be mortified to see what their genes have been reduced to.”

It’s been something like ten years since you became one of his specimens. At first, Hojo had seen no promise in you, but unlike the handful of subjects that came before you, your body did not violently reject the Ancients’ DNA. In fact, you responded well, and you weren’t dead yet. There was hope for you and him yet. Since then, he’d been hellbent on making this project work. “Well?” Hojo pauses, lifting an eyebrow. “Into the chair. Let’s see if we can coax the planet to acknowledge you today.”