Standing before a domineering ebony door, her dainty hands trembling in reverence before it. Strands of pastel purple hair from her face to read the silver nameplate: 'Alice Gwendolyn Mathers. A name significant enough to make her heart throb, forcing her hand away in disgust at her unworthiness, or so she thought. Her presence emanated through the entrance, quivering before her, as she barely held in her ingenuity and prowess. To be basked in Alice's reverenced presence was like meeting her prophet; she couldn't imagine what she would want with a common lass like her.

Ideas of worship and fellowship looped through her imagination, making her body sway with excitement and her hands clutch her grey bishop's hoodie until voices permeated the door faintly. She leaned against the door, hoping to catch even the slightest whisper, but her racing heart drowned out anything she might have captured. Before long, the voices stopped. She wondered how long she had been standing outside, revering her, praising her, and making her wait. Wait, I made her wait. Panic filled her mind, driving her to act.

Pushing the hefty gates open, ready to bow her petite frame, the morning sun shines through the baroque windows lining the back of the office, illuminating her figure seated at her desk. With her fixated view expanding to take in Alice's glory, she finds two undesirables at her sides, dissolving her delusions: a single-armed lady slinging her fur-lined coat atop her shoulder, the coat of arms stitched at the chest, and a venomous gaze evaluating her shaky demeanour. She looks to her side, finding a coat hanger with only his midnight-black coat.

She deliberated on her first words, but Mr White took the lead. "I'm sure you've heard the news of that terrible scandal, and unfortunately, it has reached our campus, with one of our forensics lecturers involved."

As rehearsed, Alice Mathers continued, "I have taken it upon myself to recommend you, Phoebe, to take over some of her classes. Only the classes pertaining to your expertise in Omega."

Phoebe takes a moment, calculating her words, "How about the remainder of her classes?"

"That's for us to worry about." Vice Principal Ashe provides her input. "We have provided you with her private office to operate in; within it, you'll find the lesson plans of what you'll have to cover."

"I believe this opportunity would help share insight that your predecessor lacked, as well as additional 'benefits' we can provide." Alice sweetens it up for her, "That is, if you are willing to accept the offer."

Phoebe tries to process the duties pressed upon her.

"Take your time in deciding, since this would be a disruption to your regular schedule"

"I will, Lady Mathers," Phoebe states.

Alice waves her away. This girl is too much sometimes, a bashful grin emerging.

With her exit, Ashe asks, "Lady Mathers?" and, more so to Malcolm, "Why don't you call me Lady?"

Malcolm rolls his eyes before making his way out, leaving behind his coat. Ashe follows closely behind.

"Hey!" Alice calls out to him. "We still have the bots to discuss!"

The door shuts, and the demands are left unattended.

Firm dual footsteps echo through the unadorned House of Commerce and Economics halls and into one of the few lecture halls. The gossip and nervous chatter of three dozen young adults that once filled the room dissipated, some of which was absorbed by the scattered acoustic padding on the walls. The door makes a heavy click as only one set of footsteps enters, while the other remains outside.

The students rushed into their self-assigned arrangements. Some shuffled in their seats, clustered together, while others preferred solitude, leaning bored against the row-long tables that matched the room's curvature. Some panicked to make themselves proper before meeting Mr White's gaze. Aris remained still throughout, seated in the third row, braced for his arrival.

Illuminated by light from the high windows, he greets the class gently, his steps echoing the path to his desk at the far end of the lecture hall. He prepares the presentation while awaiting the class to match his grace.

The projector sparks, drawing their attention. As Mr White made his way to the centre stage, speaking through the course details, his attention drifted to reading faces rather than slides. Identifying the archetypes present in class: collected together in groups in the trailing rows as if drawn to each other's collective disinterest; the eager few making up much of the front row but keeping their body language guarded as if to avoid each other; and when Mr White observed the middle rows, students displaying varying degrees of both attitudes.

When his eyes met those of Aris in the middle of it all, he was met with nothing—not defiance or submission, just a mask-like placidity, the same mask he had held in his repertoire. The boy whose anguish lay bare now sat in front of him with a robotic expression.

He began to understand Aris's desire to remain obscure as he witnessed the same practised expression that created his younger self, the same expression he had spent years refining.

Aris held the stare steadily, aware that looking away would signal weakness, but maintaining eye contact felt like opening a window to his inner world. Behind his composed exterior, his mind argued: What's he staring at me for? Don't the others warrant more attention? The children of the people you're already dealing with surely have more to offer than I. What more do you want from that that the others can't give? It's something to do with father, isn't it?

The presentation continued for half an hour, and he welcomed questions from his students, although his clarity left none to be had except one.

Aris raised his hand as if rehearsed, "There is an overlap with some of my exams. What adjustments will be made to accommodate this conflict?"

The question hung in the air, with calculated neutrality, tone indistinct; however, White understood the layers behind it. I'm just another student. Treat me like anyone else here.

Around them, other students perked up at a question many had not been caught off guard by. A girl in the front row pulled out her schedule, suddenly alert to potential conflicts.

Mr White tuned his answer for the entire class: "That can be discussed privately to better accommodate your schedules; however, I assure you that exam papers will be different for the rescheduled exams."

Mr White asked if any further questions were to be had, but between the students scouring the exam calendar for conflicts, he was met with none, and with it, the session was dismissed. The light crowd made their way out with minimal chatter; however, Aris Strider remained, standing in front of the lecture stage, of Mr White.

"The session is dismissed. Why are you still here?" Malcolm asked, curious.

"To discuss my exams." Aris kept his response emotionless, despite his racing heart.

"We can talk about that when you understand your workload. It would be difficult to reschedule a rescheduling, so better to get it one and done." Malcolm observed Aris, finding his body still except for his rising and falling chest through his button-up white shirt.

Aris makes his way, but is met by the person who had waited at the door, walking in and blocking him.

Seeing Ashe's entrance, Malcolm said, "Actually," matching Aris's tone, "while I have you here, there's another matter I wanted to discuss."

With the door blocked by a wall of the effeminate aggression of an amputee. Aris retreats into the room with Ashe blocking the door, obliging his request. Ashe stands by Malcolm, and Aris returns to where he stood.`

"With your resources, you could attend any university in the world. IE, MIT, Wharton... So why here? This isn't exactly known for producing financial titans or having an exciting campus life." Malcolm asks in earnest.

With his new persona wavering at the weight of the answers, Aris deflected, "Isn't that what my personal statement is for?"

"I don't think that's all there is to it," Malcolm pauses, trying to get through the guards he invited in, assuming his naivety. "It's only part of the full picture of who Aris is, so to pose the question again. What brought you to this university?"

Aris's eyes widen in surprise, and Ashe's gaze fixates on him more than usual in equal intrigue.

Aris pauses. Someone is offering him understanding, hope, someone who may be able to take him away from the hand dealt to him. And that same someone has the face of Mr White, I'd be trading one master for another. "I don't believe that has any bearing on my academics, sir."

With the walls cemented in place, Malcolm tenders his surrender, heading to his chair, leaning back into it, studying Aris with the same cold assessment he'd given during orientation.

"You're dismissed, Mr. Strider. When you're ready to have an honest conversation, you know where to find me." Mr White's voice carried the finality of a judge's gavel. As Aris made his exit, White continued to watch the spot where he stood as footsteps echoed in the hall before fading into silence.

With silence allowed to settle, Mr White got up, running a hand through his hair and headed for the door, Ashe following close behind.

The walk to Alice's office was silent, Malcolm's footsteps echoing through the empty corridors. Ashe kept pace beside him, sensing his mood. When they reached the familiar ebony doors, she positioned herself by the entrance while Malcolm pushed through.

White waves the heavy, dark wooden doors open and goes directly to his black coat hanging on the rack.

"Forgetting something?" Alice asked pointedly, her earlier request ignored, slouching atop her desk, half-asleep from boredom.

Mr White approaches her desk until he stands towering above her. "We still have the robots to discuss," he responds with his usual bass and unusual scruffiness in his hair.

Alice sits up, straightening her back, still dwarfed by his height. "About time!" Energy rushes back to her as she looks at Mr White in glee. "Now, where do we begin?"

"With how you plan to justify turning this institute into a tech showcase." Mr White takes a seat opposite her, bringing them somewhat eye level. "Because I won't have students becoming dependent on machines that will do the work for them." Mr White takes a seat opposite her, bringing them somewhat eye level.

"I wouldn't worry about that," she waves her hand dismissively, "if anything, it will keep the menial tasks to a minimum while the students focus on the macro of it all."

"And isn't the whole point of handling said menial tasks understanding the process as a whole?" Mr White's voice sharpens. "You're proposing to rob students of foundational learning. This isn't some backwater institute, Alice."

Alice's enthusiasm falters slightly. "Malcolm, I understand your concerns, but—"

"Do you?" He leans forward. "Because what you're describing sounds like educational shortcuts disguised as innovation. What happens when these students enter the workforce and don't know how to type up a one-page report? Or what will they do when they work in a closed system facility, with no external help?"

"That's not—" Alice stops herself, realising her usual charm won't work here. She takes a breath, adopting a more measured approach. "What I'm proposing is to fill the vacancies created by these arrests. Instead of rushed human replacements who might be fallible, we use robots that special favours cannot sway."

"So your solution to human corruption is to eliminate humans?" Malcolm's stare intensifies. "Tell me, Alice, what happens to the 'human element' this institution prides itself on? The institute that is paid for by the same fallible humans you seek to replace the same human that is speaking to me," he stares down at Alice's hazel eyes searching for her human pride. "So tell me why a shipment of bots benefits these students without enslaving them to these machines."

Alice shifts uncomfortably, then suddenly brightens with a new approach. "Then some perspective is in play," she gestures with her hands as if framing a shot. "The robots will come in as blank slates." She clicks her pretend camera, taking an imaginary photo. "To handle any task, the students would first teach these robots, ensuring they understand the process completely." She shakes the imaginary photo. "And here's the key," she pauses, suspense hanging in the air, "we program the robots to 'forget' certain information periodically, forcing students to re-teach and reinforce their own learning!" She presents a clear photo to Malcolm.

Malcolm studies her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You're suggesting the robots become teaching tools rather than replacements."

"Exactly!" Alice leans forward eagerly. "They're not doing the work for students—they're creating opportunities for students to prove they understand the work."

"And the maintenance costs? The technical failures? What happens when these blank slates forget during a task?"

Alice's confidence wavers. "Well, we'd have backup systems, and—"

"Alice." Malcolm's voice cuts through her scrambling. "This is an educational institution, not a tech experiment. I need guarantees that this enhances learning, not replaces it."

"I can provide those guarantees," Alice says quickly, pulling out a folder. "I've already drafted several plans, fail-safes, and assessment metrics. The robots will be tools in service of education, not substitutes for it."

Malcolm takes the folder, flipping through it slowly. The silence stretches as Alice watches his face for any reaction.

Finally, he looks up. "This is more thorough than I expected. But I want a pilot program first," he returns the folder, " limited scale, constant monitoring, and," he pauses, tension hanging in the air, "immediate termination if a single student becomes dependent."

Alice barely contains her excitement. "Of course! Whatever parameters you need, I'll meet 'em."

"And maybe some implementation in Oliver's courses. Could prove more useful for them." White sounding curious.

Alice nervously chuckles, "I don't think he'd appreciate that very much," her voice trailing off.

Aris leaves the building, releasing all of his pent-up anxiety as he leaves his new persona at the building's door. He sits at the courtyard bench, leaning his weight against his hand. He stares at the garden's Wisteria tree, still full of its colour despite the season's change. But exhaustion overcame his curiosity as he let out another sigh.

"Long day?" a woman with stark yellow eyes asks him, her voice shrouded in timidity despite her excitement.

Not noticing her earlier, Aris jolts upright. "Yeah," he answers hesitantly.

"Do you want to talk about it? I'm Phoebe, by the way," her French accent slipping through.