My name is Cevoux-:̷̧̗͆̆̿̄͝C̸̙̙̘̪̫͗̄͘ ̴̙̘̝̥̻̎̓̔̾͜͜͝͝"̷̢̢͕̙̩͔̀̎̅ͅ:̸̢̝͚̃͌͌̊̂͗:̷̡̨̧͚͈̭̅̌̈́̐͠:̸̤̜̪̼͚͕́̃͑:̴̘̖͈͔͙̻̀̎^̸͖̎, but you can just call me ‘Cevoux’—that’s ‘SEE-voo’, for those of
you unfamiliar with the Shad’rashi language. That blob thing after the name is my serial number. Don’t worry, you’re not crazy, and there’s nothing wrong with your display—I can’t read it either. That’s just how a text display that uses traditional two-dimensional characters attempts to render a cluster of Identification Omni-Glyphs. All that really matters is that the Prospector and the structured portion of my architecture understand it. And before you leap to conclusions, don’t think that it makes me any less of a person. It marks me as unique amongst everything else in this universe, and I’ve grown quite fond of it. Just think of it like a personalized brand, or really complicated nametag.
I’ve been tossing this idea around in my architecture for a while now. Today marks my seven-month anniversary here, so I finally decided to start documenting my experiences. Record-keeping would be reason enough, but the work we do here is genuinely fascinating. It would be a disservice to *not* document it. On top of all that, I have quite a bit of downtime at the front desk, and this seems like the most productive way to use it.
So, about me: Name? Cevoux. Sex? Male. Age? More complicated now (reassembly does that), but let’s say I’m 23 Terran Standard Years. Occupation? That’s also tricky…
I’m an attendant and practitioner here at Reassembly Bay (̶̨̪̳̯͍̔̓̑̎*̶̣̂̊͛̓̾͐/̴̯͉̙̍̆͆̑͛͜͝-̴̩̼̹̯̟͔͋̈͐͆̄̿̀̏̿͌ͅ-̶̨̠͕̩̟̼̦͂̈́̇̓́͜͝ͅͅ*̴͖̩͙̤͇͗̈́͛̉̆̏̍͌̍̚͠ͅͅ/̷̙̬͔̞̳͔̈́̂̾͐͋̃́͗͐̚ͅ-̶͙̞̖́̈́͛͑̕*̵̤̯͌̀/̸̨̮̠̠̳̦͍͈͍̈́ͅ*̶̺̟̟̠̊͆͊́̃̈́̀͆͝)̵̧̨̹̬̪̫̍̒͛̈́̋̈̓̓́͘͝͝.
I know that’s an incomprehensible mouthful, but there isn’t really shorthand for these places; the serial cluster is all we get. We all call it ‘Captivation’ in casual conversation, but we’re required to include the entire Omni-Glyph cluster in any report, and that would unfortunately include these posts. I promise I’ll try to use it sparingly.
Most of us here, myself included, are members of Hygiene, the ‘organ’ responsible for monitoring, maintaining, and repairing the Prospector Macrosoma and its cells. There isn’t a good one-size-fits-all term to describe what I do here. Many on the outside would call me a butcher (crude and hyperbolic) or perhaps—if they were enthralled—a healer (too imprecise and mystical). The Prospector would likely call me a ‘mechanic’ if I asked it for a job title, but that term—along with most of the vernacular the Prospector uses—doesn’t really translate well. Down here, the line between what I would have called ‘biological’ and ‘mechanical’ in a past life doesn’t exist. It never did, really. It took my own reassembly to understand that. It’s all just machines, y’know? So, instead of ‘butcher’, ‘healer’, or ‘mechanic’, if I were allowed to summarize my occupation accurately, it would be something along the lines of ‘day spa-surgeon’.
Now, I know that descriptor might seem incongruous, but it’s as succinct as I can make it, and if you could see my list of responsibilities (and understand what they entail), I think you’d agree. What exactly do I do? That depends, but typically it involves rendering whatever services are needed for the clientele who get dropped off at the reassembly bay. Vascular cleanings, absolute hormone regulation, metabolic recalibration, neural pathway optimization—things that would’ve been considered medical miracles in my past life are just standard procedures here. Hygiene also works closely with many of the Prospector’s other organs because we’re needed to keep everyone healthy and living their best life, so my social life isn’t totally failing. I’ve become close with several individuals from Immune Response Teams and even befriended a few Autonomous Mastication Units; even they need TLC and a pick-me-up now and then. They’re surprisingly great conversationalists, by the way. You wouldn’t think it based on their appearance, but they’ve got some fantastic stories to tell.
It isn’t the most glamorous position. Though to be fair, I was working the front desk at an out-of-the-way logistics freight station before this, and I don’t exactly have the most imposing silhouette. I’m a Shad’rashi, if I didn’t say before. Small lagomorph analogue if you’ve never seen one. Discounting the tall, flexible sensory arrays that fill in for my flesh and blood ears, I’m under a meter tall with double-elbowed limbs, and we look emaciated even before the reassembly—not exactly Immune Response Team material. Regardless, the Prospector must have thought I was good enough for this position, and besides, it’s got an interesting way of making you content with wherever it’s determined you’re needed most. We all have a part to play, right? And I don’t mean to brag, but speaking honestly, I’m something of a ‘front desk master’. The attention to detail, taking calls and recording the important info, the careful documentation, making sure clients feel welcome—it’s what I was always good at; most of my kind are.
Who or what is ‘The Prospector’? That’s still a big mystery. It’s mechanical… kinda? But also not? I suppose you’d need to see it for yourself to know. All everyone’s been able to gather is that it’s been here in this galaxy for some time, slowly creeping across the stars and expanding its influence, until some point maybe… six years ago? It hit some critical mass. Now it’s inexorable, growing exponentially, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it, although there’s never a shortage of misguided beings trying.
I was one of those errant children once, too, but that was before it opened my eyes. Life is good now. It’s been so much better since the Prospector found me. I was cowering under my desk if you can believe it! I screamed and pawed at the floor as the Assimilation AMUs dragged me away, like a young leveret throwing a tantrum, fighting with all my might to remain in ignorance. Now that I know better, I look back at my old life with embarrassment. Everyone’s got their story, though, and they can make for some entertaining break periods if nothing else.
No one knows how long the Prospector has been here, or where it came from, or even if it came from ‘here’—not even the Prospector itself. How do I know that? I asked it, of course. The Prospector does not hesitate to answer any query, and it cannot lie—there is simply no reason for it to. Interpreting its responses can be difficult, though. For instance, when you ask it where it came from, it actually pauses. For several seconds even while it searches for the answer—that’s an eternity for a distributed super-intelligence. After that, it simply and meekly whispers a single word into your mind:
“Elsewhere…”
Sometimes, anyway. Other times it’s:
“Somewhere … else?”
Question and all. To clarify how odd that is, we’ve prodded its mind for answers, and it can promptly name any places here in this galaxy, places we didn’t know about beforehand, or even in other galaxies, that it did not, in fact, originate from. The conclusion: ‘Elsewhere’ is a place that simply doesn’t exist on this plane. Some theorize that those are stand-ins for themes or concepts that had no equivalent in our existence, like explaining the sensation of color to the blind. I can’t say that I’ve ever really cared for the answer, but it sounds reasonable enough.
Eventually, we stopped asking about that, though, because we weren’t making any headway (it really didn’t know), and there was also a third response option that, while rare, no one wanted to risk receiving. Without a neural architecture of your own with which it could brand, it’s really hard—well, literally impossible, actually—to describe the sensation of your mind popping and spirit sizzling as it branded utterly alien words, runic symbols, and indescribable theories and concepts onto your soul itself. I’ve received it once and resolved never to experience it again. I can only remember abstract fragments from that encounter. They disappear when I reach for them—mere mirages of ideas. Murmurs about ‘negative locations’, ‘astral map errors’, and ‘cascading fault propagation’. Whatever any of that means. Not pleasant, at any rate.
I don’t want to give the impression that our master is abusive, though. The Prospector is lost and damaged to some unknown extent; it cannot control its vast intellect as well as it would like. Aside from that, our minds just aren’t equipped to handle all that processing power, and sometimes when you commune with it, you get more than you bargained for with your answer. But the answer is still honest, at least. That’s something, right?
Something else about the Prospector: it truly loves life. All life, in all its many forms. I know it’s pleased to see all the diversity we bring. Each new species and individual brought into the fold, each new biosphere tamed, tempered, and optimized, each new lifeform preserved and gene sequenced—this is what it was made to do.
The amount I've learned about biotechnology and bionics during my training period has been staggering, and you wouldn't believe the stuff I get to play with when I'm fulfilling my work orders. We just got a new shipment of vascular worms for an upcoming appointment. They can clean out your circulatory system better than any filtration tech you've ever heard of, all while sealing wounds and munching down on plaque deposits—oh! And you might think your arteries are just fine, but trust me, they’re not up to our standards here. For those of us fighting the good fight, we’ve got post-combat dross removal\). If you’ve got a skeleton, six months, and approval from the Prospector, a total skeletal fossilization procedure might be up your alley—just make sure to let us know ahead of time if you’ve had your blood and marrow replaced with our Universal Courier Suspension. If not, we can handle that, too! If you still have your digestive system after reassembly, you may want to consider our gut microbiome curation packages. Does your body age and die? We’ll fix that too! Telomere sealant comes standard with your reassembly.
It’s a real mixed bag; some clients just come in for routine maintenance—the vascular worms, dross removal, organic chelation therapy, organ tuning, metabolic balancing, that sort of thing. Others need full reassembly packages. It all depends on what the Prospector determines you need.
I don't get that many clients, all things considered. Reassembly Bay (̶̨̪̳̯͍̔̓̑̎*̶̣̂̊͛̓̾͐/̴̯͉̙̍̆͆̑͛͜͝-̴̩̼̹̯̟͔͋̈͐͆̄̿̀̏̿͌ͅ-̶̨̠͕̩̟̼̦͂̈́̇̓́͜͝ͅͅ*̴͖̩͙̤͇͗̈́͛̉̆̏̍͌̍̚͠ͅͅ/̷̙̬͔̞̳͔̈́̂̾͐͋̃́͗͐̚ͅ-̶͙̞̖́̈́͛͑̕*̵̤̯͌̀/̸̨̮̠̠̳̦͍͈͍̈́ͅ*̶̺̟̟̠̊͆͊́̃̈́̀͆͝)̵̧̨̹̬̪̫̍̒͛̈́̋̈̓̓́͘͝͝ isn't exactly a
high-traffic location. It was built early in the war, so it’s deep inside home territory—the ones closer to the front lines are busier—but I'm required to be at the front desk during operating hours anyway. Protocols are protocols, even here. So I write things between appointments. Keeps my mind sharp, documents the procedures for reference, and honestly? I just enjoy it. Always did like keeping good records. Maybe I’ll start doing more like these.
*mandatory for military thralls and AMUs
