Perception

After about ten minutes or so Hoit seems to have the new chip installed. Unlike Jacob he does not say too much, let alone anything too outlandish. He just seems to do his work.

“So, hey, Hoit, where did you get your glasses? They’re interesting.” The dean asks out of boredom more than anything, trying to keep a straight face for the response.

Hoit looks up quickly, his flashlight still lazily pointed inside the plastic bell. “Uh, wh- why do you want to know?”

“Oh just curious. As you can see I don’t wear glasses. It’s not that I want yours, I am just fascinated by them.”

Hoit looks back down at the ground in thought. “I got them in Europe,” he says finally. It seems as if he might say more but he does not.

After performing what appear to be a few safety precautions the technician reaches inside the open panel one more time, and with a quick twitch of the muscles in his arm, the array is brought back to life. The loud humming rushes past the dean’s ears, cascading down over the edge of the cellphone tower.

Hoit gives a slight nod to himself, punching a few things on the LED display before finally shutting up the panel all together, making the bell whole once more. “Well, I think that should do it.” He gives the dean a small smile, the first he had seen from the tall blonde. There is a sense of pride from the completion of a job that emanates from Hoit, and the dean can respect that.

Still, there is something...off about the man.

“That’s great, Hoit. I really appreciate it. Didn’t take too long at all. You can tell you know what you’re doing.”

He quickly nods at this. “Yes. I mean...thanks. So...” He starts packing up some of his stuff and putting it back into the toolbox. “Who uh, was this NGO group that contacted you?”

The dean blinks a couple times, trying to slow time down. He had forgotten about the NGO group. When he had contacted the Department of Communication he had not mentioned it. He didn’t even mention it to Jacob.

Hoit blinks expectantly behind the thick glass suspended in front of his eyes.

The dean has two options here: ask Hoit how he could possibly know about this, or pretend not to have noticed the mistake.

“I don’t remember the name, Hoit. Not off the top of my head. It was more the insistency on their part that got me to act. I suppose I just thought a checkup couldn’t hurt, you know? Sort of an intuitive thing.” The dean pauses, his suspicion wafting. “Didn’t you get the numbers we sent?”

Hoit shuts the toolbox with an edge of veracity, taking a few steps towards the dean, and the stairwell. “Yes, but...there was no name. ” He hands him a rather plain looking card white card with a feint but shiny pattern of grey triangles in the background. On it, along with his name, it reads ‘Department of Communication’ in black type. “We need the name.”