Thoughts: Fed, Mind: Dead
「 RAIN 」— “you can't save anyone, you can only love them.”
Rain stands there, fists half uncurled. Not in those shitty Ministry robes, because, come on, not many people have the clearance to go in here anyway. There are like... five. Her civilian clothes have nothing to do with how she's doing the daily checkups. She's never been fond of the uniform and she isn't too encouraged by the current administration. In the space between her unclenched fingers, some type of projection flows. It's funneled into a screen wide space in front of her. The light emitted glances off the glass of the tub. Her face is screwed up in concentration - only for the moment to be ruined by a loud ACHOO!. The projection flickers to avoid the germs. "We really need to clean this place up," she says out loud. "Not just that part. The physical part as well." She sighs, shakes her head, and turns her attention back to the projection.
It's an uplink of data, magically coded for every specific brain given access - and it's powered by brains. Literally. The system feels alive (it is) as it processes her link. Source identified. Welcome back, recipient. The projection expands to surround her with a screen of information. Every time she hears that confirmation, she needs to fight back the giddiness. If someone had told her years ago that this existed, she might've had a little more faith in the world. Almost all of the Ministry's information is up in their private virtual web. Not the DoM's. They'd made their own years ago, a complex cataloguing system dissimilar to any other that held the likes of the mental signatures of the big, the bad, and the ugly. Powered by pure thought. Most of it is kept under tenfolds of migraine security (she'd been disappointed to know that no, they didn't have a security level that blew someone's head open physically. yet.), because some of the archives locked even to her are a breach of human rights.
You can't get any more secure than a system founded by some of the most powerful Occlumens ever to practice the art. The amount of misdirection, manipulation, destruction, and obstruction to a brain that would occur if it tried even breaking through the most superficial level without the correct permissions - it's the kind that got your ass on the ground for a few weeks, minimum. And with everything on nearly on the speed of thought. Rain wishes her wifi could be even the tenth of the speed she breezes through the analyses. She ticks a few boxes for her and Bri's current side baby, mourns the lack of movement on their main one, and takes a cursory look at Toby's files. He's still missing and she can't track him. He hadn't consented to that, and though her department has a history of stepping all over people's rights to privacy, she's respected that. There are a few more things she has to look into, but they're hardly urgent. Her hands drop to her sides and the projection disappears like vapor. She has to blink to readjust to the lower lighting. "Good night," she calls out softly, to no one. Under Fitzgerald, even her branch have gone deep, deeper into secrecy and early nights. She hasn't heard a laugh in months, maybe years, in this place. Exhaling slowly, she shoves her hands into pockets and walks out.