Rooke swiped his keycard on the black scanner and the expansive white door slid open, revealing a brightly lit lab. People in lab coats buzzed around the room, sharing their discoveries or hunching over their latest piece of work.  It was anything but quiet—so different than the lifeless room he saw last night.  He strode in, suitcase in one hand, and headed towards the end of the room, where a hallway would lead into his office.

He waved to some of his coworkers and was halfway through the room before a man, his coat slightly undone and a clean beard outlining his broad grin, pulled Rooke by the arm and near an unoccupied, metal table.

“Rooke! I saw the report you published yesterday. Our resident anarchist has done it again!” The man slapped Rooke on the back and continued, “I’m especially pleased that you left in that bit about systemic brainwashing. Good stuff.  Also, you look like shit, brother."

Rooke snorted and cocked an eyebrow, “I could say the same about yourself, Archie,” He motioned vaguely at the man’s beard and smiled, “You’ve still got that monstrosity on your face.  And I didn’t write anything about ’systemic brainwashing’—people are going to get the wrong idea if you say anything too loudly."

Archie rolled his eyes and replied, “Bullshit.  You can call it whatever you like, 'institutional conformity', 'synergetic adaption', or whatever, but I know what you think of The Republic.  There’s nothing to hide, Rooke. You’re amongst intellectuals.  Friends.”  He put his hand on Rooke’s shoulder gently and offered a lopsided grin.

“I know; I’m just not used to—” Rooke waved a hand at everyone in the room, working diligently and freely on their projects,—this."

“Well, you’re here now.” Archie grinned, “And if there’s anything that the STEMS department did right, it was creating the iLab.  There’s a lot of freedom here not afforded anywhere else, although most of us went through a lot of shit to get here.  Anyway, I just sent out the requests for some modules of synergy—we’ll go over the details later."

They waved each other goodbye, and Rooke resumed his brisk pace to the office.  He entered and closed the door sharply and sunk into the chair behind his desk.  It was a large room, he noticed, as he took the time to scan his surroundings.  He had only been located from this office for a few months—his old workplace was larger, but less private and was farther from home.  Here, he had more creative and intellectual license to pursue his projects, with less interference from The Republic, so long as he provided them with the occasional report.  He had done enough for them to last a lifetime.