The drone's feed activates and immediately focuses on Senn. The pilot is dressed in his casuals, and fiddling with a bundle of thin black wires, which from this perspective are stretching forward from the drone's blind spot; most likely, attached to the diminutive machine.
As he mulls around, Senn's face reveals a new set of eye caps, ergonomically designed, smoothed to the edges of his eye sockets, finished with a matte gunmetal color. At the top and lower inside, and far outside edge of each cap are three pinhole-sized divots, covered by glinting silicate glass. With his hair cut so close to his head, it is easy to see the flush access panels on the sides of his forehead. Affixing the other end of the wires to his neural ports, he steps away from the lens.
"Performing a basic diagnostic of the new cybernetics," he explains.
The camera flickers, and suddenly the feed is displaying the camera drone itself; this appears to be Senn's perspective. On a crystal clear feed, a digital frame displays an image of the extensive additions to the pilot's body; a new shell surrounding his natural brain, hexagon-cell plastic reinforcements along his neck and shoulders, supporting new in-pod feed systems and upgraded neural connectors in his spinal cord.
"I have retained forty-five percent of my organic brain. More than enough to maintain autonomy," he continues, looking around the room slowly. The added lenses of the prosthetic eyes provide a wider range of vision, his peripheral field now much larger. The digital frame disappears. He activates various systems to check their functionality; an identification system outlining electrical signals in the room, a binocular feature, an internal crosshair, a streamlined galnet feed.
"My activity has been devoted to Placid lately," he continues, speaking from his subconscious as he continues the diagnostics program. "Intaki. I've been forced to tolerate that system for many hours. The presence of Gallentean militia members and token occupational forces that never leave the safety of a station dock. Caldari liberals backing politicians. Mordu pilots, Federation and State rejects playing the part of security forces. And on every colony, a people willing to forget their blood to suckle the Federation's teat and survive as neither Caldari, nor Gallentean."
Slowly, he switches through different ocular filters; black-and-white thermal optics, ultraviolet, a high-contrast night vision - which he activates only after temporarily turning off the station room's overhead lights.
"I cannot rationalize the rage it inspires. The system is a wasteland of political and patriotic abdication. It has no effect on my effectiveness, nor on my continued survival... my subprocessors can eliminate or control the emotional response. But the fact it exists at all..."
He quiets as the diagnostic program concludes, and disconnects from the drone. Once again, the camera feed displays the pilot, who moves into the far edge of the frame, watching the holoscreen on his wall and lighting a cigarette absently. A plume of smoke appears around his head as he exhales.
"Friends are being made. I will update when possible."
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