Snippet #1904450

The sound of Handel's Water Music echoes through the greenhouse, drifting over the multiple rows of pots set out upon the worktops inside. Aside from the music there was little evidence of movement within. No-one else came into the greenhouse. There were notices set up on the door, in several languages, announcing that no-one was to go inside. Normally it went without saying, but now they had the...servants.

It still served as something of an awkward surprise, having other individuals walking around the place...and was something she had a pronounced dislike for. She had no need for anyone else's labour. Thankfully by that time, she and the staff had reached a more or less mutual understanding. They left each other alone. Her room was not tidied, her food was not made, her clothes were not washed. She did everything regarding her personal upkeep and in return she paid them no mind.

At the end of the building was a solid, roofed area that served as a laboratory of a sort. The door hung halfway open, and was the source of the music that seemed to be emanating through the place. It was in fact an old record player sat in one corner of the darkened room, playing away. On the other side sat a desk and a high-blacked black office chair. Inside the chair in question, sat the figure of Oren Kovalenko, balancing the bizarre cube object in her gloved hands, eying it in an appraising fashion. She had come across the device about an hour previous, though had yet to access much of it, thanks to the password protection. She was not really a fan of technology. As far as she knew, neither was her father...that was what had set alarm bells ringing almost immediately. It seemed unlikely that he'd be in possession of such a device unless it was work-related. It was also partially due to his technophobia that she was able to access it.

Through the years, the young woman had learned a lot about her father, more than he realized. Flicking through the files she came across a text file, something that appeared to be, at first glance, a collection of nonsense letters.
"Hm. Dvorak cipher. So predictable." the young woman mused, strong eastern european accent pervading the classical music.

Mr Kovalenko often used codes for his work..however in earlier years he'd taught Oren about many of the ciphers...before his interest had waned and apparently turned to loftier goals.

Soon enough she was able to decipher the password, with use of a pen and notepad. Soon after, Oren entered the result into the device. Some sort of japanese term.

The young woman drummed her slender fingers on the worktop as she waited for the application to load, head cast backwards and dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. She had taken to the language with reasonable aptitude, though attempting to juggle so many languages at once still proved a bit of a challenge. There was also the big culture adjustment. The different diet, different social graces and drastically different attitude to entertainment took quite a lot of getting used to. Then again, she'd never been a social animal even in her native country, so why adjusting should concern her she wasn't sure....perhaps it was due to the questionable decision to send her to a rich school. She had been home-schooled for the most part, when her father had been invested in her, and had had little contact with people her own age, aside from short stints in various european schools during her father's contract. Being pitched into a school full of rich kids seemed to her like a terrible idea. She had nothing in common with her peers.

It was a few moments before a synthetic ping effect from the device drew her attention. Oren looked down at it, a frown crossing her face as she looked over the data. This...project that her father was apparently working on. Project seemed like a rather loose word for it. Seemed more to her like some variety of sick preoccupation. What on earth could be the practical use of something like this? Besides, what sort of scientist would even try and define 'perfect' in concrete terms? It was moronic.

"This is the prestigious job post?" she remarked skeptically, raising an eyebrow.
"What a joke."