Saturday, November 15, 2014

11-15-14 Writing Warm-up
8:47 AM

11-15-14 Writing Warm-up

11-15-14 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © apterus, All Rights Reserved -
Story and Characters © Brannon Hollingsworth, All Rights Reserved
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

"What in the name of-- Wh--? What happened here, Simson?" Albrecht was even more furious than usual this time. His pale German complexion was flushed beet red, and his thin, golden hair was flying helter-skelter. It looked like he'd been chopping wood all morning (he certainly had the physique and genes for it), instead of merely walking into the most secret UWO (United World Organization) R&D lab on the planet.

The short, mousey man with the coke-bottle glasses and the nearly bald plate stood stock-still; he was a deer in Albrecht's on-coming headlights. If it had not been for the unconsciencious twitching of his upper lip (and with it, the greasy, smarmy, pencil thin black "moustash"), one would have thought the brilliant doctor and geneticist Simon Smith was a statue.

A particularly small, nervous, rumpled, and trollish statue, but a statue nonetheless.

"Answer me, Simson! Speak, you buffoon!" Albrecht Bergmann, the world's foremost and famous roboticist/nanotechnologian screamed like a angry caveman.

"S-s-s-sir, I...I don't know. I simply don't know. It was fine night when I left. B-b-b-ut this mornin-" Simson's words were interrupted by a giggle tinkling from the glass enclosure that he and Albrecht had begun to refer to as "The Crib". Simson thought it was a fitting name for the space, after all. What he and the brilliant (if not a little unstable, at times) German were creating was more like a child--an entirely new creation on planet Earth, truth be told--than anything. The enclosure It was housed in was like a combination state-of-the-art operation room, top-of-the-line incubator, ultra-high tech IT/server room, and an old fashioned nursery when you really got right down too it.

Albrecht was cursing now, flinging reams of encoded data reports across the room, as if merely touching the information-filled books could clue him into why this had happened. His bloodshot blues scanned across the mission control-esque bank of high-end monitors that supplied every concievable element of information that someone could desire when carefully watching over a precious and coveted creation. "What about the security recordings from last night, Simson? What do they show?"

Simson gulped audibly. He knew this moment would come. He'd seen the recordings. He'd seen them many, many times since he'd arrived at the Facility in the wee, pale hours shortly after dawn. He'd seen them and not believed. He'd already grappled with what his eyes had shown him and the utterly illogical conclusion. He did not know how Albrecht would deal with the information.

Simson was by no means a Church-going man, but he'd read. He'd listened. He never believed before. But he did now. Oh yes, now Simson believed.

The small scientist ran his pudgey fingers over the few wisps of long, slicked-down hair that he still had on his head. Another giggled trickled in from The Crib, causing him to shudder. He licked his too-fat lips and pointed to the button on the space-age console that would show Albrecht something that he would likely not believe. Something that would change his world forever.

It seemed silly, when one thought about it. It really made no sense, whatsoever.

Albrecht jabbed the button as if the very act could rid him of his anger and frustration. His eyes slowly began to widen, and his blonde-haired head mechanically began to rotate back and forth.

Simson almost chuckled to himself. He knew what his abusive partner was feeling...what he was thinking. In retrospect, Simson felt like he might be going a little mad himself.

Just why in the world would the Devil--the real-deal Satan of the Bible: horns, hooves, and all--want to appear bodily and possess Cyan, the world's first sentient and fully functional Cyborg, was completely beyond him...


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