Ah, December. If I had balls, I’d probably be freezing them off right about now. I’ve been traveling around to check on people a bit more. I can’t entirely blame them, but I can partially blame them, so it’s all their fault. Stupid Technolutionary and Fortune Cookie.
So, yeah, a word with Technolutionary. He claims he’s had some major breakthroughs with everything. I kinda figured that, given what he did to make Beetrice what she is now. Except the name. That was a horrible choice by her. I suspect he gave her some of my DNA for her to come up with nomenclature that bad, but that’s not really hereditary. Besides, she still has this odd idea about wanting to sex me up. It’d be completely inappropriate for me to know if I’m related to her through retroviral-related DNA hijinks.
So I pulled on my armor and headed over to find Technolutionary all alone, sitting in a spinning desk chair, holding a gun to his own head. I almost kicked my shoe at him, I’d grown so used to my horrible feminine footwear. Instead, I tossed his salad. I’d brought him a salad just because. I actually hoped he wouldn’t eat it. That place makes some great ranch dressing. Technolutionary can testify to that, since it knocked the gun away.
“That’s very smooth,” he said casually, ignoring what I’d walked in on. He shook his head and to get more of the salad off, then stood up. “Allow me to wash up and I’ll be with you.”
After that, he updated me on the project to make a lot of people Homo Machina. I can’t remember if either of us gave it a fancy name. Like Project: Genetic Insertion or Operation Artificial Penetration.
I noted Technolutionary didn’t seem as enthusiastic as normal. And the lab didn’t seem to have anybody else in it but us. Even at the centrifuges, where he never hesitated to test animal fluids for signs that his treatment worked but they just weren’t doing anything, not a soul was stirring. Not even a mouse.
It would have been rude to invade his privacy and check the wired security network. I’m not saying I didn’t do it, I’m just acknowledging it was rude when I did. Humanbots, dogbots, ratbots. Nothing unusual there in those specimen rooms. The humanbots, by which I mean humans whose brains and some body parts he’s effectively cyberneticized to the point that they are no longer autonomous and serve him, looked like he’d branched out to a trailer park, but no sign of his interns. Might have to talk to him about some of the equipment, though. I couldn’t tell exactly what some of it was for, but I doubted all of them were necessary for converting people and trying to give people my abilities.
After all, I’m working on an appropriately-named deadline here. He’s got shit to do instead. But I figured I’d handle things delicately. When he walked back in, I told him, on my best manners, “Hey, mind telling me where everyone is? We can’t keep getting you help if you’re just going to kill them all. And you know it’s serious when I’m the one saying that.”
He sat down at a desk nearby and picked up a Styrofoam cup that sat there. “Ungrateful bastards. I have attempted to impress upon them the importance of our work here. We are changing the world. Remaking it. This has the potential to be the single greatest scientific discovery in the history of mankind. They’re taking exams and getting drunk. That’s their excuse, and I can tell you it is simply an excuse because they are not doing them in order. We are losing invaluable time!” He tried to throw the cup to make a dramatic gesture, but it sorta drifted to the floor.
There wasn’t a whole lot I could of advice I could give him but, “Fuck ’em. You’re Technolutionary, and they are mere college interns. You’ll show them. You’ll show them all!” I raised my fist in the air, trying to inspire him.
Technolutionary jumped up. “They haven’t seen the last of me! Soon, my plan will be complete!”
Ah, revenge. A classic motivation for mad scientists. To think, those fools scoffed at his ideas. I didn’t scoff, I don’t think. I just recognized the potential harm in giving a bunch of people my abilities. Screw society, I don’t want to die here. It just so happens that now means letting people have my abilities.
Technolutionary wasn’t the only one down in the dumps. Moai’s been moping around the office, too. It’s because I haven’t let him go outside a whole lot. I think even Carl’s straining against his current position. Crash is irritable, but that’s so much the norm that it’s barely worth noting. Then again, I’ve been feeling unsatisfied as well. I almost feel like going to another state for the sole purpose of insulting their people and daring them to stop me.
But this isn’t my pity party. It’s not even Puddles Pity Party. I recommend giving that guy a listen, by the way.
Now, if only I knew someone who could provide advice about the future. Who could guide me, and tell me what I needed to know to make things better…
I was thinking that in my office while poking a fire. Surprised the hell out of Crash when she stopped in. She took one look at the fire in the middle of my floor and shut the door again. I immediately shot her a text. “Crash. Get me every copy of World War Z and Wanted on DVD. Hurry before fire goes out. I love you.”
Telling random people I love them is just good manners. It either makes people feel better or creates an interesting moment in their day. Rarely has it ever gotten me into trouble, aside from that time with the Russian mail-order bride.
I just sent off the text when I got a new one, and not from Crash. It was Fortune Cookie, archnemesis of sports bookies everywhere. “i told u not to ask me for help but i will wrap you if something happens. people r super depressed and you could fix that but i won’t say how.”
Tsk, tsk. Ability to see the future clearly doesn’t translate to texting skills.
But she had a point. She had told me before to basically stop going to her for any sort of advice because it made it harder for her to see major threats. Not that she’s perceived any anyway. Unless she means the depression. But if she’s really serious about what she thinks I need to do, then things are about to get lively.
I walked over where Moai stared out the window at the city. I put my right arm on his back and gestured across the skyline with my left. “Assholes, Moai. Assholes as far as the eye can see. I think it’s about time they got loosened. Come on, help me put on my armor. It’s about time we gave this city a quick, fierce injection. An injection of you and me.”
Moai and I were busy that night. The next day brought with it a slew of new crimes to report. Like how a pair of criminals had broken into a Long Life medical clinic and made off with thousands of dollars of supplies. Elsewhere, someone broke into a free clinic and left a big Douglas fir tree with pills and gauze and such under it, with a note claiming they were from a donor called the Lord of Misrule. Normally, the police might look down on that sort of thing and take that stuff in as evidence to be returned to Long Life.
Problem was, the security cameras. They don’t show enough details about the perpetrators for some odd reason, but they clearly show that the free clinic received their donation about forty-five minutes before the Long Life clinic received its illicit visitor.
Then, there was the crime discovered at a hardware store that sold trees. They found a cop with assorted pine tree branches glued to him, hanging upside down in the Douglas fir section. He turned out to be a beat cop who’d been beaten and carjacked while on patrol right by an orphanage that received an anonymous donation. Funny how that keeps happening.
They found the officer’s car parked halfway inside a Greek diner. The restaurant had long been known to them as a front for Frank Frangopoulos Jr., a notorious cigarette smuggler. “But the alleged smuggler’s business has gone up in smoke now that police found thirty kilos of cocaine scattered all over the place.”
Hey, don’t feel bad for Frank. His lawyers will have a field day with the fact that twenty of those kilos still have tags on them from the ECPD evidence lockup. It won’t look as good when cameras at the evidence room show what looked like Frank forcing his way in to steal twenty kilos. And who knows if they’ll ever find out where the extra cocaine came from?
Curious minds want to know, including Powder on The Order Forums, under the topic of “Lord of Misrule?”
The forums were a fairly nice place, all things considered. There were a couple topics thanking other members for helping. Big Bad Wolf and Herne the Hunter were posting back and forth under the topic of “Flea Prevention Methods.” Powder even had an apparently detailed post on the best “’Cake’ Recipes.” Don’t know what the euphemism is for, though. Maybe she’s not yet used to the idea that we’re all criminals.
She was especially busy in the post about my antics. She swears the Lord of Misrule stole the coke from her because she got blackout drunk and woke up on a pallet of cigarettes. She still hasn’t found her bed.
Trust me, she doesn’t want it back. I swear, I tried to give it away to some people sleeping under a bridge.
While my little romp amused them, it didn’t go well for everybody. Herne the Hunter got fed up and posted several angry comments about Frangopoulos, like “FML, FWIW this SOB rekt my protection income from Frango.” Pretty sure that’s not the correct use of “rekt.”
I didn’t know that. Seemed like a good time to break in as Banshee and suggest people start posting those sorts of things so we don’t accidentally step on each others’ toes.
As for me, I enjoyed my outing as well. While I hid my identity a bit with the cameras, it felt good to run around as myself again. After all, the Lord of Misrule is usually just a title. And my misrule of Empyreal City has just begone.
I’d put in a mouthpiece if I were you, Empyreal City, because I’m about to deck some halls.