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FONT-SIZE: 8; TEXT-ALIGN: CENTER;">the rule of thumb you have to break</DIV>
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It was one of those days.<br>
Well, it was one of those nights.
William sat in his loft, a small electric wand in his hand, poking at the brain he'd luckily gotten. It wasn't luck, really. It was the power he had, and he had pulled strings in order to get this brain. It was a human brain, and when he'd gotten it it was already dead, making it useless unless he could figure out a way to hook an AI to it and make a perfect electrical charge to pull it out of its current dead state. It wasn't something he could do easily, but for now he could study the brain and see if it was possible to implant conditioning into a mind that was already formed.
After all, bodyguards could not be trusted, and William wanted to have his Harbingers soon. They would be the size of a large human male, built to protect him no matter what. No AI without the feeling that human minds developed could work correctly for the Harbinger concept.
Another shock and the brain twitched. William watched carefully. Where he shocked the brain he stuck a small metal pin in, and put a wave of electricity to the pin. As expected, the pin increased the electric shock, making the brain spring to life for a moment.
Will leaned back, “Alright, Friday. I'm getting sick of you not doing what I want.” He turned up the electric shock and put it to the pin, causing smoke as the tip of the wand touched the pin's metal barb. The jump of brain matter was perfect. The wrinkles of the brain's outer pariental lobe twitched pleasingly. Will gave a small smile, about to perform the shock again when;
“God dammit, I knew
this was happening!” A crash and some more shouts, and Will sighed. Why did he decide to live in a loft where he could hear his neighbors screeching? Why did he want
to be near the cattle that called themselves human? Why did he decide not to live in the Syndicate Tower? It was safer, quieter, cleaner, and it had all the equipment he needed at all times. What made him want to live here?
By the sounds coming from below, William concluded that the wife of his neighbor had just realized that her husband was cheating on her. It seemed she discovered this through walking in with him and one of his many lady-friends. Such stupid creatures. How could she not know something so obvious?
“Well, that's our cue, Friday. I'm off for the night. I will not be able to get anything done with these people. Why can't they all be like you?”
Friday the brain sat there with no answer.
“Right, I forgot. Give them time and they will be like you.” He put the dead mind back into her liquid bath, and into the small fridge he had for things like this. Useless, everything was. More shouts from below and William's idea of going out cemented itself.
He rolled down his sleeves, buttoning them at the cuffs. He wore a simple suit with no tie, a simple powder blue shirt under. His shoes were sneakers, as he had left his dress shoes at the Syndicate. It annoyed him, but he knew that the shoe stores were closed by now and he couldn't do anything about it. Before he left, he shrugged on his protective coat, as his paranoid streak could not be silenced without it. Away he went.
The night life in New York was just as busy as the day life. It was busy and loud, lights flashed and obscured the colors and shapes of things. It was lightly raining, making William pull his collar so it covered his neck. The motion was automatic, far away. He hated the rain. It made his use of his technopathy beclouded, and he felt out-of-touch without the constant stream of information that his brain picked up from the electronics surrounding him. His mouth tightened in frustration. Others around him, those that were cattle, continued to push through each other, trying to get what little cover they could find from the storm. A few people still stood outside clubs, trying to get in. Their want for a place to entertain them was below him. There wasn't a place that William would like to be less than a club.
A quiet and half-empty bar, on the other hand, that was a different story.
He really didn't know what made him go in, as William was no drinker or smoker. He usually distested places like the one he found himself in now, but he didn't leave. Perhaps it was the rain, which was falling in heavy downfalls now, or perhaps it was because something about the idea of alcohol seemed to sound appealing to his head, now consumed in a headache from something. He wasn't expecting anything special for tonight, he just wanted to get out of the loft until things settled down. William knew that his neighbors could be a phonecall from being shot down by a sniper, but he didn't want to give them the satisfaction of dying. He wanted them to suffer in their meaningless existences, not knowing they could be anything, forever cattle. Death would be too much of a blessing for them.
Slowly and reluctantly, William shed his coat from his thin shoulders and sat at a bar stool, wishing he'd at least have had the foresight to bring a pen and notebook.
“What do you want?”
William instantly hated the man behind the bar, and shrugged, “Your best scotch, sir.” He'd only had scotch around Viktor, and even then he'd hated it. He wasn't sure what else to order. The small glass came, with a puddle of caramel-colored liquid in the bottom. William took a drink.
It was awful. It tasted like paint thinner and it made the Whisperer cough and choke. It was like poison, stinging all the way down his throat. He couldn't believe he drank something like that. Why someone would want to drink something so awful regularly.
He heard a faint laugh, and he looked over to see where it was coming from. Was someone laughing at him?
|<br>credit:Potato @ Caution2.0