06-14-2008, 11:29 PM
A/N: These are some sample posts for my once-possible custom, Crimson, that I've decided to make into a little short story. Here's Chapter 1.
No fear, no regrets.
The shot rung throughout the night air. The holder of the weapon, of this pistol, smirked as the serving robot collapsed to his knees, his circuitry pouring out through the bullet wound that had been shot in his abdomen. The murderer, or destroyer, or whatever he could be called stood there, looking down at his prey, satisfied that another one of these pathetic copies was gone from the world.
Dropping the weapon, he spun on his heel and walked from the place, not ever caring about the feelings that cyborg could have had—but he assumed that they couldn’t have feelings. After all, he didn’t, so why should any other android be able to express those pathetic human reactions to circumstantial stimuli? He hadn’t been created that way, and he was superior, so why should anyone else of his kind have that advantage over him?
The break in the chain link fence was exactly as he’d left it, and by crouching ever so slightly, he was able to fit through and find himself on the other side. The killing machine looked about him—the mechanical feel of it all was disturbing. The sounds of car horns blaring in the night irked him to no end, and the flashing lights—God, it killed him inside to think about it. So pathetic, so useless, so wasted…
Perhaps that was the answer to the puzzle. Something had always been missing; perhaps cars were the form of copy he had yet to have the pleasure to slaughter? These ‘automobiles’—had they been around in his day and age? Forty years ago; he couldn’t remember such a minute detail from that far back. So, it was upon this thought that he made the decision that just perhaps, cars needed to be disciplined as well, and he took it upon himself to be Death itself, to command the fate of these innate replicas.
The streets did not expect him. He walked slowly out into the middle of the paved road, and the cars swerved to miss him, occasionally hitting each other in the process. Upon further inspection, it seemed that they were, indeed, being controlled by humans; these bags of flesh that strived for ultimate control, they were the things that perhaps made him the angriest. After all, nothing could really make him happy—anger was the only emotion he’d been programmed to feel.
And he was feeling it now. These cars, their lights blaring in his sensitive retinas, they fought with him for dominance, and he was the original—he was the one who should be in control. The prototype no more—he was perfected. In all his years of dormancy, when the world had betrayed him, he knew what perfect life awaited at the far end of the tunnel, but when he finally reached that place, the situation had already shifted, the tide had already turned—and it was not in his favor. So in his mind, his robotic, one-track mind, he was in the right. These copies had robbed him of his kingdom, of his power, and now pretended to be superior?
Well, he would put them in their place.
He grasped the hood of the car nearest him and tossed its racing red shell towards the nearest skyscraper. “TERRORIST!” he heard someone yell from a nearby car, and so, with the greatest might, he kicked off from the ground and flew up into the air. The incantation was already prepared, now he just had to speak it.
“ATOMIKKU SENKOU!” he yelled.
A giant blast of golden ki flew from his outstretched palms, and when it touched the ground, the entire block was disintegrated in a second, leaving nothing more than a crater where it had previously stood. The copies were gone, and Crimson was feared.
“Earlier this evening, there was a strange disturbance in the center of the city, an accident that has left hundreds dead and many wounded,” reported the news anchor as she spoke through one of the pathetic copies—the ‘television’ as the human residents of this home had called it. When they were alive.
The body of a woman, a traditional housewife, clad in apron and all, lay behind him on the sofa, a large gash sliced through her, running from her neck to her stomach. To anyone but the android that stood apathetically in front of her, it would have been a sickly sight—but to Crimson, it was a beautiful work of art, something that he adored. He would give anything to able to die in such a violent fashion; that is, if he ever died. He had convinced himself of his perfection and, therefore, of his immortality.
This particular copy was slightly entertaining, however. It let him watch the humans squirm. He chuckled his maniacal chuckle, looking the newswoman up and down. She had a copy in her hand as well, and seemed to let it hover under her mouth. From what he could decipher, this mechanical device allowed her voice to be transmitted scientifically into the camera’s receptors.
A small hack came from behind him, and he turned sharply, alerted by the sudden noise. The android retraced his steps through the apartment, looking around for the noise. As he turned a corner, he spotted the body of the young boy he’d thought he’d killed slowly lifting itself up off of the ground. Impressive. So this kid actually survived his first onslaught? Well, not for long. “RE-ZA-MANAKO!” he yelled, and two beams of light burst from each of his eyes, respectively.
The cries of the young boy could be heard by the ears of the neighboring tenants as his flesh burnt to a crisp from the sheer power of the eye lasers. Smirking and dusting off his hands, the android turned and walked back to the television set.
“We’re here with Police Chief Thompson, who will brief us on the situation,” the ingrate woman spoke, “Chief, can you tell us what you think has happened here?”
“Well, I’m not at liberty to explain the full situation right now,” the gruff-looking redneck human mused, “But what I can tell you is that we think this ain’t just any normal accident; we think that this was the work of a terrorist, Lucy.” The chief wiped powdered sugar off his moustache. Donuts? Most likely, due to a popular urban stereotype that in previous experience has often proven true.
“A terrorist? Like Al-Qaeda?” Lucy asked with a look of faux shock on her face.
Crimson searched his mental databases for this ‘Al-Qaeda.’ According to his database, it was listed as a terrorist group focused mainly in the Middle East and North Africa that happened to correspond to events such as the one that his ki blast had made the situation resemble. Under ‘related topics’ was another article on a place called North Korea that seemed to also be the focus of such nuclear rumors. Well, Crimson could be certain he was not a part of either of those groups.
“Like Al-Qaeda or North Korea, yes,” the police chief replied. Crimson smirked, reaching for the knob and turning off the television set. He looked around behind it and unplugged it. This particular copy was one that he found a guilty pleasure; he enjoyed the pictures that it flashed on the screen, and thought perhaps that it could maybe teach him to broadcast the squirming humans, and maybe let him enjoy himself. Only after he learned this sacred technique which was called ‘video transmission’ would he destroy this copy—it intrigued him. But the lamp hanging off the wall didn’t.
And soon enough, that lamp had disappeared in its own fiery explosion, and Android One could be seen walking down the sidewalk with an old-fashioned television set in his arms. The pedestrians found it quite humorous, actually, but Crimson couldn’t quite see the hilarity they found.
The click of a pistol being loaded entered his ears, and immediately, the android stopped in his tracks. His head twisted around to look at the disturbance, and to his chagrin, a man in navy blue stood in front of a black and white Crown Victoria police cruiser. Obviously, the television in his arms had attracted some attention. But it wasn’t the policeman that got him worked up; it was the fact that this Crown Victoria had gone so far to disgrace his race as to put lights on its head—red and blue lights, for crying out loud! The blasphemy!
“Hey, bub!” the officer cried out, demanding the android’s attention once more. “Where’d you get that TV, huh?” The officer’s hands shook with the fear of a rookie as he aimed the gun at the metallic humanoid. Crimson’s head cocked to the side, much like a confused puppy’s. It was a rather primitive gesture, but with the expression the android had on his face, looked much more like an intimidation tactic that the officer didn’t take kindly to. “WELL?!” the policeman screeched.
Android One turned to look at the television set that he had laid on the ground just moments ago. This copy… it was something that this man in blue cared about? Possibly romantically, or at least sensually, as he was sweating just looking at it. The cyborg’s eye flinched slightly—this man was rather… ‘weird’ compared to the other humans. They had shown no signs of affection to this contraption besides their appreciation for it fulfilling its duties. Confusing. His computers hadn’t processed the idea of possible romance between humans and machines; it had never really crossed his mind.
The Crown Victoria. It was just sitting there, mocking him with its big, bad protector in front of it. He assumed that this man with a gun was perhaps just the bodyguard of the car. After all, it was painted rather regally. He had no idea that over forty years, people of his kind could have risen to such a powerful status in the human society. It was strange to see the contrast between a household machine, such as the television, and a richer machine, such as the car.
The car—that was his target.
“Copies,” the android mused. He walked over, past the policeman, and caressed the warm hood of the car. The policeman’s eyes bulged with shock—he quickly grabbed the android’s arm and tossed him away from the car. Bad idea, to say the least.
“HEY, HEY, BUB! DON’T TOUCH THE CAR! STAY AWAY FROM THE CAR!” he yelled angrily, aiming the gun quite forcefully at this machine man’s chest. The red-haired android scowled, looking around the man at his prize, at his target. It was not going to get away from him that easily. This bodyguard of its was easy pickings, but he didn’t really care to hurt the man unless he had to. But he had no qualms with hurting or even killing him, of course. He was not a passive android, he just preferred to not waste energy on weaklings.
“Step away from the target,” the android commanded coolly, but the policeman simply stared, wide-eyed. Humans. They were so… stupid. “I said step away from the target and you will not be hurt. I can hurt you, sir. Please do not tempt me. It would please me endlessly to see your meaty form being gutted, but I do not feel like wasting the energy. Don’t make me.”
The policeman scoffed, and shot his gun. The bullet whizzed through the air, ripping into the chest of the android; it zoomed through his metal body, barely missing some key wires as it burst out the back of his form; the android looked down at the wound and watched as some sparks flew out. He looked back to the target, and then at the policeman. “You made the first move, human.” The robot lunged at his attacker, and the man in blue was dead before the second punch hit.
“Now, my little friend,” he said to the target, punching into its hood and ripping some parts from the thing. “Have a nice trip.” The explosion could be seen from miles away, but the little red-haired android had already taken off in flight, television cradled in his arms.
Night was waning, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see a hint of the sun peeking over the horizon line. This little bit of light gave him the opportunity to spot a tiny, but familiar, facility standing on a cliff. It was mainly the insignia that had been painted onto what he remembered to be a helicopter pad that he found familiar—it was a large, blood-red (like his hair) bowtie, with two R’s in it.
Red Ribbon.
Television in hand, he hovered down towards the Red Ribbon outpost, and landed on the familiar helicopter pad which had been the starting point for all of his old missions with Red Ribbon. He looked around to see no familiar faces among the workers, who he had a pretty good look at since upon the arrival of the man carrying a television, they had glued their eyes to him or the device, much like that ‘common family’ back in the city had their eyes plastered to the television. It amused him to see how these humans were so easily entertained.
He walked nonchalantly through the base, each of the workers/soldiers (whatever they called them nowadays) stopping briefly to glance at him before they returned to their duties, and then subsequently took another, longer look at him, as if they were trying to convince themselves he was real.
This was a familiar outpost; he’d visited here many times, and he remembered that in his dusking years as a failing scientist, his original creator, Doctor Bronze, had come here to ‘retire.’ Maybe the good doctor was still here… maybe he could explain to him how to absorb this technique—‘video transmission,’ as it was called—from the television? Or, even more importantly, maybe he could explain to him why the heck all these copies of him had appeared?
His pace quickened, and he looked in every tent, catching some sights that if he had been a normal human being, may have been quite funny, and were quite embarrassing to the occupant(s) of the tents. But he was not a normal human being, at least not anymore, so these images did not prove to be very funny to him. Nope, not funny at all.
He could feel him, his ki energy—the doctor wasn’t an avid ki user, but over his years he had discovered some of the smaller techniques. He wasn’t as good as his prized, original creation, though; no… his prototype killing machine was perfect. And nothing could be as perfect as that machine—which, as you know, turned out to be Crimson—was, and the doctor never tried. Probably better for him. But the doctor was close, the ki energy, however small the signal was, was getting warmer, and warmer… and with that, Crimson burst into a tent, but the Doctor Bronze he saw wasn’t the Doctor Bronze he remembered.
“Doctor,” Crimson said, in surprise, “You look older.”
It was true. The doctor was short, and thin, almost looking like he’d been deprived of sustenance; his face was broken and wrinkled, and his long, straight black hair had turned gray and disheveled. He was nowhere near perfection.
The old man backed up. “Crimson,” he spoke nervously, “How… how did you… ?” he trailed off, and Android One was unaware of why his master seemed so unhappy to see him. He sat the television down and moved closer to the old doctor, but the old man backed up further and more abruptly. “Don’t come near me!” he said violently, reaching for something, anything, to defend himself like this creature in front of him was back for some kind of vengeance.
“Doctor,” Crimson called, reaching out with one hand, “Come closer… I need your… your help, your guidance…”
The doctor nervously obliged.
+--Chapter One--+
Originality
Originality
No fear, no regrets.
The shot rung throughout the night air. The holder of the weapon, of this pistol, smirked as the serving robot collapsed to his knees, his circuitry pouring out through the bullet wound that had been shot in his abdomen. The murderer, or destroyer, or whatever he could be called stood there, looking down at his prey, satisfied that another one of these pathetic copies was gone from the world.
Dropping the weapon, he spun on his heel and walked from the place, not ever caring about the feelings that cyborg could have had—but he assumed that they couldn’t have feelings. After all, he didn’t, so why should any other android be able to express those pathetic human reactions to circumstantial stimuli? He hadn’t been created that way, and he was superior, so why should anyone else of his kind have that advantage over him?
The break in the chain link fence was exactly as he’d left it, and by crouching ever so slightly, he was able to fit through and find himself on the other side. The killing machine looked about him—the mechanical feel of it all was disturbing. The sounds of car horns blaring in the night irked him to no end, and the flashing lights—God, it killed him inside to think about it. So pathetic, so useless, so wasted…
Perhaps that was the answer to the puzzle. Something had always been missing; perhaps cars were the form of copy he had yet to have the pleasure to slaughter? These ‘automobiles’—had they been around in his day and age? Forty years ago; he couldn’t remember such a minute detail from that far back. So, it was upon this thought that he made the decision that just perhaps, cars needed to be disciplined as well, and he took it upon himself to be Death itself, to command the fate of these innate replicas.
The streets did not expect him. He walked slowly out into the middle of the paved road, and the cars swerved to miss him, occasionally hitting each other in the process. Upon further inspection, it seemed that they were, indeed, being controlled by humans; these bags of flesh that strived for ultimate control, they were the things that perhaps made him the angriest. After all, nothing could really make him happy—anger was the only emotion he’d been programmed to feel.
And he was feeling it now. These cars, their lights blaring in his sensitive retinas, they fought with him for dominance, and he was the original—he was the one who should be in control. The prototype no more—he was perfected. In all his years of dormancy, when the world had betrayed him, he knew what perfect life awaited at the far end of the tunnel, but when he finally reached that place, the situation had already shifted, the tide had already turned—and it was not in his favor. So in his mind, his robotic, one-track mind, he was in the right. These copies had robbed him of his kingdom, of his power, and now pretended to be superior?
Well, he would put them in their place.
He grasped the hood of the car nearest him and tossed its racing red shell towards the nearest skyscraper. “TERRORIST!” he heard someone yell from a nearby car, and so, with the greatest might, he kicked off from the ground and flew up into the air. The incantation was already prepared, now he just had to speak it.
“ATOMIKKU SENKOU!” he yelled.
A giant blast of golden ki flew from his outstretched palms, and when it touched the ground, the entire block was disintegrated in a second, leaving nothing more than a crater where it had previously stood. The copies were gone, and Crimson was feared.
---
“Earlier this evening, there was a strange disturbance in the center of the city, an accident that has left hundreds dead and many wounded,” reported the news anchor as she spoke through one of the pathetic copies—the ‘television’ as the human residents of this home had called it. When they were alive.
The body of a woman, a traditional housewife, clad in apron and all, lay behind him on the sofa, a large gash sliced through her, running from her neck to her stomach. To anyone but the android that stood apathetically in front of her, it would have been a sickly sight—but to Crimson, it was a beautiful work of art, something that he adored. He would give anything to able to die in such a violent fashion; that is, if he ever died. He had convinced himself of his perfection and, therefore, of his immortality.
This particular copy was slightly entertaining, however. It let him watch the humans squirm. He chuckled his maniacal chuckle, looking the newswoman up and down. She had a copy in her hand as well, and seemed to let it hover under her mouth. From what he could decipher, this mechanical device allowed her voice to be transmitted scientifically into the camera’s receptors.
A small hack came from behind him, and he turned sharply, alerted by the sudden noise. The android retraced his steps through the apartment, looking around for the noise. As he turned a corner, he spotted the body of the young boy he’d thought he’d killed slowly lifting itself up off of the ground. Impressive. So this kid actually survived his first onslaught? Well, not for long. “RE-ZA-MANAKO!” he yelled, and two beams of light burst from each of his eyes, respectively.
The cries of the young boy could be heard by the ears of the neighboring tenants as his flesh burnt to a crisp from the sheer power of the eye lasers. Smirking and dusting off his hands, the android turned and walked back to the television set.
“We’re here with Police Chief Thompson, who will brief us on the situation,” the ingrate woman spoke, “Chief, can you tell us what you think has happened here?”
“Well, I’m not at liberty to explain the full situation right now,” the gruff-looking redneck human mused, “But what I can tell you is that we think this ain’t just any normal accident; we think that this was the work of a terrorist, Lucy.” The chief wiped powdered sugar off his moustache. Donuts? Most likely, due to a popular urban stereotype that in previous experience has often proven true.
“A terrorist? Like Al-Qaeda?” Lucy asked with a look of faux shock on her face.
Crimson searched his mental databases for this ‘Al-Qaeda.’ According to his database, it was listed as a terrorist group focused mainly in the Middle East and North Africa that happened to correspond to events such as the one that his ki blast had made the situation resemble. Under ‘related topics’ was another article on a place called North Korea that seemed to also be the focus of such nuclear rumors. Well, Crimson could be certain he was not a part of either of those groups.
“Like Al-Qaeda or North Korea, yes,” the police chief replied. Crimson smirked, reaching for the knob and turning off the television set. He looked around behind it and unplugged it. This particular copy was one that he found a guilty pleasure; he enjoyed the pictures that it flashed on the screen, and thought perhaps that it could maybe teach him to broadcast the squirming humans, and maybe let him enjoy himself. Only after he learned this sacred technique which was called ‘video transmission’ would he destroy this copy—it intrigued him. But the lamp hanging off the wall didn’t.
And soon enough, that lamp had disappeared in its own fiery explosion, and Android One could be seen walking down the sidewalk with an old-fashioned television set in his arms. The pedestrians found it quite humorous, actually, but Crimson couldn’t quite see the hilarity they found.
---
The click of a pistol being loaded entered his ears, and immediately, the android stopped in his tracks. His head twisted around to look at the disturbance, and to his chagrin, a man in navy blue stood in front of a black and white Crown Victoria police cruiser. Obviously, the television in his arms had attracted some attention. But it wasn’t the policeman that got him worked up; it was the fact that this Crown Victoria had gone so far to disgrace his race as to put lights on its head—red and blue lights, for crying out loud! The blasphemy!
“Hey, bub!” the officer cried out, demanding the android’s attention once more. “Where’d you get that TV, huh?” The officer’s hands shook with the fear of a rookie as he aimed the gun at the metallic humanoid. Crimson’s head cocked to the side, much like a confused puppy’s. It was a rather primitive gesture, but with the expression the android had on his face, looked much more like an intimidation tactic that the officer didn’t take kindly to. “WELL?!” the policeman screeched.
Android One turned to look at the television set that he had laid on the ground just moments ago. This copy… it was something that this man in blue cared about? Possibly romantically, or at least sensually, as he was sweating just looking at it. The cyborg’s eye flinched slightly—this man was rather… ‘weird’ compared to the other humans. They had shown no signs of affection to this contraption besides their appreciation for it fulfilling its duties. Confusing. His computers hadn’t processed the idea of possible romance between humans and machines; it had never really crossed his mind.
The Crown Victoria. It was just sitting there, mocking him with its big, bad protector in front of it. He assumed that this man with a gun was perhaps just the bodyguard of the car. After all, it was painted rather regally. He had no idea that over forty years, people of his kind could have risen to such a powerful status in the human society. It was strange to see the contrast between a household machine, such as the television, and a richer machine, such as the car.
The car—that was his target.
“Copies,” the android mused. He walked over, past the policeman, and caressed the warm hood of the car. The policeman’s eyes bulged with shock—he quickly grabbed the android’s arm and tossed him away from the car. Bad idea, to say the least.
“HEY, HEY, BUB! DON’T TOUCH THE CAR! STAY AWAY FROM THE CAR!” he yelled angrily, aiming the gun quite forcefully at this machine man’s chest. The red-haired android scowled, looking around the man at his prize, at his target. It was not going to get away from him that easily. This bodyguard of its was easy pickings, but he didn’t really care to hurt the man unless he had to. But he had no qualms with hurting or even killing him, of course. He was not a passive android, he just preferred to not waste energy on weaklings.
“Step away from the target,” the android commanded coolly, but the policeman simply stared, wide-eyed. Humans. They were so… stupid. “I said step away from the target and you will not be hurt. I can hurt you, sir. Please do not tempt me. It would please me endlessly to see your meaty form being gutted, but I do not feel like wasting the energy. Don’t make me.”
The policeman scoffed, and shot his gun. The bullet whizzed through the air, ripping into the chest of the android; it zoomed through his metal body, barely missing some key wires as it burst out the back of his form; the android looked down at the wound and watched as some sparks flew out. He looked back to the target, and then at the policeman. “You made the first move, human.” The robot lunged at his attacker, and the man in blue was dead before the second punch hit.
“Now, my little friend,” he said to the target, punching into its hood and ripping some parts from the thing. “Have a nice trip.” The explosion could be seen from miles away, but the little red-haired android had already taken off in flight, television cradled in his arms.
---
Night was waning, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see a hint of the sun peeking over the horizon line. This little bit of light gave him the opportunity to spot a tiny, but familiar, facility standing on a cliff. It was mainly the insignia that had been painted onto what he remembered to be a helicopter pad that he found familiar—it was a large, blood-red (like his hair) bowtie, with two R’s in it.
Red Ribbon.
Television in hand, he hovered down towards the Red Ribbon outpost, and landed on the familiar helicopter pad which had been the starting point for all of his old missions with Red Ribbon. He looked around to see no familiar faces among the workers, who he had a pretty good look at since upon the arrival of the man carrying a television, they had glued their eyes to him or the device, much like that ‘common family’ back in the city had their eyes plastered to the television. It amused him to see how these humans were so easily entertained.
He walked nonchalantly through the base, each of the workers/soldiers (whatever they called them nowadays) stopping briefly to glance at him before they returned to their duties, and then subsequently took another, longer look at him, as if they were trying to convince themselves he was real.
This was a familiar outpost; he’d visited here many times, and he remembered that in his dusking years as a failing scientist, his original creator, Doctor Bronze, had come here to ‘retire.’ Maybe the good doctor was still here… maybe he could explain to him how to absorb this technique—‘video transmission,’ as it was called—from the television? Or, even more importantly, maybe he could explain to him why the heck all these copies of him had appeared?
His pace quickened, and he looked in every tent, catching some sights that if he had been a normal human being, may have been quite funny, and were quite embarrassing to the occupant(s) of the tents. But he was not a normal human being, at least not anymore, so these images did not prove to be very funny to him. Nope, not funny at all.
He could feel him, his ki energy—the doctor wasn’t an avid ki user, but over his years he had discovered some of the smaller techniques. He wasn’t as good as his prized, original creation, though; no… his prototype killing machine was perfect. And nothing could be as perfect as that machine—which, as you know, turned out to be Crimson—was, and the doctor never tried. Probably better for him. But the doctor was close, the ki energy, however small the signal was, was getting warmer, and warmer… and with that, Crimson burst into a tent, but the Doctor Bronze he saw wasn’t the Doctor Bronze he remembered.
“Doctor,” Crimson said, in surprise, “You look older.”
It was true. The doctor was short, and thin, almost looking like he’d been deprived of sustenance; his face was broken and wrinkled, and his long, straight black hair had turned gray and disheveled. He was nowhere near perfection.
The old man backed up. “Crimson,” he spoke nervously, “How… how did you… ?” he trailed off, and Android One was unaware of why his master seemed so unhappy to see him. He sat the television down and moved closer to the old doctor, but the old man backed up further and more abruptly. “Don’t come near me!” he said violently, reaching for something, anything, to defend himself like this creature in front of him was back for some kind of vengeance.
“Doctor,” Crimson called, reaching out with one hand, “Come closer… I need your… your help, your guidance…”
The doctor nervously obliged.