223 opened his eyes. It had been a while since he had and his motors were nearly shot, so it took a bit longer than usual. Soon his lids lifted and his internal sensors activated.
Scanning.
Odd. The world seemed to have turned onto its side. No, wait. Gravity readings indicated that the Earth’s gravity still existed. The poles were registering from their proper coordinates. No, it wasn’t the world that had tilted. He sent a signal to his extremities. In less than a millisecond his 2333 MHZ brain processed the entirety of his situation. He had fallen over and was now lying on the floor in the workshop.
Scanning. Adjusting parameters.
Which way was “up”? Ah, there it was. Carefully he directed his arms to push himself from the floor, only to find that his right arm had been disconnected from his body. That made getting up a little more difficult, but somehow he managed. His internal weight distributors sluggishly kicked in, allowing him proper balance. Soon he was upright.
From this vantage he could take in the entire workshop. It was dusty and dark, much more run down than his memory recalled. The creator’s desks were in disarray. In fact it was not only just a mess, it looked as if there had been a tectonic disturbance at some point. He searched his subconscious security readings and pinpointed the exact time that his balance had been thrown off.
After a quick analysis he could his hypothesis to be true. There had been an earthquake of an 8.6 magnitude nearly two miles away from here. That explained his sudden fall and the disorder of the room. If his readings were correct the earthquake had occurred only five minutes before he had activated. The fall must have tripped him out of sleep mode.
Carefully he turned to look at the other prototypes lining the walls. Faceless and incomplete, they all were upright and appeared undamaged. He tilted his head down and scanned the floor.
Books, papers, and broken glass littered the floor at his feet. A large pile of books shifted as he scanned it.
Approach.
It was the creator. He was lying on the floor underneath a bookcase, which had tilted on its side. Carefully 223 grabbed the edge of the bookcase with his one functioning arm and dragged it off of the creator to get a better look. The creator was breathing.
Program search. Analyze. Assist.
223 shuffled to stand over the creator. He tried to search his programming for a response to this situation. He was programmed to be a personal assistant. He needed to assist, but how?
He detected an odd sound. Water. Rushing and roaring just outside of the boarded windows.
Tsunami activity detected. 223 grabbed an umbrella from the floor, opened it and held it over the now unmoving body of the creator.
Yay! 498 words! Just a drabble from yet another novel I totally plan on writing one day.... >.> _____
Donovan was standing in the living room. He was not sure how long he had been standing there, but the room was dark. Empty. The motion activated lights would flood the room once more, if only he so much as twitched a finger, filling the small space with as much cheerful light as possible. It would not conjure up companionship.
This house had always been more empty than full.
Staring at the far wall, not seeing the furniture that stood between him and it, nor the soothing colors of the painting beyond that, he tried to remember the last time he had stood in this room. Was that during Avirt’s thirteenth birthday party, one of the few times this room had been filled with laughter? Donovan had been so pleased with himself for having managed to procure a peanut-butter and strawberry flavored cake. They said children quickly outgrew such indulgences.
Something wet dripped onto his cheek.
For one startling moment, he actually thought it might have come from himself.
Surely, certainly, there was no point in crying about it now.
But then sense reasserted itself and he looked up. The lights did not flash on the way they were programmed to, but what was even more alarming than the automation malfunction that implied, was the growing, seeping, condensation of water overhead. Another drop fell down to his cheek and he processed that something must be leaking. Except there were no water pipes running through that section of the house – and even worse, that was Avirt’s room.
How long had he been standing down here doing nothing when there was clearly something wrong upstairs?
He abandoned the empty room, mounted the stairs, crossed the hallway and pulled open the door. Water came rushing out like a great tidal wave. It was freezing to the touch and must have reached the very ceiling before he had opened up the flood gate.
Avirt did not know how to swim. Despite his best efforts, the boy remained terrified of the water. He would drown on his own.
Fear was the first emotion Donovan ever felt.
Logically, he knew it must be too late. That did not stop him from looking.
He honestly had not expected to see the boy standing there, in the middle of the room. Avirt held in one hand an umbrella aloft, as if that meager protection would save him. His face was calm and empty. Not the tear streaked, blotchy, horrified expression it had been just before they had dragged Donovan away. Nor the shyly smiling, warm and hopeful look that had once been so used to seeing.
There was nothing there now.
And as Avirt turned slowly, Donovan could see the boy’s other arm, missing from just above the elbow, a tangled snare of torn wires and bent metal left behind.
There was something very cold and very dead about his eyes.
Donovan opened his own eyes, stared at the empty meeting room before him and shuddered.
2 comments:
Powering up.
Booting back logs.
Gyroscope activated.
Memory booting … 80 percent. 90 percent. Complete.
223 opened his eyes. It had been a while since he had and his motors were nearly shot, so it took a bit longer than usual. Soon his lids lifted and his internal sensors activated.
Scanning.
Odd. The world seemed to have turned onto its side. No, wait. Gravity readings indicated that the Earth’s gravity still existed. The poles were registering from their proper coordinates. No, it wasn’t the world that had tilted. He sent a signal to his extremities. In less than a millisecond his 2333 MHZ brain processed the entirety of his situation. He had fallen over and was now lying on the floor in the workshop.
Scanning. Adjusting parameters.
Which way was “up”? Ah, there it was. Carefully he directed his arms to push himself from the floor, only to find that his right arm had been disconnected from his body. That made getting up a little more difficult, but somehow he managed. His internal weight distributors sluggishly kicked in, allowing him proper balance. Soon he was upright.
From this vantage he could take in the entire workshop. It was dusty and dark, much more run down than his memory recalled. The creator’s desks were in disarray. In fact it was not only just a mess, it looked as if there had been a tectonic disturbance at some point. He searched his subconscious security readings and pinpointed the exact time that his balance had been thrown off.
After a quick analysis he could his hypothesis to be true. There had been an earthquake of an 8.6 magnitude nearly two miles away from here. That explained his sudden fall and the disorder of the room. If his readings were correct the earthquake had occurred only five minutes before he had activated. The fall must have tripped him out of sleep mode.
Carefully he turned to look at the other prototypes lining the walls. Faceless and incomplete, they all were upright and appeared undamaged. He tilted his head down and scanned the floor.
Books, papers, and broken glass littered the floor at his feet. A large pile of books shifted as he scanned it.
Approach.
It was the creator. He was lying on the floor underneath a bookcase, which had tilted on its side. Carefully 223 grabbed the edge of the bookcase with his one functioning arm and dragged it off of the creator to get a better look. The creator was breathing.
Program search. Analyze. Assist.
223 shuffled to stand over the creator. He tried to search his programming for a response to this situation. He was programmed to be a personal assistant. He needed to assist, but how?
He detected an odd sound. Water. Rushing and roaring just outside of the boarded windows.
Tsunami activity detected. 223 grabbed an umbrella from the floor, opened it and held it over the now unmoving body of the creator.
Vocal chords vibrated, “watch your step.”
((Haha! 500 words exactly!)
Yay! 498 words! Just a drabble from yet another novel I totally plan on writing one day.... >.>
_____
Donovan was standing in the living room. He was not sure how long he had been standing there, but the room was dark. Empty. The motion activated lights would flood the room once more, if only he so much as twitched a finger, filling the small space with as much cheerful light as possible. It would not conjure up companionship.
This house had always been more empty than full.
Staring at the far wall, not seeing the furniture that stood between him and it, nor the soothing colors of the painting beyond that, he tried to remember the last time he had stood in this room. Was that during Avirt’s thirteenth birthday party, one of the few times this room had been filled with laughter? Donovan had been so pleased with himself for having managed to procure a peanut-butter and strawberry flavored cake. They said children quickly outgrew such indulgences.
Something wet dripped onto his cheek.
For one startling moment, he actually thought it might have come from himself.
Surely, certainly, there was no point in crying about it now.
But then sense reasserted itself and he looked up. The lights did not flash on the way they were programmed to, but what was even more alarming than the automation malfunction that implied, was the growing, seeping, condensation of water overhead. Another drop fell down to his cheek and he processed that something must be leaking. Except there were no water pipes running through that section of the house – and even worse, that was Avirt’s room.
How long had he been standing down here doing nothing when there was clearly something wrong upstairs?
He abandoned the empty room, mounted the stairs, crossed the hallway and pulled open the door. Water came rushing out like a great tidal wave. It was freezing to the touch and must have reached the very ceiling before he had opened up the flood gate.
Avirt did not know how to swim. Despite his best efforts, the boy remained terrified of the water. He would drown on his own.
Fear was the first emotion Donovan ever felt.
Logically, he knew it must be too late. That did not stop him from looking.
He honestly had not expected to see the boy standing there, in the middle of the room. Avirt held in one hand an umbrella aloft, as if that meager protection would save him. His face was calm and empty. Not the tear streaked, blotchy, horrified expression it had been just before they had dragged Donovan away. Nor the shyly smiling, warm and hopeful look that had once been so used to seeing.
There was nothing there now.
And as Avirt turned slowly, Donovan could see the boy’s other arm, missing from just above the elbow, a tangled snare of torn wires and bent metal left behind.
There was something very cold and very dead about his eyes.
Donovan opened his own eyes, stared at the empty meeting room before him and shuddered.
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