Upon entering, most authentically, the overall facility most currently relevant to my forthcoming mortal ascendance and consequent relative apotheosis, I initiated my search for this modern age's philosopher stone. My search began with a simplified, and by simplified I mean somehow even drabber with its dimming tinges than that shamelessly protruding door, hallway.
"Where is my doctor?"
As I frolicked at a calming lethargy, almost as if I was merely walking, it occurred to me that appointments are, as per the counsel's regulations of the era-setting year 2267, to be addressed and if need be redressed, by humans and never robots. Thus, it occurred to me: where is my doctor?
"Where is my doctor?"
Holo-watch, might you answer? I then realized that my holo-watch was not working, and it had ceased to function since that first reverberating roar.
By this time, I had arrived at a decidedly aesthetic door, I respect any door which grants respect to its immediate surroundings by sharing the elegant designs of a predominantly royal-golden, six-clawed dragon that gracefully extends itself across a lanky, lengthened frame before exposing a positively profound treasure: a lightly luminescent Dragonball-like doorknob.
Then, it occurred to me: "Mr. Robot Entity, I should think your return to the lobby compulsorily justified?"
Following my mechanical fellow's respectful departure and subsequent promise to, in righteous indignation, observe for me and humanity, the sophisticatedly psychopathic conspiracies of the two, maybe more, doubtlessly meandering beasts, I touched the doorknob.
But, before opening it, I prepare myself, gently dabbing my eyes before compacting and discarding into my pocket from my chest, an opaque, navy-blue, vibrancy-abolishing poncho—passerby no more. For facial protection, I don a slender, subtle film that sheathes my entire countenance, and for certain stylistic reasons, my long, fitted pants shifted, changing from monotonous teal, to still teal, but a flamboyant leopard-pattern.
And from the outwardly secured belt at the left side of my thin, yet immaculately neon-lime SynthesisFabric-suited self, I procure a seeming hot-pink umbrella. It beckons me. What with its uncommonly lively ululation-arousing jubilance, but also in its majestically apparent efficiency and the fact that when I accidentally dropped it just now, it condensed into a stout, cylindrical, bowie-knife-like weighted rod. Hot-pink.
Garnished with my unluckily disappeared umbrella, now hot-pink rod on my right, I once again touch the doorknob. And open it.
Upon entering the actual complex, with admittedly weakened enthusiasm, but a quickety-step nonetheless, I was beset with an inquiry of philosophical proportion.
"Am I trespassing?" I hope not to intrude nor insult and I believe in justice, so righteously, I'll ensure that those doubtlessly ever-observant cameras might accurately determine my criminality: nonexistent. I nearly launch into another progressively digressing tirade, but it's alright now.
Another successful hacking skirmish. I gesticulate my prowess with a lapsing intensity: infinity, I am indeed quite accomplished. My virtually-nanoscopic infiltrators return in soldierly pride, hovering in their tiny technological flickering—flashing about my left-pinkie-finger-based interfaces following a formerly imperceptible flick.
As the fog of war excused itself hurriedly, I found my faculties of inferential induction consequently captured: a map. In the room's center, a steelishly-imposing yet somehow humble obelisk depicts the complex's organization. That was unsurprising, however, I dare not insult the breadth of information I gleaned within.
But to wholly comprehend and apply what I saw, some events I am first inspired to recall:
Following a universal sacrifice of genetic privacy, it became abundantly clear that a small, select, but still significant number of individuals possessed some supernatural, non-transplantable, abilities. Of course, I refer not to the profound dark-matter detecting organ which I have been so vehemently pursuing since two years ago, but towards figures like the unquestionably original, 2200s "Super-man-wo" who could make water boil with their eyes given 30 minutes. Or the raw, transcendent talent of "Master Glory;" he possessed the innate constitution of killing mice through instinctively-aggressive posing.
Progressively, as ability-Users enhanced in profundity and generations passed with uninterrupted legacy, so did these human-exceeding capabilities grow linearly, but having already exposed those unique genomic codes to the database, such "destined warriors" have been cherry-picked and eventually indoctrinated to horrifying extents, almost immediately following their conception.
Well, most of them.
Indeed, I should be regarded sole primordial ancestor of my superpower lineage for I am the first in modern Earth's entire recorded history, following reparations from the devastating wars of the 2100s, to fully harness this power—and I have tested it. Scouring and breaching database after database, formulating algorithm-worms and the infamous cyber-Trojans in gloriously irrepressible hordes, I have determined that no one has, or ever had my unique technological affinity.
To me, Cybernet is a loving caretaker, despite allowing attacks, they are but purported, for fundamentally, it insists on my protection. And whilst defending me against any governmental offensive or any other manner of network imposition, it reveals to me a most gentle smile which perhaps only I can intuitively comprehend.
Knowing of the difference between the common synthesizable dark-matter organ and the absolute rarity of congenital superpowers is why this truth is unbearably appalling.
But I have discovered it: Oh—I have discovered it.