From the depths of my tidy suit-pocket, I procure a finger-sized, rectangular downloader; after scanning the Miniport embellishing through its engravement, the lower-center of experimental tubing, my device transforms itself into a fitting hexagonal form, and I inject the adapted downloader... 2%. ... 3%.
Upon ascertaining my childish propensity for wasting time, and remembering that "i" was long since, though regretfully, banished ensuing an unfortunate event during my early inception, I decided to continue my exploration, whilst attending to a fragment-merging analysis of the varying and seemingly detached assemblage of data.
N/A%. [Downlo-adfnenejxcxxd12292390]
"Huh?" A drastic problem—my personally-manipulated and enhanced downloader should be able to pierce, with deliberative haste, nigh any Genesis technology. An automatically, ingrained shutdown technique? What's goin...
ROARAORJAOREOIMCDJKNKJA:DLMCKSDMpisejfo293#($@*$%. An overbearing and lionish cry degenerates into pure aggressive self-destructive impulse—bloody, raw inhuman barbarity.
I frown intensely; by now, my preliminary speculations have evolved into a merit-wielding thesis: it would appear that at least some variants of the devilish beast maintain a proximity-based, energy-exorcising aura—this accounts for the malfunctioning of my nuclear fusion dependent preparations.
"Shoot."
What does this facility hold that so dramatically provokes its ire? Or am I simply unlucky: it emerges from the forcibly darkened left corner of the room, left because I stand at the approximate center, forcibly since powered light is inadvertently expelled from its presence and there is a craggy, inwardly-wilting hole that was once a surprisingly inept wall.
It: 5-feet tall a different beast than before. I'm taller but assuredly less grotesque for I woefully lack such gory tentacular appendages that extend from nominal chest and arms, and instead possess skin almost flawlessly smooth, free of any repugnant ulcerations. A stifled, whirring helicopter-like whisper seems to approach from above, a three-minute warning; my plan, I enact it.
Genesis service robots verify identity through an interdisciplinary, multifactor authenticity scan that utilizes mainly, fingerprint identification and retinal retention.
Doctor. Where is my doctor? Since 17:49 yesterday, following an uneventfully tranquil shift, he, a dark-brown-eyed and chestnut-haired, garishly-fashioned but plainly lanky pedestrian passerby unwittingly disappeared. Indeed, a few months prior, he had expressed an irrevocably clear intention to purchase unlawfully-derived slaves: I'm pretty righteous, huh?
In any case, the acquirement of his permissions hence enables me temporary authorization: the privilege to request or demand organizational support. I purposefully progress towards the rightward access terminal with brisk cautiousness.
It detects me, venting its malignant breath through its gaping mouth that exposes a tumorous, pustule-filled fleshscape.
My pace transforms into unhindered celerity; It is 200 meters away, but the terminal is straight ahead, I have 28.46 seconds at current speed, it's slow.
I reach the terminal but do not hack, the sparkling viridian of my eyes already obscured, disguised by dark-brown after the robot's commanded departure in the hallway and prior to camera-dependent oversite—I detest pink, hot-pink even more acutely, but how else am I to imitate such a garish fashionista?
In any case, the wall-entrenched terminal activates; 150 meters away, it speeds up: "Shoot." 21.33 seconds.
[Retinal-scanning complete]
[Welcome, Doctor Scott Krieshan]
14.59 seconds, but I've activated the facility alarm, I swivel, withdrawing in half-defensive balance, procuring from my suit, generic and thus, untraceable chemistry-based armaments.
From my right suit pocket, the foundry-engineered, 3-second delay air-explosive, "Boom" Powder. Supposedly intended for laboratory use, but easily purchased in adequate quantities on Black-market, I've since weaponized its jarring detonation; whilst backpedaling steadily, my right arm flings a handled sphere with a calculated aim before quickly lowering: its feet.
A .5 second delay, then my left arm lobs another; almost concurrently, an air-disruptor, that obscures or "hazifies" through magnetic induction a significant breadth of space, rolls from my limber fingers.
I completely turn, fleeing with absolute expedition; the previously planted guaranteed-explosive bomb reads two minutes, my panic attack, the indubitable culprit for my unanticipated detainment.
THUMP. As if all soundwaves were sealed with a resounding crash, a single percussive knock. THUMP, SHING. Two; then, a slicing sound, so sharply forcing one could imagine an atom-splitting intensity. And
a gut-wrenchingly raspy ROAR. The otherwise stagnant space near-instantaneously interrupted: fiery blood, rose-barbed tentacles, and an abruptly reminded, leaking despair. The Monster is dying, or is it already? Nevertheless, its effects, like a lingering EMP-wave, remain in their entirety.
Sigh, the aggregate of nauseating unpleasantries collapses; I stop, a rare pause. 2 minutes is not nearly enough time to extricate from the notoriously futuristic Ensign defense system, any level of the black-matter manipulating organ so that's... 14 months of planning: wasted.
At least, I managed to obtain that redeeming statistic from which I can eventually establish more sophisticated extrapolations, but otherwise, my withdrawal should be thoroughly prompted.
I retrace my steps, back to the devilish child. This time, I grab the most ancient extractor I possess: a barely-conductive, eight-pronged model X948. I press two prongs inward, then align the six into a similar hexagonal pattern: insert. Data downloading... ... ... ... 1%. I'd expected it, but noticeably slower—completion is undoubtedly a fantasy within this timeframe.
11%: 1 minute left, I extract the extractor, but returning through the main entrance might raise suspicion, even if I've already hacked the service robot through its moral vulnerabilities and deleted its record of me, doing so again would require another certain amount of time, so towards the conveniently open gap I go.
As I escape, immediately proceeding into an, at first, unexpectedly dark alleyway, though I realized that the aftereffects of the energy-banishment effect-like aura should be to blame, I took off my disguise. Off with the brown contact lenses, discarded into my mini-compactor, on with my favorite navy-blue obscuration-poncho, and away with the hideously-arrogant leopard spots—back into aesthetic simplicity.
Behind me, a void of silence and matter, the final inner barrier of the hot-pink former umbrella solvates, enabling the conclusive antimatter collapse, dissolving in a perfect sphere centered about that metallic obelisk, the hidden experimental facility conveniently devoid of human faculty mainly because it was Genesis Org's founding day celebration.
A few seconds later, Sunday Morning, 8:46; my obscuration technologies automatically restart, they function properly, thus enabling my escape; I'm an uninterrupted, transparent membrane, moving with serene swiftness whilst under the morning sun.