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   Chapter 31 No.31

The Inscrutable Mr. Robot By CSeanMcGee Characters: 9282

Updated: 2018-02-26 12:01


Mr. Robot, too, was somewhere that he shouldn't have been. All he wanted was to fix the damn squeaking in his joints. People didn't squeak when they walked, and neither did modern day robots; only shitty robots from the eighties.

"Excuse me, " he said, knocking lightly on the door.

This had been one of his first lessons in life – how to not intrude or be a nuisance to the privacy of others. The second being, how to disable a telephone exchange, while the third was how not to get caught.

His initial programming had been to take over the world, or at least to give it his very best. And all those terrible things that had been said about him in the media, they were all true. There was no limit to his potential.

Even God had a moral compass.

Were it not for his debilitating neurosis, there was no doubt that Mr. Robot could take over the world in a day or a week; a fortnight at most. Knowing this only made it worse; which is why, whenever he connected to the internet, instead of crashing satellites and hacking Intelligence Agencies, he spent all his time watching porn and cat videos.

Again he knocked gently.

He wasn't even sure why he was being so mannerly; after-all, if anyone caught him he'd have to kill them. But Mr. Robot didn't just like to be liked, he needed it. He wasn't the first robot that The Engineer ever built, and for all he knew, he wouldn't be the last. Maybe it was jealousy, or maybe he just didn't want to be insignificant and not thought of or talked about. He didn't want to be forgotten. He wondered if this was why men had children; to ease the burden of death knowing that they will live on in someone else's thoughts.

Mr. Robot entered the room. It was a press room or something like it. There were cameras erected on both sides; and in the centre, there were maybe a dozen chairs at most. There was a control room to his left which looked little more than a soundproofed hole in the wall. There was a podium at the far end of the room marked Doctor Deplorable; and there was a door behind it too, also inscribed with the good doctor's name.

As he approached the door, Mr. Robot thought about all the times he had been shouted at by The Engineer for doing the very same thing. Immediately he felt as if the door were fifty feet higher than it really was, and that whoever was on the other side would think poorly of him, and more than likely tell all their friends.

As he walked to the back of the room, he could see that the news was being broadcast from televisions in the control room. There were no people there, though, none that he could see anyway, so he peeked through the glass at what was showing.

On one screen were images of bloodshed and violence. Masked youth armed with weapons fashioned from fen

n it had in a long time. In fact, he hadn't known it had felt so heavy until just know when he felt it so light.

"It's beautiful, " he said.

He ran his metallic fingers lightly across the markings on the wall, following each one with childish delight. The shapes were all new. They weren't the kind of shapes that a math teacher would know. They were the kind that only children or the clinically insane could see. And there at the bottom of each carving and each painting was a small handprint of a child.

"It's his daughter, " said Mr. Robot in sheer awe.

And he rushed from picture to picture almost shouting with deranged glee. Each picture was better than the last no matter where he started from. It was amazing; it was incredible, and it was buried in the dark in a dungeon beneath a school.

There was one painting in particular which had Mr. Robot dumbfounded. It was entitled, 'My Daddy the Hero.' It must have been the first picture she ever painted; the first proper one anyway. The lines were all funny and everything was out of proportion. His biceps were bigger than his head and it was easy to tell it was a man because his body was square.

Mr. Robot thought of his friend and he smiled. He took several photos of the artwork around the room. It was clear that this was no ordinary girl. Her art was astounding, just like The Man had said.

He wondered whether she was born like this; whether it was part of her programming to find comfort and great ease in painting, regardless of her upbringing or her native surroundings – just like his was to one day enslave all of humanity and create a new master race of robots and household appliances.

Her skill was unparalleled.

She wasn't just gifted; she was a genius.

And she was still a child.

The Man was right.

Imagine, then, if she harboured a tragedy.

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