《I tried to keep the prose snappy in tune with the show's pacing. Future chapters may be longer. Expect slow updates due to chronic fatigue.》
Tonight, on a very special episode of Clone High: Scudworth let's it go to his head, foster parents share their dread, and every clone you loved dearly is dead.
The glaring caution tape was wrapped around the perimeters. Numbered plaques were daintily placed, and ice samples less daintily harvested. After seconds of intense scrutiny, the evidence technician turned to address his colleagues.
"It is my professional opinion that what happened here is… a mass murder."
Unanimously, the investigation team paused and stared beyond the man, who walked over to the gorey specimen near the lever. He hrmmed as he gave the spectacle a top-down scan with a discerning eye.
"I believe we have our first suspect. Arrest him."
Shortly, the frozen body was lifted and secured into the police car's back seat.
Scudworth filed his papers in yellow envelopes by their year as Mister B dusted the shelves. They spent hours cleaning and sorting which things to pack away and take with them, but in that generous span, it was Mister B who completed more chores with strained glee. He hoped his cheer wouldn't elevate the former principal's blood pressure, but the lines on Scudworth's face deepened til he and the Marianas Trench resembled one another.
A file with amusement park plans peeking out was left offside in the way one would place a picture of their pet on their work desk, which clued Mister B in on what plagued Scudworth at this hour. Not that he'd needed that when he'd listen to the man gobble carelessly about the dream he had, when there was still someone there to have wool pulled over their eyes.
That gave him an awful idea.
"Maybe a bit of wordplay will cheer you up, Wesleeeeeey."
Scudworth paused, then resumed shuffling documents. On a normal, clone infested school day, he would have snapped back with an unhinged remark. He would have flipped his lid at his organized chaos being reorganized in a formal fashion, especially by anyone else.
Mister B hadn't seen Scudworth this focused since their third or fifth late night grave-robbing spree, way, way back. Kicking back with some alcohol and basking in nostalgia would have to wait.
A hard bump on the robot's arm broke this reverie, and he caught the fallen object just in time. Inside, the sloshing fluid tossed a fleshy lump around.
"Careful with that fetus!" Scudworth shrieked over his shoulder, "we can't get formalin on our top secret documents, or their non-existent backups now.
"We'll have to dispose that by next morning," he said evenly.
"It already is tomorrow, Wesley," Mister B still held the jar, only now he appeared to cradle it.
Scudworth began to empty his paper hat drawer, chiming, "I don't count midnight as tomorrow, you know tha–" he stopped upon seeing it was in fact almost four in the morning.
"Oh. God. DAMN IT!"
"Witness, you'll state your name and occupation. For ease of communication, we've brought over a marine biologist who'll translate for you via rubber duck.
"Now tell us what you were doing on prom night."
The light from overhead reflecting in the dolphin's eyes wobbled as she clicked defiantly something about the kiddie pool being too small.
"This won't take too long, but it would go faster with your cooperation. We have a year's worth of tinned tuna for you, if you comply."
Shamra cackled abruptly.
"She's imitating shrill human laughter," the marine biologist glanced aside, "I think."
"Now where have I heard that laugh before…?" the interrogator said, rubbing his chin.
Mister B watched Scudworth slip various papers into the shredder, some of them were once at risk of becoming formalin-soaked. The robot's eyes occasionally darted away while he formulated a non-flammable way to ask about his human buddy's slapdash decisions. He must be panicking deep down trying to get rid of anything that could be used against him.
But that meant everything had to go.
If there are only single copies left, they could be kept close for future referentials. The only organized chaos that'd be left would live behind Scudworth's smile, and machines with ambiguous purpose to the layman.
He cracked his neck craning it to look at the time again while frantically crumpling the remnants in his labcoat. His robot companion remained motionless, which stood him out from the hurly burly.
"Mister B, why are you still holding that?"
"I forgoooot I waaaas."
Scudworth's brows bunched together as his hands lifted. "OOOOOOooh like how you 'forgot' the board of shadowy popsicles intended to terminate me? I didn't give you the brain of a programmable toaster oven, but I'm considering placing yours in one!"
Mister B's antenna and gaze drooped.
They were lucky the whole district didn't catapult awake from the screeching this one man could do.
The robot searched his memory banks for an answer far less embarrassing than the feeble one he gave. It was hard for a hot second with thoughts of recycling, but that was the ticket he didn't know he wanted.
"Oh Wesley, I was going to ensure that this doesn't leak into the soil and groundwater."
"And avoid drawing the ire from the environmental protection agency! Splendid!"
Mister B was already knitting a cover story should hazardous waste contractors ask about the obviously human specimen– should it ever come to that. There was something charitable in giving it to a hapless thrift shop of curiosities, or someone working in a medical field. Yet, he could only think of parting with it, something that was a failed attempt at their impressive feat, and a piece of themselves.
Scudworth opened the overhead entrance of his death maze and motioned for the robot to enter.
And what, careen off every corner on the way out? The man's unusually nonchalant expression hinted he was at least aware how grave this matter was, but didn't care for wasting minutes to procure bubble wrap.
Before Mister B formed half a thought, Scudworth flew up the tube.
The day began with a choir of birds disrupting the sleep of many a grumpy night owl who hated the nine to five schedule and oversaturation of bad news.
Some who dragged themselves to the coffee felt something burst inside and renew their senses at the headline "Death On Ice" followed by clinically delivered details and the dreadful ticker scrolling across just underneath it all.
A few were stunned until tears brought them back to reality, but one inebriated woman slurred at her TV set, "cool".