《In which Scudworth is kind of a jerk.》
They arrived home relatively safe and sound by driving down the lanes as the thickest uncomfortable silence accompanied them.
Mister B stayed in his designated living area of Scudworth's house to wipe down his glove compartment. Without olfactory input, it was next to impossible to know if the thick stench was gone. His trademark sweater vest sure was, as it was scrunched up on the countertop. Scudworth refused to be near him, and entering the living room is just asking to burn the place down. Knowing his human friend's exciting medical history, he couldn't fault him for half of it.
The self disbarred principal would've at least considered the option if his property didn't net a minimum of five figures, and if he had a remarkable lack of self preservation. His actual thoughts right now, whatever they were, had gotten lost in his fireplace.
Both of them expressed a degree of relief that the only noises around were the clangs of the poker, hums of what may have been folk tunes, and rustling plastic bag full of odorous, soaked towels. Any glass shards they could find were sponged up with bread and stored separately.
Someone who didn't know better would think they were a delightful duo going through the motions on a cold day. The haste? Seasonal cheer and overdose of caffeine. This first cover story practically wrote itself, Exclamation was infamous for its selectively oblivious population. The charade's still bound to burst and at some point feigning a normal life is asking for it to blow up in their faces.
The plastic bag was secured with a basic knot, which is all the dexterity Mister B's two permanently bent fingers for hands were capable of, to the robot's displeasure. Another plastic bag laid gaping flat on the floor for the sides to be pulled into the same knot after encasing the other. Shortly after doing that, Mister B wheeled outside his quarters and picked up the scrunched vest on his way to the basement door.
Sometimes it wasn't so bad when Scudworth was too cross to hold amiable conversation about eccentric scientists and gallows humour. Admittedly, he would be this petty too if it was his car that got splats of formalin on the seat. It wouldn't have killed the man to construct the secret exit as a smooth ride to the parking lot, though. The car ride's silence after that was the heaviest since that one spring in ninety-six. He supposed there was some genius in its design, despite its one noisy shortcoming.
The robot pinched the doorknob and pushed the door, steady and quick just like how he wanted to shove those memories to the recycling bin. In his other claw, he carried a macabre memento. He hesitated to go down, and he didn't know why. His wheels were fitted on pistons not unlike landing gear, so tripping wasn't likely.
Scudworth called from the next room, "if you're not busy, could you fetch me another pair of latex gloves?"
The dishwasher yellow gloves he wore everywhere were flung to the kitchen floor.
Mister B silently took humour in the fact that blood, even in traces, of all things would be the reason Scudworth removed them in front of anyone. Ever. With a flat "sure", the robot entered the dim basement.
An additional request for marshmallows suppressed itself when Scudworth slid into the kitchen and recoiled violently at the smell, folded over himself in knots, and crashed to the floor cursing gibberish. He cut off one of those curses mid-stream when his mind played out the possible outcomes if somebody heard.
After untangling his limbs, he snuck into the pantry with his shirt collar stretched around the lower half of his face, and tiptoed back holding the prize against his side.
He adjusted the knobs on his radio and listened to the hosts trip over their disbelief in recent events, and the movements of authorities.
Lying would be so much easier than he thought. What semi respected investigations team would entrust their guidance to the burst clicks of a dolphin? To Scudworth, it all sounded like New Age flavoured naivete. His wry smile broke into hoarse laughter as he impaled a marshmallow on a kebab stick. The white goo stretched the length of the point that was driven through it in a stringy form.
He didn't feel hungry anymore.
But if he wasn't himself on an empty stomach, and today it was paramount to reek of a sullen, and halfway sympathetic composure accurate with his usual mannerisms.
His robot friend, now, was another problem. Mister B is far too honest, too upstanding compared to him. Scudworth had to nudge him the last time they disguised themselves, and for a far less contemptible goal on that outing.
Come to think of it, what took him so long to return with a spare pair of gloves?
He was going to hate it, his guts writhed quite like the rest of his body had done before. Humourous imagined scenarios helped to keep his mind elsewhere while he willed himself down the stairs. Shadows crawled over his features, then snagged at their edges in the white light of the laboratory refrigerator. Mister B's silhouette blocked some of the harsh brightness. The robot's motions were fluid, like he hadn't sensed Scudworth's presence.
But he did, because he flicked the switch on and sang in a mechanical voice, "surprise, Wesleeeey!"
"You... dusted my old extrauterine fetal incubator?" Scudworth asked with a certain caution even he didn't understand.
Well, he liked to think he knew what Mister B wanted, but the real question was, why? Why now? He shortened the gap between himself and the robot until he could poke him with his index finger.
"Mister Butlertron, as my humble servant, I demand an explanation! You know we're supposed to be on the lam while living under the pretense that we're not. For now, at least."
"I was hoping the thought would cheer you up," the robot's cheery composure didn't budge.
Scudworth crossed his arms tight and glowered down at his friend. Sure, he cleaned off years of dust and grime from one part of the lab, but still, it made him angry.
"We can't take this hulking machinery across the country if we needed to leave, and that's another cloned stomach we'd have to feed. What's more, this is an outdated model! The mortality rate fell just below that of bovine surrogates! Do you remember how hard it was to simulate all that fluid?" His features scrunched up.
When his robot companion didn't reply immediately, he approached the staircase looking to get his appetite back for more than just sugary snacks.
"I should have told you sooner, Wesley," Mister B's cheer deflated, "I thought that we'd try to clone the clones to appease their grieving families."
Scudworth stopped and looked over his shoulder.
"A well meaning but callous attempt to return lives to their normal daily routine while undermining the precious individual value of the deceased?" A grin whipped across his face as he cackled, "you know me too well, my Butlertron."
He then resumed climbing the stairs, bare handed.
Mister B closed the lab fridge gently after the man left. Was he really that oblivious, or was it stress?
Either way, the robot's circuits buzzed with the suspicion that the offer they were willing to make was hollow at its center. Their funding had been effectively excised from their very being.
An aging blonde woman cried into her landline at the coroner on the other end to bring back her foster son's body as soon as possible, despite their reassurance of that happening in approximately two days.
Shortly after hearing the unfortunate news on TV, she and her husband had covered their mirrors with plain sheets, and Gandhi's photos too.
She was shaken in more ways than one. The facts were relayed in speech as unmoving as the reading of a grocery list, only it was a horrific homicide most parents would think select somebody else's kids. Tears began cupping the edge of her eyelids when she reflexively called him down for breakfast, faltering mid-sentence when his absence was fully recognized.
Now, she was interrogating the irritatingly soft-spoken coroner on the other side, whose composure was equally irritating in its durability. They needed to perform autopsies because it's legally mandated. They needed clues on the events before the time of death. The initial investigation may very well have been a scripted joke.
"I have my hands tied right now, ma'am. If you'd like, I can tell you where they sell wooden caskets at a forty percent discount~"
The airiness of that melody in the man's voice was the last barb she'd tolerate. She swore at him in Yiddish and slammed the receiver in its home.
Her husband's hand had been pressing on her shoulder for the last two minutes, and only now she rested hers over his.