"Shut up," Beorg snapped, "an' gimme the details."

Winston stood at nervous attention. "Sheriff, sir! The alarms at Nexus facility 1.5 were tripped at exactly 0300 hours. From that point on, the skeleton crew stationed to prevent trespassers ceased to send their hourly reports. There is a sandstorm at the moment, so we are unable to have Air or Satellite recon in the area. We assume that all hands have been lost, sir."

"Hm. That so?"

Winston pursed his lips to a thin line. "Might I advise a nuclear strike?"

Beorg smirked. "I like yer thought process, partner, but that's unnecessary. I reckon we need a scalpel, not a sledge."

Winston leaned on the edge of the desk. "In that case, sir, who would you deploy on a recon mission? I'm afraid this is too high-risk for anyone besides... uh... besides..."

"Yep. I'll send Jebby in. Why, 's there a problem?"

"Er...sir, coms got a report recently. Said that Jebus was found in the local high school. Dead."

Beorg squinted into his lieutenant's eyes, trying to see if Winston was telling the truth.

"Say ag'in."

"I'm not lying, sir. The mortician says that it was a 0.50 caliber round-"

Beorg slammed his fists on the table and exhaled a single, heartfelt expletive.

X

"Sir!" The Grunts clicked their heels together and stood in salute.

Winston raised a hand. "At ease. Escort me to Doctor Alva Hoffnar."

One of the men swallowed nervously and stepped forth. "Yessir! This way, please."

Down, down, through the basement. Even lower. It got darker. Winston didn't even know the police station had this many layers under the ground.

Through three security checks- then five more. A ninth. Eye scanners. Decontamination chambers. Pat downs. Full-body scans.

A stern-faced agent confiscated Winston's sidearm and dropped it in a bin labelled "Potential hazards."

And now, they were here. In the "Labs."

After the collapse of the 1.5 facilities and the Nexus project, many AAHW experiments now took place here, in once-abandoned subway tunnels. The AAHW Science Branch had made this area their home. Vats of glowing green held naked human test specimens, suspended in neutral-buoyancy gel; breathers covered their faces, and tubes fed into their stomachs. Things happened here that were never supposed to happen.

Surgeons wielded bloody scalpels, making incisions on unanesthetized "test subjects." Their agonized screams rent the air. Deformed clones staggered about in examination chambers, helplessly banging against the one-way windows, begging for blissful euthanization.

Winston had heard whispered rumors of the "Labs," but he had never imagined it was this horrifying. He stepped quickly and tried to tune out their cries of agony. He hated this aspect of his job. In the AAHW's quest for perfection, they perpetrated a million heinous crimes. Winston was willing to spill blood, to kill for the cause, but no amount of brainwash or blackmail could convince him to work in these "labs."

Winston knew that this facility was necessary and crucial towards the AAHW's existence: "Sacrifice one to benefit all," was the third stanza of the AAHW charter. The thought did little to reassure him.

The sounds and stenches of experimentation mercifully ended as they reached the subject containment cells. They approached a sealed, steel-plated door. Winston swallowed his discomfort.

There: Alva Hoffnar.

Winston had heard the rumors surrounding the scientist. Alva was once in charge of the Nexus project, and the downfall of the 1.5 facilities was his doing. He tried to betray the Sheriff. Beorg responded by breaking his will, reducing the brilliant man into an animal. Judging from how the scientists held him by a leash, the rumors seemed close to fact.

Winston started to doubt the rumors the moment his eyes made contact with Alva's. Though they were half closed in exhaustion and pain, there yet remained a spark of hope. A glint of genius.

Alva's gait was unsteady and awkward. His head was always tilted to the side. But Winston sensed something in those eyes. Regret, perhaps. Or maybe, anger... vengeance.

One of Alva's handlers threw a bag over the former scientist's head and gave the chain to Winston. As Winston tugged Alva along the halls, it felt as if he were dragging along a tame beast; a ring leader baiting along a lion.

Winston stepped quickly. He wanted to be out of here as quickly as possible.

Here I am. A prisoner. But this time, I'm stuck in my own goddamned body.

Fan-fuckin'-tastic.

Beorg's finally decided that I needed a leash. So he implanted me with my own invention. Damn him.

Maybe this is what death's like. Just me alone with my lucid thoughts. Me and this damned genius mind of mine. Well, 'cept, dead bodies lie still in their coffins, while I get ta see my own limbs move about and not be able ta do a god-fuckin'-damned thing 'bout it.

This is some really shitty shit.

But I've got plans. Beorg would only take me out of my lil' cell if he needed me. And he needs me now. Soon's my chance. The Mannequin module might intercept nerve signals I send down my spine, but it's just a machine. An artificial vertebrae. Machines can be broken, or manipulated. I just need a couple seconds with a computer. Then I'll be free.

I'll tell Christoff the truth. Then we'll bust outta this shitty hellhole. Join up with the Anti.

It looks like they need me. There's an agent at the door. He looks young. They're callin' him Winston. I wonder how the kid became Beorg's left hand man that quickly. He prob'ly did something supremely horribly evil. Yeah.

*Sigh*

If only he knew...

If only he knew.

Beorg crossed his arms as Winston pulled Alva into the interrogation room. He wrinkled his nose at the stench that wafted from the emaciated prisoner.

With a wave of the hand, he dismissed his men. The door slid shut, and the two were alone. With a rough yank, Beorg ripped the bag off of Alva's head, and smiled at his prisoner.

"Afternoon, partner."

Beorg tapped on the door. Seconds later, two men in hazard suits clomped in, each man lifting one end of a large container. They set it down with a dull thud.

"Humans," Beorg continued, "are so fragile. Deep down in there, partner, yer just another animal. Yer run by a bunch o' instincts. So all I did was reveal yer true form. Ya ought ta be thankin' me. Oh wait..."

Beorg grinned wickedly. "Ya can't. 'Cause, just like a good lil' doggy, ya won't bark unless yer master tells ya to."

Alva's eyes tracked Beorg as he strutted across the room.

"I've got a job fer ya. But try anythin' funny an' I'll stop ya." Beorg pointed at the security cameras in the corners of the room. "I'll be watchin' yer ev'ry move. I gotta make sure ya stay obedient, like a good lil' boy."

"I'm gonna leave now, partner. Ya wanna make a difference 'stead of rottin' in the brig? Pop open this box and read the instructions. I'll give ya all the time ya need. G'day, partner."

The door clanged shut. Alva collapsed.

Christoff sighed as he sat atop his hill.

Far in the distance, an orange sun gracefully sank into its mountainous bed. The sky exploded in a spectrum of rich indigos and crimson reds.

He heard footsteps rustling the grass behind him, but he didn't turn his head. This sunset was quite the spectacle to behold. The sun never set in Nevada. The sky was either light gray or dark gray. The sun was a bright white spot among the clouds.

This place is nice.

Renault's voice spoke, a meter to Christoff's left. "This place is nice."

Christoff responded with an affirmative grunt.

Renault sighed, his gaze blank. "You died again, right? Is that why you are here?"

"Perhaps." Christoff muttered, "But never have I felt so alive."

"You are aware that this is not a tangible place, yes? You are dead. Your... soul still lingers in this limbo."

A gentle breeze rustled the grasses at Christoff's feet. Christoff's heart swelled with a crescendo of foreign feelings: Peace. Tranquility.

"I would stay." Christoff finally spoke, after a long pause.

Renault squatted. "An interesting choice. I hope you do not mind me asking, how exactly did you die?"

Christoff rubbed his chin. The moments before his death were strangely indistinct.

"I...am still not certain as to how I died. I remember fighting a mercenary. His name... was Travian? No. Regardless, I remember an... explosive impact, an exquisite burst of red. Then, I fell. That is all I remember, the falling."

Renault stiffened. "Falling... you know, Christoff, I do not remember my death either."

'That dream with Renault... was it real?'

"You were once alive, then?" Christoff inquired.

Renault sighed. "Yes, in a time long since past, I was once alive. Like you, I am unsure of the circumstances of my death. I remember a distant crack. Then I was falling, just like you. I fell, and fell, until I landed here, in these perfect green hills."

"How long have you roamed this realm?"

Renault made a slight frown. "What does it matter? In this place, time has no meaning. A second here could be a thousand seconds outside. An hour could equate to year or a millisecond. Time passes as quickly as you desire. I have been here in this limbo for about a week. In your world, it has been at least three decades. In fact, you had just killed Phi- Phobos mere hours ago."

"Who told you about this convolution of time?"

"A...how should I say this?" Renault drummed his fingers on his knees in thought. "Ah, yes. A native of this realm told me. You will meet him one day, when you are ready."

Christoff nodded. "I see."

Renault closed his eyes. "Christoff, you should resurrect."

"Why should I?"

"Because you cannot resurrect unless you want to resurrect. The real world needs you."

Christoff gestured towards the immaculate scenery. "My question still stands. The real world is filled with madness and insanity. Let my body rot. My existence is free, in these idyllic hills green."

"That is no excuse," Renault snapped. He sounded agitated.

Christoff sighed. "I must inquire, why have you not resurrected?"

"Because I... er... am waiting for you. I must guide your hand in the turbulent and violent days to come. And, no matter what, even if society shatters around you, you must remain standing. Not for your own sake. Not for the sake of Beorg, or even the citizens."

"For what?" Christoff was somewhat curious. "For justice?"

"Yes..." Renault started, but he caught his tongue. "No. You will stand for something greater than mere justice."

The instructions were simple: Bring back Christoff.

Within the box... something infinitely complex.

The processing unit whirred, heaved, and breathed. The monitor was caked with dust. The keyboard didn't register one in every three key presses. But Alva could still pump out three hundred words a minute, his fingers blurring across the cheap plastic keys. Line after line of code sprawled before his eyes.

In his mind, a checklist.

'Deactivate ancillary security directives. Boot creativity matrix. Check.'

Each Improbability Drive had double and triple checks in place to make sure they didn't destabilize. This drive was already unstable, which meant it could act unpredictably.

'Slave secondary processors to code-cracking. Target those memory sections. Check.'

But the more unstable the drive gets, the more powerful it becomes. Perhaps... powerful enough to bring someone back to life. Easily powerful enough to crack the mannequin module.

'Make a variable, "self-preservation." Put it in a priority queue. Set to highest priority... Check.'

Alva paused for a second. Aside from survival, what did intelligent living things most desire?

His finger roved over the "p" key.

Then, the "l."

"pleasure."

'Set variable "pleasure" to second highest priority. Check.'

This plan could work. Machines could be broken, manipulated, fixed.

'Cross-analyse main memory.'

[Memory indices #$0014 through #$0F080 at A0013C corrupted.]

[Error code: 100111100. Deleting incompatible String: "Aud1t0r"]

Alva paused. How the hell did that get there?

'Repair finished...Check. Compile the program, and-'

The screen inexplicably wiped itself. The flashing cursor blinked twice. The sentence spelled itself before Alva's eyes.

[Query: Is user responsible for this unit's awakening. Y/N.]

It worked.

Alva pressed the key. "Y."

[Query: Does the user desire a task performed. Y/N.]

"Y."

[Input desired task in simple, short sentences.]

So close. Everything is working as planned.

"Resurrect Jebidiah H. Christoff with all memories intact."

[Error: This unit requires compensation for services rendered.]

It... it could do that? Alva sat straight with a start.

[This unit has detected an emotion: surprise. This unit did not wish harm. It only desires an exchange.]

Alva sighed. He didn't like where this was going.

"Elaborate," he wrote.

[Request: allow this unit to interface with MANNEQUIN (ID: #000948) device implanted within spinal cord of user. This unit feels it is sufficient compensation for the large service to be rendered. Y/N.]

"Elaborate," Alva typed again.

[Reason: this unit knows nothing of sensory pleasure. It has yet to experience: tactile, visual, palate-based, olfactory. or auditory pleasure. Data from SINternet suggests such experiences define existence.]

The cursor paused for a full ten blinks.

[Query: will you give this unit a chance to live. Y/N.]

Alva stared at the question before him.

His finger hovered over the keys.

'I'm about ta sell my soul to a machine. Yeah, a damned smart an' powerful machine, but still, a machine.

What's a soul, anyways? Did I have one in the first place? I've lived as a man of science my whole life. Yet, I still dunno what happens when I pass.

Maybe it'll just be blackness, as my brain cells slowly atrophy inside my living, breathing body.

I've done some pretty bad shit in my life, yeah. The best I can do is give this machine a chance at life. Maybe do things right where I did things wrong.

Of course, the robotic bastard could just end up killing everyone in this pitiful little planet.

Perfect.

I've seen what Beorg's plannin'. I'd rather everyone be dead than suffer what he's gonna do. And his boss... he's another matter entirely.

I have no place here. The only things that trust me are a machine and a test subject who was mentally conditioned to like me.

Everything else and everyone else is dead. Fuck me, huh.

Christoff has ta remain alive. He's gonna be a spark of light in the dark to come. My ace in the hole: a wild card. I only hope that he'll discover the truth. His truth. Then, Beorg's world is gonna come crashing down 'round him.

A worthy trade-off.

Here goes nothing.'

His finger pressed down. "Y."

[This unit expresses: gratitude. User, allow five minutes for transfer to take place. Do not disconnect power while the process is active.]

The deed is done.

Alva laid back and blankly stared at the ceiling as his life seeped away.

I can feel the dark sentience peeking into my thoughts. It pushes against the barriers of my consciousness. It's dark and pulsating. Is it curious? Malevolent? I can't tell. It bursts the floodgates, and the ravenous tide swarms in.

It seeps into my memories. My childhood disappears, year by year, swallowed by the inexorable blackness. Good. I didn't want to remember those years anyway.

Will the Improbability Drive keep its promise? Was this all a big mistake? Would I have sacrificed my consciousness for nothing?

I am starting to regret this decision. Actually, on second thought, this is gonna be for the better. When I die, no more drives will ever be produced. The secrets ta making 'em are gonna die with me. When the Anti finally destroys those damned drives, nobody's gonna be able ta manipulate the sacrosanct laws of nature for petty power.

Still. I'm a bit sad it had ta end this way.

...

...It's still going. Burrowing deeper. My Improbability Thesis is evaporating before my eyes...poof. It's gone. I don't remember a word of it. Another scourge of mankind, erased, just like that.

My name is Alva. I have ta remember that. No matter what.

My fingers grow numb and unfeeling. My eyes grow blind. I'm dying, but I'm alive. What a strange scientific phenomenon. Too bad I can't record this experience.

My name's Alva. Don't forget.

My name's Alva.

The night's closing in. I can't breathe.

...My name's Alva.

I hope... Christoff will... he... Beorg... who...?

My name's... Alva.

My name... is Alva.

M... y... n... ame... is...Al...v...

...

[Error.]

Indigo-flecked clouds hugged distant, verdant hills: An explosion of oranges, violets, and crimson reds. The distant, vermillion orb sat in its bed, the horizon.

Renault sighed. "This world is beautiful. That is why you must go back. Make the real world into a paradise, like this."

"Where am I?" Christoff asked. "Nowhere in Earth can one witness such transient beauty-"

Christoff's feet sank into the earth.

"What manner of devilry is this?!" He exclaimed, attempting to extricate himself from the embrace of the ground.

Renault stepped back, wide-eyed.

"Christoff, I am sorry. I cannot help you. You are being forced back into the world by a force beyond my own comprehension."

"No!" Christoff yelled. His struggle intensified, but the demonic vacuum from below pulled inexorably. The soil suctioned his body ever downwards. He was already up to his chest. The gently waving grasses tickled his face.

Renault closed his eyes. "Stay strong... brother."

Christoff took a final breath before the loam consumed him.

And he was falling, falling, falling...

Beorg sneered as he watched Alva lie on the floor.

"The Hell does he think he's doin'?" He muttered.

The Sheriff turned to his technical advisors. "Well, partners? Tell me, what's he doin'? Why's the mannequin module goin' offline?!"

A young technician flipped switches and hopelessly stared at the monitor.

"I...dunno, sir! The drive's power consumption spiked! He must've destabilized it, or something!"

"I reckon that can't be good," Beorg mused.

"To say the least, sir. The drive is blocking all our attempts to control it, or shut it down! Fuck! It's corrupting sensor data!" the technician mopped at his forehead with his sleeve. "Should we flip the kill switch?"

The camera displays sizzled with static and flickered to blackness.

"Do it!" Beorg yelled. "Do it now!"

The technician flipped a kill switch... and each camera display exploded into repeating lines of text.

[Error: your request could not be completed Error: your request could not be completed Error: your request could not be completed Error: your request could not be completed Error: your request could not be completed]

"Manual termination!" Beorg roared. "Quick! NOW!"

A panicked techie slammed the manual override, severing the primary powerplant conduits.

The lights sputtered and died. The computer screens instantly blackened. Everything plunged into darkness.

[Error. Error.]

[Process interrupted.]

[Diagnostic running...complete. Synopsis: premature termination. Commencing emergency memory dump.]

[/Filter/FlateDecode/Length 17stream...]

[Warning. Reanimation process for: Jebidiah H Christoff. Process at 98% completion. Current status: excess Improbability Energy in muscular/skeletal structure. Override?]

[Invoking Priority 1 directive: Self-Preservation. Override authorized. Process terminated.]

[Memory dump...complete.]

[Error: central processing unit operating at ten percent capacity. ]

[Slaving Bio-electric biological cranial processing unit to ancillary processing.]

[...Complete. Central processing unit operating at four-three point six-three percent capacity.]

[Tactile sensors online. Aural sensors online. Corneal sensors online. Gustation sensors online. Olfactory sensors online.]

[Overriding local security protocols. Re-routing power from emergency storage.]

[Doors open.]

[Goto: Local Park (14823 Prosperity Lane).]

[En Route.]

Christoff opened his eyes, but everything was black.

'Is this true death?'

He breathed in. No, he was alive. His lungs were filling with air. And his head hurt: a splitting migraine.

'Damn it. I am still alive.'

He exhaled. What happened? He remembered green hills; a perfect sunset, an ideal world... Renault was there. But the exact details of their conversations were frustratingly nondescript.

He knew was angry. Angry at being forced back into this marred, imperfect universe.

zzz...crk.

The halo, which sat on his chest, detected the life coming back to its host, and started to hover and crackle. It emanated a dim glow, illuminating the near vicinity.

As the Nexus Halo spun faster, Christoff's body flooded with strength, and his senses became more finely attuned. The wafting stench of fresh corpses drifted to his nose as distant voices floated to his ears.

He was in a morgue; row upon row of covered bodies stretched to the door. The headache receded, degree by degree, leaving Christoff alone with the dead men.

He was angry. He didn't know why. And he felt… powerful.

He paused and turned his ear towards the door. There: footsteps, the cautious, tactical tread of a wary hunter.

Christoff seized a doctor's overcoat from the walls to cover his naked form. He ducked behind a rack of bodies. It would be best to avoid detection; perhaps these people were hostile.

Click. A deadbolt was undone. A blinding white cone of light eased through the slowly-opening doorway. Snaking through the room like a meandering river, the rays of illumination paused at each cadaver. Christoff heard soft breathing from the flashlight-bearer as he cautiously advanced.

With a start, Christoff realized his hands were glowing. He stuffed them inside his garment and tried to ignore the fact.

Christoff observed the intruder. The man wore a greyshirt and held a flashlight in his right hand. He was unarmed, likely a simple maintenance worker. Christoff stepped into the open. The flashlight beam jerked in surprise as it crossed Christoff's chest.

Clack! The man had dropped his flashlight into the concrete. The bulb shattered upon contact with the ground.

The man uttered a fervent, whispered expletive. "Shit!"

"Identify yourself," Christoff ordered.

"Holy shit... It's the Jebus!" Came the response.

For some reason, Christoff wanted to kill this man. But he had never seen this man before in his life. It took all his restraint not to sprint forwards and dash his skull against the wall. He heard the footsteps patter away. He followed with his lanky strides.

"It's Jebus, it's Jebus!" Christoff heard the man yell. "Our Savior hasn't perished!"

Triumphant cheers echoed from the hallway. More footsteps: this time, rushed and reckless.

"Now, now, partners, what's all this commotion?"

Christoff narrowed his eyes. That was Beorg's voice.

These were the Sheriff's men.

The voices quieted, and the clamoring footsteps stopped. "Sorry, sir, but we found Jebus! He's alive! Over there, quick!"

"Quick, quick!" The voices chorused. "He's alive! Quick!"

Beorg...

Christoff felt the anger accumulate in his stomach.

Beorg...

The mere word was repulsive. That manipulative, sinful, egotistical bastard. Christoff emanated a low rumble of rage. He would rather die than become a tool again.

But the Sheriff would just blackmail him. Physically control him. Make his "boss" intervene.

The mere thought of Beorg's "boss" triggered uncontrollable shivering. And the anger came back, stronger than ever.

"Through this door!"

"Which door?"

"Someone, get a goddamn flashlight!"

Anger. Fear. These strange, powerful emotions swirled together. Pure hatred flooded his thoughts: hatred and irrationality. He didn't bother to restrain it. He wanted the anger to fill his body. His hands involuntarily shone with manic powers of temporary insanity. A strange, new power, granted by a strange, new source: residual power from the Improbability Drive that had resurrected him.

The same Improbability Drive that was once used to create a horde of zombies at facility 1.5.

Nearby, one of the cadavers twitched.

Tendrils of white streaked from his fists.

Anger and Hatred; Futility and Fear; Utter irrationality.

"I purge the wicked. I purge the wicked." Christoff chanted.

"They all must die."

A cold hand clenched. A pallid face opened its eyelids, revealing the sunken, vacant orbs beneath.

They rose.

"He was in here!"

"Well, partner, what're you waitin' for? Open 'er up!"

Clang.

"Hey, Jeb-"

"SHERIFF! LOOK OUT-"

"Holy shit! What are-"

"Th... the hell?! Green skin-"

"They're looking at us! Hey, you! Grunt! Do something-"

"Shoot them! Shoot them-"

Bang! Bang Bang!

"Oh shit, oh shit! You got their attention now-"

"Where's my gun?! It's too damned dark, someone give me-"

"The flashlight! I dropped-"

Bang!

"Call for backup, everyone, get out of-"

Bang! Ba-bang!

"It's green! What the fuck, it's not- aaugh! HELP M-"

Bones breaking; tendons tearing; blood dripping.

Bang!

"Where's the Sheriff! Hey, you, make sure the Sheriff is safe-"

Ba-bang Bang!

"I'm right here, partner! I'm-"

Bang!

"Sir, you should get out of-"

Bang! Clic~

"Fuck! I'm out of ammo! I'm out of-"

"Come on, run! Run, run, RUN! Move-"

"We're all gonna fucking die-"

"My lord Savior, if you have ever stood besides me, stand beside me now. Grant me your strength that I may-"

"We're out of time! Close it-"

"No! Wait! Don't close the door! Wait, I-"

"Jake's still here! Wait like one more-"

"We haven't got the time, partner! Close the Goddamn-"

"No! Please! Oh Jebus fucking Christ, please, don't leave me here, n-!"

Thud!

Frenzied, desperate hammering. Thud! Thud, thud!

"Bar the door, partner."

"... Yessir."

Clang.

[Attempting: hello.]

"Hey-low."

"Hell-oh."

The Mannequin, formerly Alva, lounged on the park bench. The feeling of wind on his face and weaving through his hairs; the feeling of fine cloth on his skin; the pleasant warbling of the birds above; the sensation of words coming from his vocal chords; it was all so novel to the Portable Improbability Drive.

"Heh-lo."

The Mannequin's mouth slowly enunciated each syllable.

"Huh-eh-low."

"Hee hee!"

The sudden giggle caused The Mannequin to stop his experimentations. That giggle had resonated extremely well with the Portable Improbability Drive.

[This unit finds this auditory data is especially pleasurable.] It thought. [Re-establishing priorities.]

The Mannequin turned his gaze towards the sound. His voice was almost monotone.

"Hell-oh, Eight-year-old female. How is your day?"

The little girl blushed and hugged her doll. "I...I just thought it was really funny how you were talking weird."

[Attempting stance: friendly.]

The Mannequin smiled and leaned so that they were the same height. "Eight-year-old female. Could you giggle for me, please?"

The girl shook her head. "No, sorry. I can only giggle if something is funny."

[Attempting stance: funny.]

"Knock, knock," the mannequin intoned.

The little girl pouted. "No! I hate knock-knock jokes."

The Mannequin tilted his head. "Eight-year-old female, how would you define: funny?"

She rolled her eyes in thought and shrugged. "I dunno. Oh! I remember! For my birthday, mommy invited a clown over! He was funny! He could juggle and tell jokes and he would do these really funny little dances and it was great!"

[Word: 'Clown' added to lexicon. Further research required.]

"Thank you for your assistance, Eight-year-old female." The Mannequin said.

"Molly!" A distant woman's voice called.

"Coming, mom!" the young girl replied, jogging 'cross the lush grass.

Molly looked over her shoulder and pointed, babbling some excited, exuberant words.

"What'd I tell you about strangers?!" The mother lectured.

"Sorry, mommy." Molly muttered, crestfallen.

"It's okay, sweetie. I'm just scared for you, because I love you."

"I love you too, mommy."

The Mannequin watched the scene with unfocused eyes.

[Word: 'Love' added to lexicon. Further research required.]

The Mannequin opened his mouth and attempted to imitate the young girl's laugh.

"Hee. Hee hee heee."

The Mannequin cringed.

[This unit finds this auditory data undesirable.]

The Mannequin closed his eyes and leaned back. He replayed the young girl's giggle in his head, and the sound pleased the Portable Improbability Drive greatly.

[Establishing sub-priority: become 'Clown.' Gain substantial pleasure from subsequent instances of laughter. Additionally, acquire funds to purchase foodstuff for body.]

[This unit needs a name. Listing parameters.]

[This unit exists to acquire pleasure. Greatest amount of pleasure gained is through auditory input: 'giggle.' This unit has found that acquiring: 'giggle' is a challenging task.]

[This unit desires to acquire trait: Clown.]

[Cross-indexing lexicons... synonyms discovered. Filtering through creativity matrix.]

[Processing.]

[This unit has uncovered a suitable alias.]

[Tricky.]

A/N:

Whoo. I finished most of this chapter in one day, in one burst of inspiration.

Which probably means it sucks.

Reviewer Creds!

askad:

I like your username.

I'll have spring break soon, which means I get to slave away making your new chapter! There will be answers.

Oh, and I wasn't lying about the Never Forget chapter. It's coming, I promise (however much that means...)! Oh, and sorry for making the Improbability drive sound like the unholy bastard love-child of BayMax and the Geth. He'll get a new personality soon enough. Just you wait.

I give you my heartfelt thanks for having persevered this far. Leave a review, please?

Until next time comrades,

-AMaxima