The Future is the Mind
Final: Descent
by Lady Virgo
"The bleak future
holding on
Creation, salvation
above and beyond"
///
They were making him a little brother and sister. How charming, he mused. Quaint, homey. Like having a family. It was almost flattering seeing as Blues was the prototype, the test to see if bioroids really were something to invest in. With the construction of his two siblings, it meant that he impressed them enough to believe bioroids were of actual use.
The little childish part of him that Blues had become so good at ignoring snickered in his mind at the thought of 'family'. 'And just which one,' it asked of him, 'of the doctors would be Mommy?'
All that time at practicing stoicism and bearing cracked and Blues couldn't help but snicker badly at the thought.
At the same time, though, he felt a bit put out. Well, more than a little. It was like he was being replaced. Oh, he understood how quickly groundbreaking technology and cutting-edge machinery quickly grew to be obsolete. And a year is a rather long time for something to stay at the top of its class.
Of course, when you're the only one of your kind, it's pretty easy, he supposed.
But he couldn't help but think that he had brought this on himself in a way. Karma, biting him in the butt. From what he gathered, Thomas didn't really want to create another bioroid, at least not until they fully grasped Blues' potential- which he still wouldn't do for reasons as to have an army of himself on the streets, a rather frightening thought, really. But Alfred somehow bullied his friend into starting up blueprints. However, all those years together, Thomas had developed a bit of slyness of his own and managed to get a compromise. He would help Alfred in constructing not just one, but two more bioroids. Only if he had full reign in their design and purpose.
Grudgingly, Alfred agreed, though it was mainly out of a sense of greed than for any other reason. He had a plan cooking up in his head and Blues knew it. He just couldn't figure out what it was and how he and his 'brethren' would fit into it. Just that one conversation- well, argument, really... but, no. After all, Thomas wasn't the sort to go along with Alfred's plans, not something like that. Subconsciously, Blues' hands knotted into fists. Was he?
No, it was a possibility either way. Thomas wasn't the sort to let a perfectly capable living being able to feel emotions be mistreated. However, Blues was most definitely /not/ a living being. But he did have emotions and the good doctor often took it into consideration. More so than Wily ever would. Yet still... Thomas was just as much an idealist as his friend was and Alfred could throw a pretty good sales pitch if he truly wanted to. If he really believed in what he was saying. In fact, Blues almost believed in what he was saying. That is, if his 'ideals' and his recent treatment of the prototype hadn't paralleled so closely to a near forgotten past.
Alfred called it 'progression' and 'indentured servitude'. Blues called it slavery.
"And just what," his computerized voice seemingly giving off authentic boredom, "is that supposed to accomplish? Your declaration of terrorism or just general chaos for the fun of it?"
It was the reaction Alfred had not expected to receive from anyone. Especially from one whose creation was basically for the sole purpose of carrying the idea out.
It was a plan of idealism. The perfect way for people to live, be healthy, get things done and being happy and spending time doing what they loved- not worrying about everything going to hell. It was the way to bring countries together, make people happy with their government and way of life. Everything would be /perfect/, everyone agreed with it.
Except for the one who was supposed to instigate it.
"What sense does it make?" Blues continued, sensing the doctor's confusion within the depths of his circuitry. "You want bioroids spread throughout the world in order to accomplish goals too harsh for humans to do. Fine. You want them to do labor when it's hard. Fine. You want them put in hazardous situations, do menial tasks no one wants, you want bioroids to do all the work unpopular or too dangerous for humans. You want them to do everything so people can mill about to do what they wish. You want us to be your work horses, your dogs. But since people are so upset over incidents in the past that most won't trust an emotionless creature, so you decided to give bioroids personalities, a thought process however primitive in comparison to your own."
"What are you trying to get at?"
Through his tinted shades, Alfred could feel his red stare cut him down. "You're trying to rebuild the slave trade. And you're trying to use me and others like me to create your pedestal."
He was shocked. How... How /dare/ he-
But Blues wasn't finished yet. "You can't bare the thought of being forgotten, you can't bare the thought of someone else living like you. Conversely you can't stand the idea of someone growing up so much better than you, either. You want everyone to be equal. That's all nice and fine and a majority of the people might actually /agree/ with your methods. Consciously."
"What do you mean by that?"
Blues knew /all/ about Wily's... social inadequacies and was more than happy to point that out. "Competitiveness is all a part of human nature, doctor. Though someone says that they'd be happy to have everyone equal, they don't want to be on the same level as everyone else. That is the real reason why Marxism has never and will never work. The rich want to become richer, the weak want to become stronger- there is no one that wants less of a better thing, even to get rid of all the wrong in the world. Because so long as they are able to gain something they deem as 'good', they'll be too greedy to share with others. That is what true progression really is. Not this... equal utopia you dream about. That could never become a reality. Especially not coming from someone like you."
One of Alfred's great eyebrows twitched at that sentence. "And just what... is that supposed to mean?"
"It means," the bioroid returned the look with equal venom, "that you create beings capable of emotions, but you do not take it into consideration. You know bioroids can feel, but you don't care. You still treat me like a mindless, emotionless thing. You don't want 'servants'. You want slaves." He leaned in close to Wily, the scientist never truly realizing how a few inches seemed towering until that moment. "But I won't let you."
He remembered exactly how the conversation had gone, his ears still burning from the rejection and outright insult. For two full days he went into a rage and it was all Thomas could do to keep him from physically destroying various objects and attempting to attack Blues for his 'insolence', so he said.
That was just the way he was ever since Thomas knew him. Easily angered, his temper sometimes over in an hour, other times a long, slow burn out. In retrospect, Dr. Light probably realized the signs that something in Alfred's mind was bending. His temper growing quicker to break, longer to mend, his resorts to violence becoming more common and his grin slowly turning from his eccentric Cheshire trademark smirk to maniacally glowing, maliciously gleeful sneer. When he reflected on it a few years after they fell apart, he realized how it grew during the times they began working on Blues, on their research and on the other projects they created in order to test, perfect and support their bioroid project. He saw it worsen as Cossack fell out, as their supports bailed, as the media and consumers turned on them and the science community cast them out. He just... never consciously acknowledged. Maybe from fear that he'd wind up losing his best friend? Because he didn't know if he could confront Alfred on the unstable emotions in him becoming all the more unstable? Or maybe because he felt he might help his old friend lose his weakening grip by trying to stop him?
He knew Alfred's past, knew his habits, knew all the problems he had and trouble he went through and how much he loved his work and how much he hated the life he was happy to forget as much as he was anxious to leave it. For years he believed it was Blues that cracked the fragile glass of Alfred's mind, already strained and shattering from so many years of stress, with his harsh rejection of Wily's plan.
Alfred had spent the greater part of his life, ever since he had become a known genius at the age of 12, realizing that he didn't have to stay in that hellhole of his life, coming up with a way to prevent others from growing up like him. He spent so much time and effort into this plan, so much money, so much thought, trying to persuade others to see how he did.
It became an obsession for him and as things began to turn against him, he saw his past trying to claw him back into their dark fold. And with Blues blowing him off was like cutting off the final safety between him and the life he was trying to run away from.
But, deep inside, Thomas knew it wasn't Blues' fault, not entirely anyway. Perhaps it was more his own fault for the completion of Rock and Roll, not allowing Alfred to deal with their frame construct or positronic brains.
As it was, the two new bioroids' construction went rather quickly. Possibly because they already understood what needed to be done, possibly because Blues watched and helped at times, an asset when something delicate was at hand and a steady grip was needed. Or possibly because Thomas was in charge of this one, wanting only simple robots, not as high-tech and glamorously equipped as Blues.
They had argued long over it, neither wanting to be the one to give in.
"What good can they do? How can they help the world being as weak and useless as they are?"
Now that Thomas had time to think about it, that was probably his first inclinations that something was seriously wrong with Wily's planning.
"What do you mean?" He growled over Rock's partially constructed body, his bare scalp pulled back to reveal the circuits and blinking lights of his metallic brain. He was built almost like a child, short with a small build. His face had a youthful expression made to smile and laugh and be happy. But fate was more than cruel to him and towards the end, Rock would find it harder and harder to keep smiling. "Rock is designed to be a playmate, to watch over children so neglectful parents won't be hurting their children."
"They are not created," Alfred shouted, swinging his arm carelessly in emphasis, "as an excuse for people to continue to be stupid and make their mistakes over and over again! It's to better their way of life!"
"You can't expect everyone to understand your views automatically! There will still be some people hesitant to follow your example. That's what bioroids like Rock and Roll are for! For those selfish people that can't understand the kind of world we're striving for! They'll do what people are too lazy for."
"Once they realize that there are bioroids to do that, they'll get accustomed to having something else to the work for them! They'll never learn from something like that!"
Light snapped, his first actual defiance at his friend and his ideals. "And what difference is there between them and those you're planning?"
Alfred opened his mouth and almost immediately clicked it shut. Over and over it repeated, each time, the man getting angrier and angrier, his face turning red as he struggled with his thoughts. Idly, Thomas wondered if Alfred just didn't know how to break it down simply for him, or if there really was no difference between their purposes for construction.
So instead, Alfred let out a strangled cry and stormed out of the lab in a whirl of fury, growling loudly at everything on his way. From the shadows- Blues' new found haven -the prototype snickered quietly in his mind. How hypocritical the two doctors were... Artificial though he was Blues had a better grasp about cause and effect as it concerned psychology than most. And though the two never had that sort of conversation again, just the fact that it had taken place had shaken a rift between them that would never get the chance to heal.
Or maybe it was the fact that Thomas refused to help passed the planning and personality programming of the six new bioroids Wily had designed himself. Well, that was fine by the both of them. Alfred had already started on them without consulting his fellow scientist and said fellow scientist had become snide on the subject in direct relation to it.
The two rarely talked to each other anymore, even when they actually had to. But that was fine by Blues. He was the cultivation of not just two, but essentially three great scientists and they had broken the proverbial mold with him. He predicted the violent end between the two men and laid out the plans of how and when his 'life' would branch out from their watchful gaze.
"You shall never know what it is like to father something," Blues said ironically to himself, "until you have faced it rebelling against you."
As the days grew short with hot flashes of tempers and sharp, frigid drops of temperature as the two men met, Blues finally decided that it was time to make his move. He did a final gear check, making sure everything was nominal and all accessories, though sparse, were upon him.
It was a random thought, for a robot. But he decided, with a thoughtless shrug, that he might as well act on it. There was nothing that could be done to stop him, and he didn't see a reason that Thomas would have stopped him anyway.
So, he went up to the paling man who looked surprised to see Blues in armor- for neither scientist had given him the armor yet, nor had they even told him of its creation. With a mysterious smile, Blues told Thomas, "Perhaps you should re-think Wily's proposal." And, without further adieu, continued his exodus.
It was a rather odd thing to say, Thomas recalled thinking. But it was something he couldn't stop thinking about. And, conversely, he couldn't help but to re-run Alfred's persuasive argument through his head again.
And the more he thought about it, the more he thought back on that day that Blues and Alfred were on frayed ends, and he began to think. /Really/ think, looking at the plan from all sides. The side of a scientist, of a civilian from a rough life, a cynic- someone who lived in the past, the community concerned only for the people, from the market concerned with people for money purposes only. He looked at it as a board of directors might, he looked at it from Alfred's point of view. Finally... he looked at it from Blues' point of view.
Maybe Light was really the one to be blamed for Wily's final descent. Because he was Alfred's closest friend, longest kept friend, the one that understood him best. And not only did he betray him by not helping him, but also by turning his back on him. Because he knew Blues was leaving, because he watched him leave. And he watched him change one of the most difficult components to the bioroids' systems. And he had no inclination to interfere.
Just one component, one piece of the formula, missing, changed, different. That was all that was needed.
His mind worked backwards, inconceivably quick, shuffling, redistributing, recreating the Gel that took two geniuses years to figure in mere parts of seconds, thinking opposite human comprehension.
Blues stood over the blue prints with a smirking grin.
"I know your plans, my good doctors." He said to himself, leaving as a flutter of yellow scarf. "But no one can recreate me. Not with your intent, not with such little control."
It didn't take long for Wily to realize what had happened and he went into a rage. The greatest streak of destruction and hate that had ever been unleashed in his long life. The Gel, the one thing that Alfred took so much pride in for creating... he knew it had changed. What had taken years to create was destroyed in seconds and would never be rediscovered in the many years to come. Alfred's reaction had been anticipated by both Blues and Thomas, but Blues had long since disappeared before the fact. Thomas, however, had left, deciding after witnessing the changing of the formula that it would most likely prudent for he and his two bioroids- children, he decided he'd call them -to move out in the near future.
Though the force of his fury was destructively impressive, it didn't last very long and burned out into a seething hate, like molten steel. That was, perhaps, the most frightening part.
He scowled at the bright blinking lights of the darkened lab. Being among the work he cherished so much didn't help his volatile mood any. In fact, it made him even more agitated.
Everything he spent his whole life to complete, his defining moment, his calling in life, the purpose for his even living and his being betrayed on all sides... He had no more friends, leaving him out of fear for their own selfish, worthless careers, to start families. Even his best friend was beginning to pull away from him. His support in the science community had long since left him; his financial backing was demanding results. Even his prototype, the one to make it all happen, had shot down him and his ideals.
And had broken into his plans, cleaning out some of the more risqué data.
No, the only option Wily had left to him was alcohol and violence and as he tilted his head back to let that final drip of bourbon splash on his nose- there was one path laid out to him now.
Final: Descent
by Lady Virgo
"The bleak future
holding on
Creation, salvation
above and beyond"
///
They were making him a little brother and sister. How charming, he mused. Quaint, homey. Like having a family. It was almost flattering seeing as Blues was the prototype, the test to see if bioroids really were something to invest in. With the construction of his two siblings, it meant that he impressed them enough to believe bioroids were of actual use.
The little childish part of him that Blues had become so good at ignoring snickered in his mind at the thought of 'family'. 'And just which one,' it asked of him, 'of the doctors would be Mommy?'
All that time at practicing stoicism and bearing cracked and Blues couldn't help but snicker badly at the thought.
At the same time, though, he felt a bit put out. Well, more than a little. It was like he was being replaced. Oh, he understood how quickly groundbreaking technology and cutting-edge machinery quickly grew to be obsolete. And a year is a rather long time for something to stay at the top of its class.
Of course, when you're the only one of your kind, it's pretty easy, he supposed.
But he couldn't help but think that he had brought this on himself in a way. Karma, biting him in the butt. From what he gathered, Thomas didn't really want to create another bioroid, at least not until they fully grasped Blues' potential- which he still wouldn't do for reasons as to have an army of himself on the streets, a rather frightening thought, really. But Alfred somehow bullied his friend into starting up blueprints. However, all those years together, Thomas had developed a bit of slyness of his own and managed to get a compromise. He would help Alfred in constructing not just one, but two more bioroids. Only if he had full reign in their design and purpose.
Grudgingly, Alfred agreed, though it was mainly out of a sense of greed than for any other reason. He had a plan cooking up in his head and Blues knew it. He just couldn't figure out what it was and how he and his 'brethren' would fit into it. Just that one conversation- well, argument, really... but, no. After all, Thomas wasn't the sort to go along with Alfred's plans, not something like that. Subconsciously, Blues' hands knotted into fists. Was he?
No, it was a possibility either way. Thomas wasn't the sort to let a perfectly capable living being able to feel emotions be mistreated. However, Blues was most definitely /not/ a living being. But he did have emotions and the good doctor often took it into consideration. More so than Wily ever would. Yet still... Thomas was just as much an idealist as his friend was and Alfred could throw a pretty good sales pitch if he truly wanted to. If he really believed in what he was saying. In fact, Blues almost believed in what he was saying. That is, if his 'ideals' and his recent treatment of the prototype hadn't paralleled so closely to a near forgotten past.
Alfred called it 'progression' and 'indentured servitude'. Blues called it slavery.
"And just what," his computerized voice seemingly giving off authentic boredom, "is that supposed to accomplish? Your declaration of terrorism or just general chaos for the fun of it?"
It was the reaction Alfred had not expected to receive from anyone. Especially from one whose creation was basically for the sole purpose of carrying the idea out.
It was a plan of idealism. The perfect way for people to live, be healthy, get things done and being happy and spending time doing what they loved- not worrying about everything going to hell. It was the way to bring countries together, make people happy with their government and way of life. Everything would be /perfect/, everyone agreed with it.
Except for the one who was supposed to instigate it.
"What sense does it make?" Blues continued, sensing the doctor's confusion within the depths of his circuitry. "You want bioroids spread throughout the world in order to accomplish goals too harsh for humans to do. Fine. You want them to do labor when it's hard. Fine. You want them put in hazardous situations, do menial tasks no one wants, you want bioroids to do all the work unpopular or too dangerous for humans. You want them to do everything so people can mill about to do what they wish. You want us to be your work horses, your dogs. But since people are so upset over incidents in the past that most won't trust an emotionless creature, so you decided to give bioroids personalities, a thought process however primitive in comparison to your own."
"What are you trying to get at?"
Through his tinted shades, Alfred could feel his red stare cut him down. "You're trying to rebuild the slave trade. And you're trying to use me and others like me to create your pedestal."
He was shocked. How... How /dare/ he-
But Blues wasn't finished yet. "You can't bare the thought of being forgotten, you can't bare the thought of someone else living like you. Conversely you can't stand the idea of someone growing up so much better than you, either. You want everyone to be equal. That's all nice and fine and a majority of the people might actually /agree/ with your methods. Consciously."
"What do you mean by that?"
Blues knew /all/ about Wily's... social inadequacies and was more than happy to point that out. "Competitiveness is all a part of human nature, doctor. Though someone says that they'd be happy to have everyone equal, they don't want to be on the same level as everyone else. That is the real reason why Marxism has never and will never work. The rich want to become richer, the weak want to become stronger- there is no one that wants less of a better thing, even to get rid of all the wrong in the world. Because so long as they are able to gain something they deem as 'good', they'll be too greedy to share with others. That is what true progression really is. Not this... equal utopia you dream about. That could never become a reality. Especially not coming from someone like you."
One of Alfred's great eyebrows twitched at that sentence. "And just what... is that supposed to mean?"
"It means," the bioroid returned the look with equal venom, "that you create beings capable of emotions, but you do not take it into consideration. You know bioroids can feel, but you don't care. You still treat me like a mindless, emotionless thing. You don't want 'servants'. You want slaves." He leaned in close to Wily, the scientist never truly realizing how a few inches seemed towering until that moment. "But I won't let you."
He remembered exactly how the conversation had gone, his ears still burning from the rejection and outright insult. For two full days he went into a rage and it was all Thomas could do to keep him from physically destroying various objects and attempting to attack Blues for his 'insolence', so he said.
That was just the way he was ever since Thomas knew him. Easily angered, his temper sometimes over in an hour, other times a long, slow burn out. In retrospect, Dr. Light probably realized the signs that something in Alfred's mind was bending. His temper growing quicker to break, longer to mend, his resorts to violence becoming more common and his grin slowly turning from his eccentric Cheshire trademark smirk to maniacally glowing, maliciously gleeful sneer. When he reflected on it a few years after they fell apart, he realized how it grew during the times they began working on Blues, on their research and on the other projects they created in order to test, perfect and support their bioroid project. He saw it worsen as Cossack fell out, as their supports bailed, as the media and consumers turned on them and the science community cast them out. He just... never consciously acknowledged. Maybe from fear that he'd wind up losing his best friend? Because he didn't know if he could confront Alfred on the unstable emotions in him becoming all the more unstable? Or maybe because he felt he might help his old friend lose his weakening grip by trying to stop him?
He knew Alfred's past, knew his habits, knew all the problems he had and trouble he went through and how much he loved his work and how much he hated the life he was happy to forget as much as he was anxious to leave it. For years he believed it was Blues that cracked the fragile glass of Alfred's mind, already strained and shattering from so many years of stress, with his harsh rejection of Wily's plan.
Alfred had spent the greater part of his life, ever since he had become a known genius at the age of 12, realizing that he didn't have to stay in that hellhole of his life, coming up with a way to prevent others from growing up like him. He spent so much time and effort into this plan, so much money, so much thought, trying to persuade others to see how he did.
It became an obsession for him and as things began to turn against him, he saw his past trying to claw him back into their dark fold. And with Blues blowing him off was like cutting off the final safety between him and the life he was trying to run away from.
But, deep inside, Thomas knew it wasn't Blues' fault, not entirely anyway. Perhaps it was more his own fault for the completion of Rock and Roll, not allowing Alfred to deal with their frame construct or positronic brains.
As it was, the two new bioroids' construction went rather quickly. Possibly because they already understood what needed to be done, possibly because Blues watched and helped at times, an asset when something delicate was at hand and a steady grip was needed. Or possibly because Thomas was in charge of this one, wanting only simple robots, not as high-tech and glamorously equipped as Blues.
They had argued long over it, neither wanting to be the one to give in.
"What good can they do? How can they help the world being as weak and useless as they are?"
Now that Thomas had time to think about it, that was probably his first inclinations that something was seriously wrong with Wily's planning.
"What do you mean?" He growled over Rock's partially constructed body, his bare scalp pulled back to reveal the circuits and blinking lights of his metallic brain. He was built almost like a child, short with a small build. His face had a youthful expression made to smile and laugh and be happy. But fate was more than cruel to him and towards the end, Rock would find it harder and harder to keep smiling. "Rock is designed to be a playmate, to watch over children so neglectful parents won't be hurting their children."
"They are not created," Alfred shouted, swinging his arm carelessly in emphasis, "as an excuse for people to continue to be stupid and make their mistakes over and over again! It's to better their way of life!"
"You can't expect everyone to understand your views automatically! There will still be some people hesitant to follow your example. That's what bioroids like Rock and Roll are for! For those selfish people that can't understand the kind of world we're striving for! They'll do what people are too lazy for."
"Once they realize that there are bioroids to do that, they'll get accustomed to having something else to the work for them! They'll never learn from something like that!"
Light snapped, his first actual defiance at his friend and his ideals. "And what difference is there between them and those you're planning?"
Alfred opened his mouth and almost immediately clicked it shut. Over and over it repeated, each time, the man getting angrier and angrier, his face turning red as he struggled with his thoughts. Idly, Thomas wondered if Alfred just didn't know how to break it down simply for him, or if there really was no difference between their purposes for construction.
So instead, Alfred let out a strangled cry and stormed out of the lab in a whirl of fury, growling loudly at everything on his way. From the shadows- Blues' new found haven -the prototype snickered quietly in his mind. How hypocritical the two doctors were... Artificial though he was Blues had a better grasp about cause and effect as it concerned psychology than most. And though the two never had that sort of conversation again, just the fact that it had taken place had shaken a rift between them that would never get the chance to heal.
Or maybe it was the fact that Thomas refused to help passed the planning and personality programming of the six new bioroids Wily had designed himself. Well, that was fine by the both of them. Alfred had already started on them without consulting his fellow scientist and said fellow scientist had become snide on the subject in direct relation to it.
The two rarely talked to each other anymore, even when they actually had to. But that was fine by Blues. He was the cultivation of not just two, but essentially three great scientists and they had broken the proverbial mold with him. He predicted the violent end between the two men and laid out the plans of how and when his 'life' would branch out from their watchful gaze.
"You shall never know what it is like to father something," Blues said ironically to himself, "until you have faced it rebelling against you."
As the days grew short with hot flashes of tempers and sharp, frigid drops of temperature as the two men met, Blues finally decided that it was time to make his move. He did a final gear check, making sure everything was nominal and all accessories, though sparse, were upon him.
It was a random thought, for a robot. But he decided, with a thoughtless shrug, that he might as well act on it. There was nothing that could be done to stop him, and he didn't see a reason that Thomas would have stopped him anyway.
So, he went up to the paling man who looked surprised to see Blues in armor- for neither scientist had given him the armor yet, nor had they even told him of its creation. With a mysterious smile, Blues told Thomas, "Perhaps you should re-think Wily's proposal." And, without further adieu, continued his exodus.
It was a rather odd thing to say, Thomas recalled thinking. But it was something he couldn't stop thinking about. And, conversely, he couldn't help but to re-run Alfred's persuasive argument through his head again.
And the more he thought about it, the more he thought back on that day that Blues and Alfred were on frayed ends, and he began to think. /Really/ think, looking at the plan from all sides. The side of a scientist, of a civilian from a rough life, a cynic- someone who lived in the past, the community concerned only for the people, from the market concerned with people for money purposes only. He looked at it as a board of directors might, he looked at it from Alfred's point of view. Finally... he looked at it from Blues' point of view.
Maybe Light was really the one to be blamed for Wily's final descent. Because he was Alfred's closest friend, longest kept friend, the one that understood him best. And not only did he betray him by not helping him, but also by turning his back on him. Because he knew Blues was leaving, because he watched him leave. And he watched him change one of the most difficult components to the bioroids' systems. And he had no inclination to interfere.
Just one component, one piece of the formula, missing, changed, different. That was all that was needed.
His mind worked backwards, inconceivably quick, shuffling, redistributing, recreating the Gel that took two geniuses years to figure in mere parts of seconds, thinking opposite human comprehension.
Blues stood over the blue prints with a smirking grin.
"I know your plans, my good doctors." He said to himself, leaving as a flutter of yellow scarf. "But no one can recreate me. Not with your intent, not with such little control."
It didn't take long for Wily to realize what had happened and he went into a rage. The greatest streak of destruction and hate that had ever been unleashed in his long life. The Gel, the one thing that Alfred took so much pride in for creating... he knew it had changed. What had taken years to create was destroyed in seconds and would never be rediscovered in the many years to come. Alfred's reaction had been anticipated by both Blues and Thomas, but Blues had long since disappeared before the fact. Thomas, however, had left, deciding after witnessing the changing of the formula that it would most likely prudent for he and his two bioroids- children, he decided he'd call them -to move out in the near future.
Though the force of his fury was destructively impressive, it didn't last very long and burned out into a seething hate, like molten steel. That was, perhaps, the most frightening part.
He scowled at the bright blinking lights of the darkened lab. Being among the work he cherished so much didn't help his volatile mood any. In fact, it made him even more agitated.
Everything he spent his whole life to complete, his defining moment, his calling in life, the purpose for his even living and his being betrayed on all sides... He had no more friends, leaving him out of fear for their own selfish, worthless careers, to start families. Even his best friend was beginning to pull away from him. His support in the science community had long since left him; his financial backing was demanding results. Even his prototype, the one to make it all happen, had shot down him and his ideals.
And had broken into his plans, cleaning out some of the more risqué data.
No, the only option Wily had left to him was alcohol and violence and as he tilted his head back to let that final drip of bourbon splash on his nose- there was one path laid out to him now.