INTRODUCTION
* Scene: an empty stage. Enter a lone Metool (or Met-Met-- those cute little guys who hide under the hard hats and shoot you from underneath; you know what I'm talking about.)
The Metool clears its throat and begins to speak *
MET-MET: The author would have liked to do the introduction herself, but, due to the risk of violence against her person, she asked me to speak the piece instead. First of all, let me welcome you on the author's behalf to this fic-reading. If perchance you happen to enjoy this fic and have fun reading it, kudos to you!
Now, the author wants me to inform the reader that this is a fic about Iris, of all people...
* the Met-Met ducks under his hat as a barrage of spears thrown by angry MMX fans is chunked at him. When the assault stops, he speaks again *
Yes, I'm afraid it's true. And I'm afraid it's VERY biased and VERY pro-Iris...
* beer cans are chunked onto the stage; the Met's hat gets dented pretty bad, but is otherwise unharmed. *
Why did the author choose to write about...this particular person? Hell if _I_ know! Probably insanity, and maybe a perverse liking for the character, even if she IS a first-rate weenie. But WHY is she a weenie? How did she get to be that way? This is the author's...err.. explanation, if you can call it that. So, if you like Iris...
* A bomb is thrown up onto the stage *
* After the smoke clears, we see the little Met, smoking and charred but still alive, standing in the crater of what was the stage. He gives a little cough before going on *
But if you happen to be an Iris-HATER, then, for the love of Christmas, DON'T READ THIS FIC!! Oh, and one more thing: there'll be some action scenes in this, but they'll be few and far in between. Besides, the author sucks at writing exciting stuff. This would be a GREAT anesthetic for surgery patients.
Thank you.
* The poor little Met waddles off stage, being pelted by chairs and cigarette lighters and all sorts of things while doing so. Before he gets all the way off, he waddles back and speaks rapidly *
AndbythewayIris,Zero,ColonelandallrelatedcharactersarepropertyofCapcomand theauthordoesNOTownthemthoughshewishesshedidandlightenuppeopleit'sjustaFIC!
* Waddles off stage again, and this time he goes off for GOOD *
Venetian Glass
by Themis56
Themis56@aol.com
CHAPTER 1: LET THERE BE LIFE
Two men, garbed in standard-issue white laboratory coats, lounged at a small card table in the break room, assorted food wrappers, plates, and half-drunk bottles scattered pell-mell on top of hundreds of diagrams, stat sheets, and horribly complex equations.
"So," one of the scientists grunted, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied belch, "what more have we got to do today? Damn, I swear, I'm going to get carpal-tunnel syndrome one of these days."
"Yeah. Pushing all those buttons is terribly strenuous work, and my admiration for your stoicism knows no bounds. Actually building the stupid things is nothing in comparison to the strain you go through!" the other snorted as he held up a hand swathed in bandages.
"Oh, shut up. You should've looked at that broken arm-joint a tad more carefully before running your damn hand up and down the edge. Now that was smart," the first scientist, a technician, groaned as he got up to his feet and untightened the belt around his portly belly a notch. "What else have we got to do today?"
"Just one more, I think," came the response from the thinner, taller scientist, this one a mechanical engineer.
"Standard assembly-line? I hate those stupid Hunters, always bitching for more battle-reploids--"
"It's not for the Hunters, Gary. It's a Repliforce request. From Dr. Thorne himself. And it's not exactly an assembly-line model."
"Aw, no!! That's even worse. Special reploids take forever to build. What does Thorne want, anyhow? Another Repliforce officer?" Gary frowned, straightening out his coat.
"Not exactly. It's...it's..." the engineer chuckled slightly, shaking his head.
"What is it, then? Dave? What's so funny?"
"You remember that officer reploid we helped Dr. Thorne make a few months ago? Colonel?" Dave managed to speak past his sniggers.
"Yeah--"
"Well, get this: Thorne wants to give Colonel a sister! Can you believe it?"
Gary gaped at his partner, his jaw slack and twitching upwards at the corners, and flatly stated: "You're kidding."
"Nope."
"But why?" Gary demanded, his expression not altering.
Dave shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Hell if I know. I guess that both Dr. Thorne and Colonel want a girl in the family. Guess they thought it'd be a nice change."
"He's gone nuts, that's what I think. Ah, well. Guess it really doesn't matter. We get paid well enough by him, anyway. When's he coming, Dave?" Gary swept all of the food off the table and into a nearby trash can while his companion gathered up the grimy papers.
"In about an hour. He's bringing Colonel with him, too. I'd like to see him again, actually. He was one of our best productions."
"Yeah," Gary sighed, walking towards the door, brushing the food crumbs off his shirt front, "our best... A sister? Thorne's off his rocker for sure."
*************
Specialty reploids, of course, were not constructed in the main assembly room of the labs; there was a small series of highly classified rooms for the individual Reploids. And in one of these rooms the two scientists labored to ascertain that all the equipment was in order and ready to be used at a moment's notice. When Dr. André Thorne arrived to work on a project, he wanted to work on it immediately.
"I think that's everything. God Almighty, that doc has such high standards," Gary muttered, putting the final polish on the table where the reploid was actually going to be built. "You can't even have a single little scuff on the damn place without him having a conniption."
"Tell me about it. Remember the time you accidentally dropped that half-eaten ham sandwich on the floor and forgot to pick it up?" the other remarked from his bench as he idly assorted his tools.
"Yeah--the thing we built for 'im stepped on it, did a backflip, and broke into a thousand bits! I thought he was gonna have a heart attack..."
"Hush! He's coming!" Dave hissed, straightening up at the sound of footsteps just outside the door; Gary scrambled to put away the rag and polish.
The door slid open with a barely audible hiss. Standing on the threshold was an aging man, about sixty years or so, with an ample head of dull gray hair and small, wire-rimmed spectacles. His hazel eyes were kind enough, but his mouth was pulled into a hatchet-thin line, a very common expression with him.
Behind the doctor was a towering Reploid of over seven feet. He was attired in the crisp white-and-black uniform of a high officer in the Repliforce, and a sharp military hat rested on his head; his face and eyes were sharp and stern.
"Dr. Thorne, Sir! And Colonel! It's a pleasure to see you again," Dave greeted, walking forward and shaking their hands; Gary nodded at them and began wheezing his way up some steps to the control-post; the consoles used in the making of Reploids took too much space to be set up on the ground-level, and besides, it gave the technician a more complete view of what was going on below.
Colonel promptly retreated to the side of the room, standing straight at attention; Thorne produced a small disk from his coat pocket and inserted it into one of the millions of hard drives that dotted the place; a computer screen nearby flickered up the stats and building plans for the Reploid.
"As you can see, I have a very specific plan for her in mind--I want a variable CPU, not a pre-programmed one," the doctor pointed out, tapping the monitor.
"What?! With all due respect, Sir, but have you gone bonkers? Whatever for? These plans are so simple, except for that darn CPU--I bet she could be an assembly-line if you would just let her have a regular one," Dave protested, frowning slightly; he and Gary shared a confused glance.
"I don't want an assembly-line reploid, David," came the response, "If I did, I wouldn't have gone through so much trouble."
Now, concerning the practice of programmed and variable CPUs: Programmed CPUs were chips that had emotions and ideas, quite literally programmed onto it. A reploid with such a chip was then automatically given a set personality; the reploid also knew what to do with its emotions--it automatically knew that it was supposed to laugh when seeing a sitcom on a television, that it was supposed to get angry when it got slugged by another Reploid.
But reploids that were given variable CPUs--and there were very few of those--had more of a choice. They were not given a set personality; what they would be like was just as dependent on probability as any human. And although they had vast intelligence and knowledge and emotions programmed into them, the variable CPU did not tell the reploid what emotions were needed for every situation. The reploid had to learn what emotions would be appropriate for occasions, either by tutelage or trial and error. Of course, there was a great danger involved in programming a reploid with a variable CPU, as the reploid could choose the wrong emotion for a scenario and cause great damage. The once-great Hunter Sigma had been given a variable CPU, and look how he had ended up. Thus, many humans were loathe to have such chips implanted in reploids; there was even talk of it being banned by the government.
"Okay, Sir, if that's what you want," Dave conceded in a reluctant voice, "but it's a dangerous thing, you know."
"I have that all planned out," Thorne assured his underling. "This is no war-reploid, David. Do you see any special battle-techniques programmed into the CPU or any arm-cannons on her?"
"Well, then, what do you want her for?" Gary asked; he was a bit put out that he was going to be wasting his time building a reploid that didn't seem to be of any practical use.
"Oh, she'll help the Repliforce, of course!" Thorne answered with a rare chuckle. "Just not in combat. Repliforce needs other members besides the ones that do the shooting. Colonel will help her fit in just fine. Speaking of which, I want her to be a companion for Colonel. I don't want him to be alone when I'm gone. And having a daughter of sorts would be a novelty for me, I think. And I want to spite the government a little by making a reploid with a variable CPU. And--oh, for Heaven's sake. I have many reasons."
Dave sighed and removed his coat, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for a large crate that Colonel was standing next to. The crate was labeled FRAGILE, and inside were a panoply of wires, various metals, molds, and discarded parts.
"I guess there's no reason to keep on yapping. Gary, let's get this baby started!"
*************
"Well!" Dave puffed out his breath, wiping the sweat, silver residue, and God knew what else from his tools and off his hands with a rag, "We've done it."
Lying supine on the work table and attached to countless wires was the finished product: a female reploid, about five foot six in height, with a petite, rounded face and a ponderous mass of dark brown air spilling out from underneath a red beret. She wore the standard female Repliforce uniform: blue blouse with red and gold trim, and a wide, rather unflattering skirt that flared out. The rationale behind this was that the male Repliforce members needed to be concentrating on their jobs, not on the legs of someone of the opposite sex.
"Heh..." Gary grinned down at the reploid from his control post, "just look at that outfit. All colors of the rainbow in that thing, I'll bet."
"Certainly is a sight." Dave concurred, snickering also, and turning to Dr. Thorne and Colonel, "Couldn't you guys have made the uniforms for your female members a little more...fashionable? Do you hate women or something?"
Neither of the two looked like he found the comment humorous.
"Eh, sorry about that," Dave muttered, suddenly finding something very intriguing about his feet. "What's her name gonna be?"
"Well, I had something else in mind, but now...Dr. Falwell's little remark has made me think otherwise..." Thorne's eyes closed in contemplation; he opened them a few seconds later and let them sparkle as he continued.
"Iris. Her name will be Iris."
*************
"If you will excuse me, gentlemen," the doctor nodded, suddenly curt, in his assistants' direction; they took the hint and quietly shuffled out the door, rolling their eyes as they did so.
Dr. Thorne walked over to the main console and typed in a final command; the wires extending from various power sources into Iris's body jerked alive, humming and glowing softly.
The doctor beckoned to Colonel, and the two positioned themselves around the table; Colonel's formerly steel-hard eyes were clear and looked nervous, almost lost, in their bewilderment.
"What's wrong, my boy? You look a bit shaken," Thorne spoke up over the humming sound.
"My apologies, Sir. It is just that...that..."
Colonel licked his lips, narrowing his eyes in thought; he tried to speak further, but couldn't. He had known that he would be getting a sister for quite some time now, but now that the abstract had become reality, he was paralyzed by a swarm of emotions: sometimes he was elated for the new member of the 'family,' at others he felt reluctant in accepting her existence. He welcomed the new responsibilities that a new sibling brought, but also felt an almost petulant notion that he had enough responsibilities as it was, and did not need any more.
"Don't apologize," Thorne dismissed with an infrequent smile. "It's a new experience for you, I know. But know this: she will be a part of our family, now. And, if nothing else, you will honor and respect her as you do me. Respect. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir," Colonel shifted his gaze back down to his new sister. Her body had shifted slightly as the wires fed power into her CPU, the life-force slowly but surely diffusing through her; he reached out and carefully rearranged her red beret.
Eventually, the wires ceased their humming and glowing as the required energy to start the CPU was acquired. Dr. Thorne quickly started to disengage the wires from her person with his deft old hands.
Iris made no move for several minutes, minutes which to Colonel and Dr. Thorne seemed like an eternity. Here it was, the very moment of truth: what sort of personality would she be given? Would she function properly? Would she even function at all?
A barely perceptible shudder coursed through her body, and then her chest rose and fell softly as her artificial respiratory system kicked in. Her hands and legs twitched. Finally, her eyes, bright blue and large, snapped open.
*************
Iris raised her head and looked at Colonel, and then her creator, and back to her brother again. She smiled a small, secretive little smile at him; Colonel's own stern face broke into a wide, beaming grin, and for some reason or another, he swept off his cap to her with one hand as he extended the other and helped her off the table.
Her first steps were precarious and ungainly; she needed to lean against her brother for support a few seconds before finding her balance.
Once he was sure that Iris wouldn't topple head over heels just be standing, Dr. Thorne addressed his newest creation.
"Iris, I am Dr. André Thorne. Do you know who I am?"
"Yes, sir. You're my creator." She spoke up for the first time; her voice was low and quiet, almost a whisper, with just the slightest tinge of a British accent, unlike her brother, whose accent was extremely pronounced. She inclined her head deeply.
"And this," the doctor continued, no small hint of satisfaction in his voice, "is your brother, Colonel." Iris smiled again at her sibling and let him enfold one of her hands in his.
Thorne then proceeded to fire a barrage of questions at her, all just to test whether her logic and memory circuits were functioning properly; she answered them all promptly and calmly.
"Well, then," her creator concluded the interrogation with a satisfied nod. "Come along, Iris. Let's go home."
Happy, enthralled by everything she saw, and perfectly and blissfully oblivious as to what was outside the barred doors of the laboratory, Iris linked an arm through one of Colonel's, and let herself be led away towards home. Wherever that was.
