Chapter 1: When Syndrome met Mira-Odge Model # 2072
By Ms. Kinnikufan
Disclaimer: I own no one here.
The auction auditorium at the United Technology/Weapons Dealer Expo was quite humid and smelled like very rank old gym socks.
The United Technology/ Weapons Dealer Expo was very secret and very exclusive. It took place on a different secluded island each year. Only the finest and/or wealthiest of weapons dealers/professional assassins/political leaders/eccentric moguls could get in it.
19 year old Syndrome squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. That was his name now, Syndrome. Not Buddy Pine. Buddy Pine was weak and helpless and drug-addicted, Syndrome was not.
As Syndrome, he could forget the mistakes he made as Buddy Pine, he thought as he stared as his neon blue arm-length gloves.
God, he wished he could take the gloves off. But then he might get all sorts of questions about his arms that he just didn't want to answer.
He had only stepped into the action auditorium to see the robots. He didn't intend to buy. Why oh why hadn't he learned about the "you don't get to leave the auction auditorium until you buy something or until the auction is over" rule sooner?
The auction was now into one hour and forty-five minutes. Syndrome was pretty sure that the really, really, fat billionaire sitting next him had passed out from heatstroke or had gone into a diabetic coma. The billionaire had also been wearing a really strong after shave, so Syndrome was on the ninth circle of bad smells hell now.
He had tried to inform the organizers of the passed out man, but they just informed him of the stupid rule.
Good God, he had to get out of this smelly, humid auditorium. He was going to buy the next thing that was up for auction, even if it just was overpriced can opener.
"Now up for auction, Model Mira-Odge #2071!" the auctioneer shouted. It suddenly dawned on Syndrome that the auctioneer looked like something out of a vaudeville picture and that he had the most evil looking mustache ever.
A thin woman of ambiguous race stepped onto the auction stage. They were gasps of shock among the auditorium.
"Hey! I thought we were buying robots, not participating in white slavery?" Syndrome shouted. He had crossed many moral boundaries in order to become Syndrome, but he refused to enslave another person.
"She don't look too white to me buddy," a voice came from the end of the auditorium.
Syndrome flinched at the mention of what he used to be, then realized that the guy was just being rude.
"Ha, you strange whippersnapper with the ugly gloves and dreadlocks! You're not the first one to be fooled by the detailed beauty of Model Mira-Odge #2072. But she's full of gadgets and gears, not organs and blood like us! Model Mira-Odge #2072, why doncha give us some of your history?" The auctioneer spoke rapid paced.
"No." Model Mira-Odge # 2072 voice was cold and flat.
She seemed to have a angry glint in her eyes. Was that even possible, thought Syndrome, since she was a robot after all. Was there even a point to referring to her as "she" since she wasn't biological after all?
"Sassy, ain't she?" The auctioneer gave a nervous little cough.
"Well anyway, Model Mira-Odge was based on the plans of Richard Miran and Donald Odge, two of the C.I.A.'s most beloved A.I. researchers. Their plan was to market the Mira-Odge models as spies. However their funding was cut in favor of developing new atomic bombs. A few copies did get built: Mira-Odge #2072, Miran-Odge# 3478 and Miran-Odge#321. Model#3210 was destroyed in 1932, and Miran-Odge#3478 was decommissioned and is now lying in a warehouse somewhere. So, you find young people, you're looking at a one of kind A.I. She has over 1,000 gigabytes of memory. She is an expert at weaponry, hacking computers, and secretary skills. She can also eat, drink and sweat for show-"
"That's cool and stuff man, but is she also capable of fu-"
Miran-Odge#2072 dearly wished she had some rocket launchers built in so that she could shoot them at that pervert.
"Sorry, my good man, but she isn't...capable of physical relations. She still pretty to look at, ain't she." Some men (and a few woman) wolf-whistled.
Mira-Odge #2072 flipped the audience the bird, but wished she could do more damage. But then she would be reprogrammed or made into scrap metal. Out of the two options, she would preferred to be made into scrapped metal then be reprogrammed, but reprogramming was more likely because she had been very expensive to make. She wondered why she hadn't been reprogrammed before she was put for auction like a lava lamp, but she was glad. If her new owner mistreated her, she was could kill him or her (it would probably be a him) and then make a run for it.
Syndrome felt sorry for her. She wasn't just a robot, she was an A.I. and A.I. meant she had something like feelings. She didn't deserve to be treated like an inanimate object.
"Well start the bidding at $50000!" declared The auctioneer.
"Wait. Just $50000? You said she was one of a kind! Either she's more common then you told us or maybe there's something wrong with her! Tell us the full truth man!" a voice shouted from the crowd.
"Ummm. what would;d be wrong with her? Why would there be anything wrong? We're...ummm just giving you a great deal of price out of the kindness of our hearts. Yeah, that'd it." The auctioneer was sweaty.
Someone in the back snorted and a few pull out ray guns.
"Aright! I admit it! Model Miran-Odge#2072 tried to kill her previous owner-"
"He wouldn't stop touching me and despite the fact that I'm not built that way, tried to have sex with me. I hated that and him. So I broke a bottle on his face the time he attempted to have sex with me. It wasn't like he died. Treat me with respect and I won't try to hurt you." Model Miran Odge #2072 screamed.
Syndrome couldn't quite place his finger on why, but he felt a kinship with this A.I.
"Now dearie, don't get your panties in a bunch!" The auctioneer press some sort of device.
Model Mira-Odge sparkled with electricity and fell down unmoving.
"See, she ain't so hard to control. Plus I'm sure one you bright young fellers can reprogram her so that she behaves all right-"
"Why didn't her previous owner did that?"
"He didn't have the brains to do so. Nor did he have the sense to get someone who did have the brains to do it for him. Anyway bidding starts at $50000!"
"$50000!" Xerek, a mysterious billionaire lifted his paddle.
"Dude, she tried to kill her previous owner!" a fellow inventor questioned Xerek's sanity.
"I'm sure I can reprogram that out of her as well as make her more pleasurable, if you know what I mean!" Xerek said silkily. Several people made disgusted noises.
Syndrome had never really liked Xerek (he was a huge snob), but now he hated him. He couldn't quite place why he cared about what happened to Model Mira-Odge #2072, but he knew he couldn't let her fall into Xerek's sleazy hands.
"$100000!" Syndrome shouted. Everyone stared at him.
The auctioneer coughed.
"Obviously someone has little experience at haggling. Well anyway do I hear $110000?"
Xerek merely looked shock.
"Okay then. Going once, going twice to this the strange looking whippersnapper with ugly dreadlocks and gloves!"
"My name is Syndrome!"
"Whatever, come up here and get your ticket stating that you got the highest bid for her." Syndrome came up and got an official looking ticket of some sort.
"You may now leave the auditorium unless you want to bid on something-huh where he'd go?" Syndrome had sped out of that smelly, humid auditorium like a bat out of hell.
He spent the rest of day wandering around the expo, admiring the exhibits, tried to haggle over the price of a slushy at the concessions and learned that the smelly fat billionaire hadn't gone passed out from sunstroke or had gone into a diabetic coma, he had a minor heart attack. All through the day, the fact that he had just bought the finest A.I. to currently exist had not fully penetrated his mind yet.
Then 11:00 pm came around, time for the expo to close for the day.
"Yeah I have a ticket showing I made the highest bid on Model Miran-Odge#2072." Syndrome handed the man his ticket.
"Well that be cash, credit or check?"
"Credit...people here really carry that much cash around?'
"Sonny, the stories I could tell. Well anyway let us get her out for ya." Some burly man came out carrying out a packing crate that resembled a coffin.
"That's creepy. Really creepy." Syndrome suddenly had a lot of misgivings.
"Yeah, I know son. But I didn't package her. Your transport is out back?"
The four man transported the crate to Syndrome's transport. One whistled at the ship impressive design.
"You built her yourself? It looks kind of like some sea creature."
"I made the designs, but I had additional hands when building it. I based it on a manta ray. Otherwise I'd still be building it."
"Well here's the device when you want to wake her up or turn her on, as some would see." The man made a nudge-nudge-wink-wink motion.
Syndrome repressed a shudder of disgust. He tipped the guys so that they would go away and prepared for takeoff.
Syndrome found staring at the coffin-like crate. She's going to suffocate, he thought, only to be followed by: Don't be an idiot, she doesn't even need to breathe!
The "she's going to suffocate" thoughts eventually won out, which led to him prying off the lid of the crate-coffin thing with a crowbar.
Model Miran- Odge#2072 was lying inert in the crate, her arms folded gracefully across her chest. Someone must have place them in that position.
She looks dead and sort of sad, Syndrome found himself gently touching her face.
What the hell are you doing, this is creepy! She is unconscious you jerk! Syndrome's inner monologue was working overtime.
Well Syndrome, what the hell have you gotten yourself into? Was the first question of his inner monologue.
Next Chapter: Young Syndrome finds out what the hell he's gotten himself into.
Author's notes: I'm assuming Syndrome didn't come up with the costume until he actually started the Omnidroid project. I'm also assuming he didn't come up with the hairdo untill he came up the costume. I'm probably in the majority, but I think Syndrome could carry off dreadlocks well.
