Disclaimer: I do NOT own Meet the Robinsons.
AN: Hey all! Sorry for the delay. Life's been busy! Thank you sooo much for your reviews. I hope you continue enjoying the show!
Okay this chapter's pretty Wil-centric : D
Chapter 4: Mission Incorrigible
Wilbur Robinson raced towards R.I.—sneakers slapping the wet pavement—it was so awesome that Da-er-Cornelius invented sidewalks that moved—he'd be there in no time!
While everyone else was darting from one awning to the next, he sprinted forward; running through the rain against a cool wind.
He knew people were giving him odd looks, but the water dripping down his face felt thoroughly refreshing.
Gah! He was so hot.
He removed his jacket, tying it around his waist.
Almost there.
He stopped short of Robinson Industries' parking lot. T.V. Broadcasting vans were parked in front with a huge throng of people eager to enter.
His mind buzzed a bit. Riiight…there was…an event of some sort…here…today…
Something about a…meeting for…sub syst…something?
So the front entrance wasn't an option. The side and back doors would be thoroughly screened for intruders. An unaccompanied thirteen year old trying to make his way to the CEO's office would no doubt raise some eyebrows.
Thankfully, he knew a secret entrance:
Ventilation shaft here he came!
Cornelius Robinson rushed through the hall at break-neck speed losing more than one tag-along aide with his long stride.
Thunder rolled and lightning flashed through the windows.
Wilbur was out there alone and sick in a storm…Cornelius's heart pounded harder each second that the cold hard reality of that sunk deeper.
Terrifying…
Just thinking about Wil missing on a bright, sunny day was enough to fry his nerves…this…this was terrible!
It was overwhelming: the helplessness, the anxiety…the uncertainty…
As well as all the questions he'd been unable to ask his wife:
How long had he been missing before Franny noted his absence?
Did she review the security cameras or ask J.A.C.O.B.?
What was the last topic they'd talked about?
Did Franny say something to-to trigger this response?
He'd swallowed them down, knowing he'd be unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
He knew it wasn't her fault.
He knew that…and yet…
He couldn't help feeling frustrated.
Why didn't she stay close to him?
Why wasn't she checking on him regularly?
But he supposed his real anger was at himself.
His fists clenched; he had known something was wrong this morning. His gut reaction and paternal instinct had set off alarm bells in his head…which he ignored…Darn it, Neil, why did you leave?
He should've called in sick and stayed home—this never would've happened.
His fingers twitched; he had a time machine. He could alter things.
No, he couldn't afford to think like that. The time-space continuum was too delicate for him to go traipsing about.
The windows rattled as harsh winds blew; Wil's illness would no doubt be exacerbated by the weather.
And if his health was being jeopardized, his safety was undoubtedly so.
Bad weather brought out awful drivers…as well as sinister ones.
Already, horrible scenarios were playing out in his head many of which started with, 'hey kid, it's pourin' out there, ya wanna ride?'
Or ending with thrusters screeching, metal twisting, and glass shattering…
And this was ALL assuming Wilbur left of his own volition…
The vulnerable child he'd left this morning hardly seemed capable of holding a conversation, let alone slipping through a window and climbing down the lattice.
Leading to the even more disturbing possibility: ABDUCTION.
He had a time machine. He had a time machine. He had a time machine. The fact spun around his head at an almost dizzying speed. It was a mantra that repeated itself over and over with every step he took.
"Dr. Robinson, please! You're already supposed to be down in the lobby for the open-"
He silenced the man with a glare. These aides were getting on his nerves; they'd been specifically hired to help in these particular kinds of events to keep things running smoothly.
And that was the ONLY thing they worried about. Every second had to go according to their blasted schedule.
They didn't CARE about the life that went on beyond the glamorous bubble of "Show Time."
Well, they'd come to learn that for Cornelius L. Robinson, his family came first. End of story. As if that could even be questioned!
As if he cared about some stupid televid spectacle…especially when DEFCON 1 was going down in his household.
True, he hadn't relayed the details to them, only mentioning that he had to return home. But certainly the emotional turmoil was showing?
And even if they couldn't read the worried, fearful, and upset emotions that were flitting over him. Couldn't they pick up on the 'I'm-distinctly-aggravated-by-aides-who-badger-me-after-I-tell-them-to-beat-it' looks he was sending?
Every intern in the building certainly could; going out of their way to vacate the hallways he was storming down.
"But, sir! Sir! The debate! Robinson Industries is depending on you to represent the company's platform! Your speech-" the man announced waving the index cards in a 'duh' fashion.
"Oh, I'll tell you what you can do with that speech," the inventor growled, "you can just shove-"
"Cornelius, what's going on?" Dr. Johnson asked, sliding slightly on the over-polished linoleum.
"Family emergency, Wil-"
"Sir, you need to-" another aide jogged up, mouth already flapping on various tasks he "needed" to do.
No. The only thing he needed to do was to go grab his keys.
And call the police if Franny hadn't already.
Or maybe circle the area a couple of times.
Or D. all of the above.
He burst into his office; a wrathful force; mouth opened, teeth bared, ready to tell the vultures to scram when-
He blinked.
Wilbur blinked back, staring at him almost unassumingly from a chair in front Cornelius's desk.
There he was; dripping wet in a CTT baseball cap, jeans, and t-shirt—like he swam here.
"Wilbur!" he exclaimed, automatically moving towards him.
"Corneel-neely-"
The inventor raised an eyebrow at the transgression. "Dad will do just fine."
It was sort of an unspoken rule. If they weren't in his past, Cornelius's name—his "only" name where Wilbur was concerned—was Dad.
"Wilbur, you're drenched!"
The youth shivered violently.
Cornelius glanced at his aides.
"Grab some towels, will you? And some heaters! And a cot!" His subordinates scuttled to do his bidding. It was about time they did something useful.
"I've g-gotta t-talk to you," Wilbur announced—though the usual determined air of his voice was lost in chattering teeth.
His father was already checking him over; from taking his pulse, to checking his arms for bruises, to holding his chin firmly and studying his face carefully—checking the dilation of each pupil.
Other than being soaked and sickly, Wil SEEMED alright…
"Gotta ask y-you sobethin'-"
"Sir," a brown-haired aide (Ralph?) replied, setting the towels down on the desk harder than needed—clearly someone didn't enjoy being ordered around like a maid. Well, that was too bad.
Dad duties took precedence. Always.
The blond pulled a towel from the stack.
"Grab the medic, I want her to-"
"She's tending to Stone," Dr. Johnson replied while entering the room briskly and setting down a heater. "Stone slipped in wax and-"
"Well, the moment she's done, I want her to give Wil a check-up."
"You got it, Boss." The man nodded as he flipped the device on. "I'll tell her-"
"Yes, but sir," the aide interrupted, "I must insist-"
"Now, my son and I would like a moment…alone."
"Sir, we-"
"NOW," Dr. Robinson barked—no nonsense, no argument, end of discussion.
The door shut with a precise click.
Through it all, Cornelius's eyes never left his son's face.
"Come here," the blond ordered.
Years of conditioning had Wilbur shuffling forward—sneakers squashing loudly as he moved.
His father steered him in front of the heater and handed him a towel, before hurrying over to his desk.
"I swear…gonna catch pneumonia," his father scolded as he ruffled though several drawers. "Ah, there we go."
"I have to a-"
"Now, get out of those wet things, dry off, and slip that on." He tossed his find to the boy.
Wilbur toweled himself off before reluctantly changing into his father's spare shirt.
Cornelius had long ago learned that a life of inventing was rough on clothes. He always kept some on hand for…mishaps.
Now, he was especially grateful—sitting in cold wet clothes was a guaranteed way of inviting hypothermia.
The light blue button up fell just short of his son's knees. Wil might be tall but his father was much taller.
It's a testament to how undoubtedly ill and out of it Wilbur was; the shirt was getting horribly mis-buttoned.
"Lose the shoes…and socks. Here," the inventor instructed, handing him an extra pair of socks.
The boy sighed, reluctantly pulling them on.
Cornelius nodded approvingly; again much too long, but they'd keep his feet dry and warm—temperature was so important to maintain.
The inventor maneuvered his chair from behind his desk and wheeled it over in front of the heater.
He'd installed a warming function last November when he was tired of typing reports in the cold. (He'd always hated the cold—Franny would call him a humbug whenever they went skiing. She would ski; he'd stay in the cabin all toasty with hot cocoa.)
He'd have Wilbur nice and warm in no time.
Once the boy was seated, Cornelius grabbed another towel and plopped it on his son's head.
Assured that Wil was alright, anger began bubbling up through the haze of sheer relief and concern.
"Now, what in the world were you thinking, young man!" The harsh words were undermined by how gently he was toweling the boy's head dry.
Sitting there, wide-eyed in an oversized shirt, feverish, and unsteady and-
Cornelius couldn't stay mad—frustrated yes, but…he was far too relieved that his child was safe.
He took several deep breaths to swallow down the powerful feelings raging in his chest.
Yelling at his son, even if it was out of love and fear, would NOT help the situation.
And Wil looked far too pitiful to admonish right now.
Fidgety and jittery, he was clearly suffering some nasty side-effects from Cleartron X: racing thoughts, drowsiness, anxiety, confusion, and lack of concentration.
Oh Franny, Wilbur can barely manage kiddy doses of aspirin…
Wilbur sniffled; rubbing his nose on the too long sleeve.
Cornelius sighed and handed his son the tissue box on his desk.
"Everyone's been worried sick about you. What exactly were you trying to do?"
"Need to talk to you," he mumbled softly.
"Okay. But why couldn't you call me?"
Wilbur blinked, mulling it over before shaking his head vigorously.
The action didn't agree with him and he slipped forward a bit— his father swiftly steadied him.
"Face to face," Wilbur replied, his eyes crossed momentarily.
"And it couldn't wait until I got home?"
"S'important."
Cornelius felt his face twitch; he was so stressed. "Important" in Wil's book had been known to be 'what's for dinner tonight?' or 'do you know where the remote is, Uncle Joe and I can't find it?' or 'what's the difference between crocodiles and alligators?'
He'd been interrupted in the middle of an international meeting championing Hover Transportation because Wil was doing homework and couldn't remember the capital of South Dakota.
"Alright." Neil blew out an exasperated breath, the kid's mental process was just…out of it…it'd be best to get whatever "important" thing Wilbur was fretting about out in the open.
"What is it?"
"I know…" Wilbur replied, fingernails digging into the armrests of the chair.
Cornelius frowned at the action; that was a nice chair!
"You know what?"
"I-I KNOW…"
"Son?" The inventor was truly perplexed.
"Don't call me that! What makes you think you're allowed to call me that?"
"Twenty-three chromosomes," his father deadpanned.
"Nuh-uh."
Cornelius placed a hand on the teen's forehead; burning up—no wonder things weren't adding up for the boy.
"Wilbur-"
"What makes YOU so sure?"
"Excuse me?"
"What makes you so sure you ARE my dad, hmm?"
Cornelius blinked; jaw slackening in disbelief.
Seriously? That wasn't the reason Wilbur raced down here, was it? They were NOT really having this conversation, were they? What was he supposed to say? He thought they'd already covered this one…kiddo…remember that whole birds-and-bees talk…and those awful seminars they made you participate in at school…I was…kinda involved. Eeeeyeah, active role in your whole existence here.
The blond shook his head. "Wilbur, you're not…feeling good right now, so you're confused." And delusional…
"Oh well, isn't THAT convenient?"
"Buddy, did you have a bad dream?"
"I KNOW the TRUTH!" Wilbur insisted.
"Riiight. Now, I'm sure you had a bad dream, and that it seemed very real. But I assure you, Wil, I'm not an alien or a robot or an evil twin and I- "
"You didn't spawn me! It's impossible!"
The inventor rolled his eyes. "I know you don't think I'm cool enough to have spaw-er-fathered you. But I did and you're going to have to accept that-"
"LIESSSS!"
Cornelius massaged the bridge of his nose. I…can't reason with him right now…
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
"We have the supplies, sir."
"Bring them in."
"Uh huh, he's here," Cornelius assured his wife over his earpiece. "Yes, he's safe. Bring him a change of clothes; he's soaked to the bone. I'm-"
He straightened and re-straightened his glasses. It was a nervous tick he'd had for years.
"Ohhhhh yeah. Yeah. Those meds packed a serious punch. He's loopy and wired and-ugh. I know it. I KNOW it. For goodness sake, Fran, he doesn't think I'm his father."
He winced at the loud exclamation on the other end.
"How do I-how do I know? Because that's what he told me, Franny! He told me that there's no way I can be his father. He seems to honestly believe it."
Cornelius ran a hand through his hair. "It's ridiculous! I dunno if he's watched another one of those Evil Twin shows or Body Snatchers remakes or what but I'm losing patience, Fran. I want you here so we can explain it to him. Ugh, I don't know where he got such an idea. I mean, where would he come up with that all of a sudden? Someone said something. I know it and I swear when I learn who fed him such a lie, I'm gonna-"
He made a sound of frustration.
"Yes. Mmmhmm. Yes. He'll be in my office. I love you, Franny. Drive safely."
Cornelius reentered just as two interns (snagged by Dr. Johnson) finished setting up the cot.
"Now, you both can grab chairs and wait outside the door. My wife will be here shortly and then you can return to your prior duties."
The interns scuttled away—no doubt grateful to escape even if only for a moment.
"Now YOU, Mister, are going to stay right here." He steered the boy over to the cot.
"Sit."
The boy plopped down readily from a mixture of his own weariness, his father's heavy hands on his shoulders, and the cot hitting him in the back of his knees.
"But-"
"Stay."
"But-"
"No."
"Dr. Robinson, sir-" Ralph popped in waving his pocket planner. "Sir-"
"Just a minute-"
"Sir, they-"
Hard blue eyes glared at him and the man retreated, effectively silenced and intimidated for another two minutes.
Cornelius turned back to his child, easing him back onto the pillow. "We can talk in an hour or so, alright? The debate will have a recess then. Mom's on her way, so until then just rest. Okay?"
"But-"
"Can you do that for me, champ?"
"…Kay."
"That's m'boy."
The moment the office door shut, Wilbur threw back the blanket, swung his legs off the cot and stood.
Trying to sit still in moments of turmoil drove him crazy; he was a pacer.
Pacing lent him a sense of action which always did wonders for his nerves.
On wobbly legs, Wilbur wandered about his father's (now empty save him) office. It was a place he'd known his whole life.
He'd been in it so often; it always felt like an extension of their home.
There's the nick in Dad's desk from where Wil had ridden a supply cart into it. (Eeeyeah, he's not quite sure why it seemed like a good idea either. But it had been fun—at least until he got the lecture of a lifetime.)
There's the floor ventilation grate where he'd lost his favorite toy spaceship down. It had been just slender enough to fall through—yeah…loud crocodile tears ensued…which while embarrassing now was acceptable then (he was five!). Dad had to unscrew it and plunge his arm down there to grab it.
Then there's where he'd lost his first tooth when Dr. (well then he'd been an assistant) Calbridge had accidentally hit him in the face with a beaker.
Now, they had an ongoing gag of yelling "FORE" anytime one of them entered the room and the other was there.
They insisted it was a provision against future accidents; Dad was never amused.
Dang…he always thought of him as Dad. It was hardwired into his brain.
The teen sighed—eyes falling on his father's lab coat which had been tossed carelessly over the desk.
He reached a hand for the plastic badge that read Dr. Robinson and let his fingers run down the cords to where one of his father's ID tags hung.
Wilbur unhooked it, holding it in his hand as he adjusted his glasses.
Dr. Cornelius L. Robinson
R.I. Head Scientist
000-98735
The card itself had one large light, almost iridescent silver stripe running across it horizontally.
Ranking System: Platinum.
To other scientists and inventors, it was a moment to pause and gape: this dude was a super high muckety-muck.
There were only twelve scientists in the world ranked this and Wil lived with him…
But to him he was always Dad…
He fiddled with the tag—smirking as he thought of how the science realm would react at such sacrilege.
Dad would usually just sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. 'Wilbur, please stop that.'
Wilbur frowned as he noticed one blond hair in his hand.
He held it between his thumb and index finger.
So pale and different from his own head of hair.
Hmm…there were probably fan clubs who would kill for this…
Would probably try to clone him or something…
He shuddered at the thought of two Dads to order him around.
It was fascinating though…
That all of your genetic DNA could be held in something so small and insignificant as a strand of hair.
Forensic studies often made connections between culprits and crime scenes based on a few remnants of DNA.
And why not?
They were like 99.999 % reliable in identification.
Heck, that's why they were so often used in…
Wilbur's eyes widened…
Paternity tests!
Of course!
Wilbur found himself nodding, almost shocked by how he hadn't considered it before.
It was brilliant…yup...and essential! Considering how his request for honesty was brutally denied…
Really, Dad had totally dismissed him. As if his query wasn't even worth listening to.
Well, if the inventor wasn't going to be upfront with him, he'd have to draw his own conclusions.
And how better than with the Scientific Method?
Dad had been drilling that one into him since…forever…
PROBLEM: What is the nature of father and son's relation? (An excellent question.)
OBSERVATION: Supposed family members Cornelius L. Robinson and Wilbur A. Robinson share nooooo similarities in appearance…or personality…or anything…save a mutual preference for funnel cake.
RESEARCH: The two relatives in question have never resembled each other at any stage of the younger male's lifespan.
HYPOTHESIS: The two Robinsons are NOT related.
EXPERIMENT: Use the Analyzer 2000 in Lab 5 to perform a paternity test.
Awesomeness. Take that 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Ludwig! See! Wilbur Robinson CAN plan something and go about it in an orderly fashion! He just sucks at organizing book reports…and has yet to improve…
But that was beside the point; he had a plan…now to put it in motion!
He stuffed his father's ID badge into the shirt's front pocket (that could definitely come in handy later).
Wilbur retrieved his soggy wallet from his father's desk, carefully sliding the blond hair under the plastic holding his School ID in place. He then shoved that into the front pocket as well, grateful that his father's shirt had such a deep pocket. Though…he guessed that for inventors that was a must, they loved toting stuff around. In a roomful of scientists, there'd be all sorts of gizmos and tools among them.
Heck, he swore he'd seen one chemist retrieve an extra beaker, test tubes, thermometer, and tongs from inside his lab coat. Dude, it could've been a Vegas magic act!
He hurried over to the door, placing his hand over the scanner, awaiting the positive chime it'd make when opening.
It didn't come…instead the panel flashed digital letters stating:
Wilbur Robinson Is Not Permitted Access
His mouth twisted into a scowl; his father had programmed a child lock.
Their house was wrought with those pesky things. It was like Dad's default move to keep him out of interesting stuff.
Still, barriers like these just meant you had to be more creative in overcoming them.
He climbed onto his dad's desk, perhaps a bit more unsteadily than was his norm but he regained his balance soon enough. Then heaved himself onto the tall silver filing cabinet in the corner.
Kneeling on the cold metal, he reached up, slowly working his fingers into the grooves of the ceiling tile—moving it aside easily; he had years of practice.
Creeping about the hallways in his state of dress (or lack thereof) was…disconcerting to say the least.
Hardly inconspicuous; it made him wonder if James Bond ever had to sneak anywhere in his boxers.
Wilbur WOULD have just slipped his own clothes back on but Dad had taken them with him. Probably dropped them off with Linen XR90; meaning they'd be on Level 8 and he needed to get to Level 6.
And he'd found from previous experience that whenever you ventured off-course for something "extra," you got caught REAL fast.
That's just how luck works; it runs out when you get greedy.
Still, it WAS unfortunate that he had to keep ducking around corners and hiding under benches every time he heard footsteps.
Wil was a gifted smooth talker, he preferred talking his way out of things when he could—but this…no, he couldn't come up with a valid enough reason for…this.
Running around without trousers…eeeyeah, there was no good way to start off a conversation with that fact…
Finally! Lab 5: the Evaluation Conservatorium or EC Room. (A majority of R.I. members loved referring to it as "Easy Street" and often hummed a line or two on their way there.)
As one of the "boring-est" laboratories R.I. had, (a phrase Wilbur promoted that was universally accepted by the staff much to the chagrin of the Analyst Team) it was NEVER locked.
Because DUH, there was nothing interesting enough to take.
So Wilbur was shocked when its hand scanner had calmly and a bit snootily announced 'Wilbur Robinson is NOT permitted access.'
Well fine! Be that way. Lab 4 was right beside it and had a doorway that conjoined both spaces.
He stalked over to the adjacent doorway. Now this door would be a bit more heavily fortified. But he totally had an angle; he ran his father's ID through the lock slot.
It processed the card, the panel lit up green.
Good.
Good. All signs were pointing to a successful intrusion!
Block Level Password?
Noooooo!
He closed his eyes. Opened them. The message remained.
Noooooooooooooooo!
That meant it was locked! All of it was locked! This whole floor was locked! WHY was the whole floor locked?
Drats!
He had to find a way in!
Had to!
Wilbur pinched the bridge of his nose…Think, Wil, THINK! Laboratory 4 and 5… shared a ventilation duct!
Crawling through such narrow tunnels wasn't…enjoyable, but it was much easier with his glasses.
Their flashlight function was awesome for this sort of stuff. Though he wondered if his Dad would've added that feature if he'd known what it was going to be used for.
Just a little bit farther and he'd-
BAM-
"Ouch!"
He clutched his head as it throbbed.
"Ow, ow, ow…owwwwwww."
He'd bumped straight into something solid and unyielding.
He glanced up.
"Gah! Darn it!"
Was there no end to the obstacles he was facing! Sheesh! Come ON Lady Luck, show a little reprieve.
He inspected the barrier more closely. They'd put up a block between the two rooms!
A solid metal square welded to all four sides and at least two inches thick…darn…
He wasn't going to make it to the Analyzer…it had finally happened—a scheme Wilbur Robinson couldn't pull off…he was defeated.
He slammed a fist on the metal beneath him…and it gave way.
He barely managed a soft yelp before he plunged out of the grate.
SPLASH!
To think, one minute he was on all fours quite a few spans up, the next he was totally submerged.
He spluttered as he broke the surface. "What the-? Who the? How the? Whoa!"
In retrospect, he ought to have been grateful the room was flooded. Falling from the ceiling in Lab 4 would've been…harmful (coughdeadlycough) to say the least.
But it was so odd…
He spat out a mouthful of water and glanced up at the ceiling perplexed, all the sprinklers were going to town and from the looks of it the floor drains were clogged.
Ooookay, so THIS must be the reason the level was locked, which meant…
Greeeat…now, he was trapped in here.
There was no way he'd be able to tread water for several hours. And if the whole block level was locked than the conjoining door would be useless.
And he had no way of contacting anyone…blast…he was DOOMED…
Wait a minute…
The chute!
This was a Chem Lab and they often sent their materials to the E.C. room to ensure the purity of their chemicals!
If he crawled through the chute…
Wilbur swam over to the wall adjoining the laboratories, passing various floating debris: ruined books, beakers, test tubes, PH level devices, a magic eight ball…
Hopefully, there was nothing toxic mixed in the water with him.
Oh well, he took a deep breath and dove, kicking as hard as he could…swimming deeper and deeper…
Again, he was grateful for the flashlight function on his glasses; it was dark down here.
Man, this was really taking it out of him; the young Robinson had such a light body it was hard to keep himself from floating back up.
Nonetheless, he paddled his arms forcefully until he was deep enough to grip the lip of the chute's opening.
Using it as an anchor, he fumbled for the ID which slipped through his fingers.
It fell like a rock…and began heading to the one drain which seemed to be working!
No!
He kicked off from the chute; arm outstretched, mind in a panic, lungs starting to burn. He barely managed to grab the ID's cord, saving it from an imminent "plumbing" death.
Phew!
Losing his dad's stuff down the pipes often irritated the man greatly.
Heck, that's why Dad made that one awful toilet tube: at age six and a half, Wilbur flushed his father's watch in an attempt to "stop time." Foreign objects were scanned and removed before entering the septic line.
He swam back to the chute; feeling more than a little lightheaded and dizzy—blood pounded in his ears and there was a tint of black enveloping the edges of his vision…and he knew deep down it had nothing to do with the darkness of the room…
He slid his father's ID through the lock. It flashed green:
Access Granted
He hurriedly pressed the button labeled OPEN.
The hatch immediately slid open and he gracelessly funneled though, tumbling onto a hard tile floor.
He groaned. "Ugh, I know how the itsy-bitsy spider feels now. Dude, that bug cussed up a storm. Man, this is gonna hurt tomorrow."
Water continued gushing through the opening.
He staggered his way upright, slipping and sliding before slamming his fist on the button CLOSE.
He wrung his baseball cap out before thunking it back on his head.
Mission Success.
"Whoo!" The teen grinned cockily. "Wilbur Robinson NEVER fails."
What an adventure!
The feeling of triumph faded though as his eyes fell over the hulking Analyzer 2000.
He hesitantly approached the mammoth machine. Nearly twenty feet tall and thirty feet wide, it took up almost an entire wall and, to Wil at least, looked like a misshapen letter H.
Blinking lights, knobs, and dials covered almost every square inch—thank goodness, it had a voice operated feature. Wilbur would no doubt end up demolishing it if he had to manually work it.
"Analyzer," he commanded (going for bravado, but achieving a shaky squeak), "activate."
The machine hummed into operation. "Unidentified user. Vocal chords not recognized. Please present identification."
He held up his dad's ID card.
"Override Accepted," the vocaloid voice replied. "Inquiry?"
Wil chewed his bottom lip nervously.
This was it. No turning back now.
He took a deep breath. "Genetic Relation Test…"
He swallowed. "Paternity Confirmation."
Two robotic appendages extended themselves, holding petri dishes in their prongs.
He pulled his wallet out from his front pocket, flipping it open and extracting the blond hair from the plastic in front of his school ID.
Shakily, he set the hair on the left dish before reaching up and plucking a strand from his head.
He set the raven black hair on the right dish.
And then stepped back…feeling weightless and detached and-and odd…it was like the universe was slowing down for this pivotal moment.
He took a deep breath, mind racing. Countless memories flashed by.
Dad carrying him on his shoulders when he was little, reading him story after story when he was sick, playing space ninja adventures until Mom came out and told them it was dinnertime, comforting him when he was eight and had lost several key teeth resulting in an awful lisp.
Always showing up for Parent-Career Day and bringing something awesome, cheering him on at all his Chargeball games, wrapping his knee when he got injured hurdling, always being there for him when Wil needed him…always…always being his dad…
"Begin analysis," Wilbur murmured.
In less time than it took to toast bread, the machine chimed. (Though for Wilbur, a small eternity had passed in between seconds.)
"Test completed," the computer announced. "Processing results."
Step 6 of the Scientific Method: ANALYSIS:
Wilbur felt his heart race as he waited with bated breath while the data sheet sped out.
He swiped the page, eyeing the information critically.
Step 7 of the Scientific Method: CONCLUSION:
His mouth slackened while his fingers gripped the page tightly.
Here it was.
Hard proof of what he had suspected…
In bold letters across the page:
NO RELATION
Oh no, poor Wil DDD :
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