Third: Denial


"Random patterns
struggling on
Creation, frustration,
never and beyond"


Alfred boggled. "He's finished already?"

"Um... yeah." Thomas answered sheepishly for some unknown reason from... some where beneath the impressive pile of books.

Alfred took a couple from the stack, the titles of classic literature and deep-thought histories glinting back at him from the overhead lights. "But how can he go through them so fast?"

The other shrugged as best he could. "Well, he's a robot. He probably has more patience and retains information better than we can. Probably reads faster, too."

It was nearing a year since Blues' activation, the long, twisted journey that it was.


"I am DRN #000: Blues. All systems check."

The two scientists huddled together near the wall, so frightened they couldn't even tremble. Th--Their creation... was sitting up. And talking to them. Blues just watched them passively from his position on the table.

"A-Al..." Thomas said quietly, eyes wide and locked on the bioroid, speaking as if he were afraid that Blues would hear him and attack in a frenzy. "Al, it--it's sitting up. My God, Al, it's sitting up!"

The fear and surprise slowly began to melt into shock, a slowly mounting, joyous shock as he grabbed Thomas's hand tightly. "It spoke. It spoke to us, it said the systems check."

A tentative smile hesitantly twitched Thomas's lips. "It works. We succeeded, it really works."

"We really are geniuses...! I can't believe it!" Alfred let out a hoot and jumped, hugging his best friend tightly. "We did it! We did it, we really did it!"

He laughed loudly, jumping with his friend in equal enthusiasm. "It works, it works, it works!"

The two laughed and jumped and hollered, so wrapped up in their accomplishment that they totally forgot that it was still on the table, watching them in their odd happiness. Blues frowned slightly at the display and thought of his 'fathers': 'Weird'. After all, his existence made perfect sense to him.

"Excuse me," he asked slowly. He knew that his functioning was supposed to happen, but he didn't understand their reaction. "Was I not supposed to work?"

They immediately stopped, looking at the bioroid aghast. "No!" They shouted vehemently. "You're perfect! This is exactly what's supposed to happen!"

His red-brown eyes narrowed. "Then why act so surprised?"

"Because..." Thomas trailed off, embarrassed as Alfred coughed, looking the other way, "we weren't completely sure that you would work."

"Ah. I see." Not really.

Alfred clapped his hands excitedly. "Now! We have to run some tests to see exactly what you can do."

"Understood."

Suddenly, Thomas noticed a problem. A rather important problem, depending on how one looked at it. "Er... Al?"

"Hm?"

He tugged at the other's sleeve and whispered exaggeratedly in his ear. "We didn't get him any clothes..."

He blinked. Looked at Blues. Yup. He was stilling sitting on the lab table. Nude.

"Oh. Oh my."

"Yes."

Blues remained in his position, watching their interactions with a hint of confusion. On many occasions, their behavior was odd to -- quote, unquote -- 'normal' people. Who knew what it registered in the mind of a newly activated robot only programmed with socially acceptable behavior? But it was somewhat entertaining.

Alfred sniffled, eyeing Blues carefully. "Well... he's too thin for your clothes, and mine are too small..." he shrugged out of his lab coat and handed it to the prototype. "Here, that'll do for now. We'll have to get you something better to wear later."

"Understood." He said simply, flexing his arms into the off-white sleeves, stained with various fluids.

"Now!" Alfred said with great flourish. "On with the tests!"

As they had predicted, Blues was fully capable at anything thrown at him and the pre-programmed knowledge, basic and general information some of the more learned populace would know, came just as quickly to Blues as it would any other person. He seemed prefer visual learning as opposed to the other methods, reading being his most favored method though he was equally skilled in all the other areas. He was particularly proficient in political and social science and had a keen interest in history, as well.

They stressed the importance of the world and reality and knowledge, keeping a tight reign on everything he was initially exposed to. From books to food-fuel to the waves his internal receptors picked up to the regulation of his rest. Then they found out something that they hadn't originally intended, something that had shocked them gleefully nearly as much as Blues's first activation.

Thomas caught him one day -- 'caught' in use for Blues acted as if he were doing something he wasn't suppose to be -- reading a book. Not just any book, but one he had printed out in the lateness of the night from the internet. It seemed that the bioroid had a creative-curious streak and had taken a liking to old literature, out of print for countless years in tangible form and found only floating around the world in the vast Web. During the time designated for his 'sleep', Blues had slipped out of his containment tube and into one of the computer labs. There he over rid the security grids and searched the internet for the material in question, printing it out to read when he wished so he could, as he later said, "understand the experience as fully as possible."

It wasn't the first time that Blues had done that. After the first three days, he had taken it upon himself to entertain his rather bored consciousness when the tests had failed to be interesting. Mindful of the doctors monitoring him, Blues would scan the other radio frequencies in the area, picking up various tips on the current human culture, pop-culture and interaction. He had also developed a rather impressive print-out library of vague and little-known literature.

Thomas was ecstatic on Blues's innovation and creative mindset. Alfred was a little less enthralled but equally pleased with himself for creating such a human machine. They encouraged his reading by taking him out to the city library, checking out any book that pleased him and exposing him to the outside world for the first time.

As they had hoped, no one seemed to realize Blues's true origins. All they saw were two aging men with a young, handsome youth trailing just behind them. Blues, however, noticed something that had disturbed him if somewhat slightly. Despite all the giggling and flirting of the girls, the defensive, cocky look of other young men and the appraisal of the elderly at his health, he noticed that, after first glance, they would never look him in the eye.

Confused, thinking perhaps it was a design flaw that neither of the doctors had realized, Blues moved himself to one of the bathrooms in the lab. He watched his reflection in the clear, pharmaceutical mirror that overhung the sink. Peering into his own eyes, he narrowed them experimentally.

Nothing.

Just a pair of eyes slitting back at him -- perhaps just a bit too red, but hardly anything to avoid. And the more he watched his eyes, the more he couldn't understand their reactions and soon the problem began to frustrate him.

His lips began to pull back in a frown when he noticed it. His eyes were beginning to change color, redder, more intense. The fact surprised him, those orbs turning into an obviously unnatural color, almost frightening even to him. It also annoyed him, making them turn a more vivid shade. With a shove, he stalked off to find the doctors.

Blues came across, first, Thomas. With a highly irritable air, the bioroid pointed at his shimmering eyes and asked lowly, "What is the meaning of this?"

Thomas himself had the feeling that this would come up sooner or later, but he never really did look forward to discussing Blues' internal workings. He, more so than Alfred, treated Blues more like he was a living creature. Though he did more than his fair share of the work in construction, subconsciously he was still wary of artificial intelligence equipped with the same emotions as himself and reflexively protected his sensibility by imagining him to be an actual human. An effect that was worthless when he had to actively explain to Blues that he was, indeed, just a machine. Complex, efficient, amazingly life-like, yet a machine indeed.

Templing his hands, Thomas shuffled his thoughts like notes. "As you know already, electrons are a rather large driving force in your system. The fluids inside your body -- or Gel, rather -- is what keeps your body going, permeating and lubricating your systems and acting as a cushion against your pain receptors."

Yes, yes. All this he was already familiar with, the plans long imprinted into his databanks should he ever be forced to repair himself. In some doubtful case that neither of the doctors were there to take care of it. Or to help him establish a mild form of independence; which didn't seem that likely seeing as they didn't show any other signs to encourage such thoughts, but rather to retard it.

But the effects of Gel and his functions weren't new to him. He knew all about pain buffers and dry-outs. He knew about the supposedly adverse and still unknown possible side effects the chemicals in his body would have in the long run or in his mind. But what did it have to do with --

"We have found that one of the effects Gel had was that, when the chemicals mix together in a certain formula, it increases the circulation and reproduction rate of molecules, strengthening the electron's charge. It resembles an adrenaline rush in a way. However, asides from the typical adrenaline-esque side effects, the charge also causes the Gel to illuminate. We reconfigured your eyes once we found this out." Thomas finished, looking much like he just gave away a secret that would most likely bring some harsh repercussions down upon him from... somewhere. From who or how was what was making him so hesitant.

Blues began to see where this was heading. "So," he slowly said, "you figured you'd use the Gel's affects to change the color of my eyes so you could gauge different mood swings, am I correct?" Dumbly, Thomas nodded. Ah ha... "And am I also correct in assuming," he prepared for a wild stab here, "that it was because you were uncertain in how I'd react to... anything?" The scientist winced. Thank you, Mr. Holmes.

Blues ended the conversation then and didn't seem to care about anything except for getting his answers. Alfred had warned earlier that telling Blues anything about his construction or their reasons behind certain parts of his form and function might be detrimental to his cooperation in the long run. Thomas didn't think much of the conversation. In fact, he was certain that Alfred wasn't going to find out.

That is, if Blues didn't sneak out of the lab that night and bought himself a pair of reflective sunglasses. Alfred was not in his happy place after that. Thomas wouldn't have been either if the sunglasses hadn't been because he let information slip to begin with.

The tests soon moved more towards the physical. They wanted to push Blues towards his limit in endurance, strength, agility and speed. However, a majority of the time the bioroid refused to apply himself anymore than needed. That is, when he decided to apply himself at all.

Alfred was becoming frustrated at Blues' refusal to comply in the tests and was quickly despairing on ever being able to properly unveil Blues to the public. But Thomas, with two older siblings and being the youngest and brightest, knew very well what a spoiled brat was and assured his compatriot that Blues just needed more time to adjust and understand how, exactly, people and society as a whole worked.

Of course, Blues wasn't the only spoiled brat in the labs. Both old men realized with great reluctance that their creation was becoming somewhat rebellious and had a tendency to smart mouth them. It was as if he were going through every phase from toddler to teen all at once. And he was being a rather unhelpful and morally destructive pre-teen at the moment. Alfred, however, didn't have your usual childhood and, though he was much like almost everyone else in his neighborhood, Alfred would do anything to keep from going back to that place. It was almost so traumatizing that he blocked most of it out from memory and those that he still could remember he did not like at all.

And that particularly scathing remark about what he does, being so excited actually watching Blues in action, set Alfred into an inconsolable rage. So, he figured, if Blues refused to go practice, he'd make him practice.

If Thomas had known before hand what his best friend was planning he would've been stopped immediately. But no, in the mood he was in, next to nothing would've been able to stop him from doing anything. And luckily enough -- or rather, unluckily enough depending on one's point of view -- only Blues received the full force of his anger.

It didn't take long for a genius to dismantle the training field and move the weapons system to a field right outside the lab Blues was known to frequent during the late afternoons. As it was, no one even really noticed it. But then, all Alfred really did was just set up and recalibrate the power, speed and accuracy of the weapons. They range everything from short-ranged, low-cal lasers to automatic weapons to area-projectile rifles and grenade launchers equipped with smoke shells.

And the moment Blues stepped in the middle of the field, a computer automated war raged upon one robot.

In a way, this 'exercise' revealed some very useful facts. Unfortunately, these facts helped to improve the viciousness and neigh untouchable power of future robots. But mainly, the fact that both doctors focused on with feelings on either end of the spectrum was an effect that they would later dub as 'Surge'.

Blues was being pelted on all sides, though he had destroyed a good number of the weapons. However, as he finished gutting the wires out of a laser, a smoke grenade pounded into his shoulder from its high arc. Coughing from the thick, white smoke and disoriented, blind, the weapons took the opportunity to aim in; Thomas watching in horror, Alfred in a smothered glee.

The smoke cleared and Blues' battered body struggled up off the ground under the hail of ammunition. On his knees, he was smashed aside as a round from a SAW caught him in the side of his face, sunglasses shattering, skidding through the air and crashing to the ground. And when Blues got up this time, he was a totally different robot.

They could see through the camera that fed their view screen the hate and rage in Blues' face, teeth set in a bloodied snarl that pulsed with the Gel's dark sheen. And his eyes... his eyes haunted both doctors' dreams for years to come. They were glowing, shinning under the pink hue from tracer bullets. But his eyes were red, bright, glowing, vengeful red. He moved faster than either watchers could imagine, too fast for the camera to even pick up, only able to catch him as he paused to destroy one weapon after another. He didn't seem to feel any pain that wracked his body prior, or the occasional bullet that currently scored a lucky shot on him. He didn't stop until every piece of machinery was busted beyond repair or recognition and he just sort of slumped amid the pile of trash that littered his field.

The Surge frightened Thomas. The following months after that scene was spent with him trying to keep the potency of the Gel while trying to keep the chemicals from causing Surges.

Alfred, however, was enraptured by the unimaginable side effect. And he aimed to harness its power to his whim.

And in the field, Blues continued to sit, shivering, trying to figure out just where he lost control. He hated the Surge as much as Thomas did, even more so because it was himself that was missing under its influence. At that time he vowed to himself to never let the Surge take over again. He grew up that day, gained more maturity at that moment than most do in half a decade. Or maybe it was more that he lost a bit of him that made him more human. So instead he became quiet, secretive, sullen and nearly impossible to approach in his most statuesque mask. He spent his time in secret practice, doing what the doctors could only guess -- and wrong they were indeed. And he read, and studied, doing so at any spare moment he had until almost a year had passed and still he sought to learn more. But despite that and the years of loneliness and practice of his implacable façade, Blues still had some of the teenager in him. It was the part that shot off smart quips as easily as one would greet someone else, the part with the dark sense of humor and an odd, funny sort of fascination with the morbid.

But, what he enjoyed the most, perhaps because of 'surrogate-parental-favoritism' or some shit, nothing ever beat the feeling he got when he had looked Alfred Wily right in the eyes and said: "No."

Overly happy with himself, Blues walked away from Alfred's shocked face, whistling a simple little tune that ingrained into Wily's memory, etched forever with a distinct hate that would never stop tearing at his mind, even to his bloodied death.


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