Jest
18-12-07, 23:54
(( We are still allowed to post roleplaying stories in here right? Figured I'd whip something up for my char since he is back in action. Also, if any one is every exceptionally bored at work one day, feel free to check out the site in my sig, www.angelcityfiction.net for more stories in a cyberpunk setting of my design ))
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Two scientists in white lab coats stand over a third man lying on a bed in a comatose state. The third man is dressed in blue hospital scrubs and is hooked to several large machines on either side of him. As he becomes conscious, he overhears a conversation between the scientists.
"We've implanted as much information that he needs to survive. Understanding of language, locations in the city, how to hold and shoot a weapon..."
A man's voice sounds from a set of black speakers on the wall. "And what about his past? Will he have any memories from the original?"
The other scientist answers. "No sir, this process is different than the Gene Replicators. The serum used in the assassination attempt prevents the normal Gene Replication method. In this case, he would have had the knowledge of an infant if we didn't intervene."
"And his appearance?"
"He is several years younger than the original and has been through several levels of surgery to avoid recognition."
"And is this one stable? I don't want a repeat of the last one."
"Yes sir. We've modified our procedures since then."
"Good. In that case, implement the next step. Give him a gun and an apartment. I want him inserted into the city."
"Should we have him registered to a corporation?"
"Yes, any will do."
"Sir, one last question... what about the original."
There is a long pause. "Keep him on life support. There is still a chance for a cure."
"Yes sir."
"In the mean time, I want the clone monitored. We need to determine if he follows the same path as the original."
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When the man wakes again, he is no longer dressed in hospital scrubs. He is laying on a leather loveseat with his legs on the arm rest. He recognizes his surroundings as an apartment in Via Rosso, though he has no memory of living there. His right arm is extended downward and in his hand is a pistol resting again the ground. He has only vague memories of the lab, unable to discern whether it was fact or fiction.
He sits up and a datacube rolls down into his lap from on top of his chest.
"Welcome to Neocron, John Wallace."
The message continues, but he doesn't read it. If his name is truly John Wallace, then he doesn't recognize it.
As he stands, a sudden rush of dizziness comes over him. He can feel the presence of drugs slowly fade from his body. He has the feeling that he didn't take them voluntarily.
He sits at the table to recover, but realizes that he is missing far more memory than how he got there. The few bits of information he has seem foreign to him.
He sits quietly at the table for several hours, doing all he can to piece the broken bits of his mind together. Ultimately, only one memory occurs to him. He rolls down the sleeve of his left arm, and tattooed on his wrist in black ink is a bar code.
With no luck in retracing any of his memories, he searches the apartment for any signs of who he is. Searching in every crevice, accessing every file on the terminal, he still finds no clues.
Finally giving up, he returns to the table only to be startled. Some one had been in the apartment while he was searching. He is unaware what relevance the item has, but it is the first thing that is familiar to him since waking. Placed upon the table is a pair of mirrored shades.
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Two scientists in white lab coats stand over a third man lying on a bed in a comatose state. The third man is dressed in blue hospital scrubs and is hooked to several large machines on either side of him. As he becomes conscious, he overhears a conversation between the scientists.
"We've implanted as much information that he needs to survive. Understanding of language, locations in the city, how to hold and shoot a weapon..."
A man's voice sounds from a set of black speakers on the wall. "And what about his past? Will he have any memories from the original?"
The other scientist answers. "No sir, this process is different than the Gene Replicators. The serum used in the assassination attempt prevents the normal Gene Replication method. In this case, he would have had the knowledge of an infant if we didn't intervene."
"And his appearance?"
"He is several years younger than the original and has been through several levels of surgery to avoid recognition."
"And is this one stable? I don't want a repeat of the last one."
"Yes sir. We've modified our procedures since then."
"Good. In that case, implement the next step. Give him a gun and an apartment. I want him inserted into the city."
"Should we have him registered to a corporation?"
"Yes, any will do."
"Sir, one last question... what about the original."
There is a long pause. "Keep him on life support. There is still a chance for a cure."
"Yes sir."
"In the mean time, I want the clone monitored. We need to determine if he follows the same path as the original."
__________________________________
When the man wakes again, he is no longer dressed in hospital scrubs. He is laying on a leather loveseat with his legs on the arm rest. He recognizes his surroundings as an apartment in Via Rosso, though he has no memory of living there. His right arm is extended downward and in his hand is a pistol resting again the ground. He has only vague memories of the lab, unable to discern whether it was fact or fiction.
He sits up and a datacube rolls down into his lap from on top of his chest.
"Welcome to Neocron, John Wallace."
The message continues, but he doesn't read it. If his name is truly John Wallace, then he doesn't recognize it.
As he stands, a sudden rush of dizziness comes over him. He can feel the presence of drugs slowly fade from his body. He has the feeling that he didn't take them voluntarily.
He sits at the table to recover, but realizes that he is missing far more memory than how he got there. The few bits of information he has seem foreign to him.
He sits quietly at the table for several hours, doing all he can to piece the broken bits of his mind together. Ultimately, only one memory occurs to him. He rolls down the sleeve of his left arm, and tattooed on his wrist in black ink is a bar code.
With no luck in retracing any of his memories, he searches the apartment for any signs of who he is. Searching in every crevice, accessing every file on the terminal, he still finds no clues.
Finally giving up, he returns to the table only to be startled. Some one had been in the apartment while he was searching. He is unaware what relevance the item has, but it is the first thing that is familiar to him since waking. Placed upon the table is a pair of mirrored shades.
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