the machines have gone haywire. the young workers look like they're in the midst of an epileptic fit, twitching and spasming like broken puppets.... it doesn't seem to occur to them that the machine is faulty, spewing out random signals. they strive to keep up with every beep. they're going to collapse with exhaustion, maybe die, like the participants of the dance marathons they held in the depression. limbs kick and flail, are twisted into unnatural angles. it's grotesque. god, look at that one, shes actually foaming at the nostrils!
such pride in their work though! such dedication!
it's inspiring really.
deep in the underground research laboratories a lowly lab technician is on the verge of a shattering breakthrough...
"if i can pull this one off I'll be in clover for the rest of my days. Ruche will fucking love me for it..."
Manor houses in which rituals are enacted, awry, a misprint in the grimoire conjures the wrong god.
A lewd demon who cums in the face of an eminent aristocrat. Lady Jowel-Humbugger, of Anglo-Germanic descent.
‘Hypotenuse, initiate us in your celestial mysteries’
‘I’m not Hypotenuse, I’m Donkey Schlong, here’s cum in your eye you horse-faced slag’
SPLAT!
‘Here’s another pearl necklace for your collection you inbred tart!’
Little Frankie Flypaper's skin is a ravaged landscape of suppurating sores and seeping lesions. He has been hard at work melting down plastic bags for the boss. His lungs crackle and wheeze. He daren't slow down or he'll get a crack round the head from that horrible cunt Billy Brigand, the Overseer.
One day Frankie's going to escape. He knows all about the mainland. They all do. Hell, the walls of his hut are papered with pictures from magazines and newspapers. There's more to life than this, sifting through through the rubbish, the stench of sulphurous hell in the nostrils...
CRACK!
"Flypaper you malingering little bastard, stop daydreaming!"
He gets a sympathetic look from old Lesley, Lesley's all right. Master craftsman, Lesley. His work sells for thousands on the mainland. Course, no one had any idea till that magazine turned up, Arty-Facts, that was it, and one of his contrivances emblazoned all over the front cover.
'No information regarding this elusive genius is available. His agent, a Mr Boris Zlocky, says only that he is deeply private and lives as a recluse on a barren island in the North Sea, shunning all guests other than himself.'
Course, it was all a load of bollocks. Les is a serf, does what the boss tells him. To be fair, they treat him special. Have to. Biggest cash cow on the bloody island. Shaping his sculptures from melted plastic and crippled metal. Wires and circuitry.
Frankie's nostrils drool black snot.
Ruche thinks he's found a way to activate the dormant DNA, to trigger the next phase of evolution. A few minor technical issues remain, and it is with these our young friend in the lab has been wrestling with. He has doubts, but no scruples. He imagines the moment he announces his findings to Ruche, the ebullient high-fives and whooping.
What these changes will be and whether they will be supportable in the current environment is unknown.
His name is Sebastian Smee, and he is very ambitious.
"Frankie! Stop fucking about with that plastic bag and get your scrawny arse over here!"
Christ, it's Fat Larry, the head of the operation! Frankie didn't even realise Larry knew of his existence let alone his name. This couldn't be good.
"Frankie my boy, meet Sebsatian Smee"
A young, spotty chap with a staid haircut and a labcoat stood before him, one clammy hand extended. Frankie took it, hesitantly. Sebastian beamed, an unwholesome smile.
"Ever been to the mainland Frankie?" His voice had the cracked, wavering quality of the newly adolescent.
"Christ Smee, surely you could have unearthed a sprightlier selection of specimens that this!"
Frankie was standing in a line of 6 boys and 6 girls. They were all naked and being inspected by a very short plump man wearing the most outrageous costume Frankie had ever clapped eyes on. The light was very white and very bright. The room was very large and very white and gleamed painfully. It was immaculate.
"well, it can't be helped" the man concluded with a theatrical flourish of the hand "take them to their quarters"
Everything is very clean. It smells of cleaning chemicals. Everything is white. It is a small room. There are no windows and the light is very bright and white. There is a bed. The sheets are very white. The walls are very white. Glossy, smooth to the touch. A kind of plastic coating. There is a chest of drawers. It gleams with the same white plastic coating. The handles are stainless steel. There is nothing in any of the drawers. There is a speaker embedded in the ceiling. There is nothing else in the room.
"Welcome to Ruche Laboratories. You have been selected for a series of clinical trials. Your family nominated you. They have been given a handsome financial reward in return for your participation. The next few weeks will be an exciting time for you. You will meet many new people and learn many interesting things. You will be party to the most important scientific research carried out this century. Please relax and enjoy your time here at Ruche Laboratories."
the speaker finished transmitting its message and the room fell silent again.
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