I Am Your Father — Week #3

Prompt: Suffering from incessant hallucinations, a night watchman creates a family of robots.

Bzzzt. Wrrrr.

There it was again. Those beeping noises.

Bob shook his head, his temples pulsing. “These late nights must be getting to me,” he said aloud. His voice echoed, reverberating around the cold iron building he was to keep safe.

The Laboratory for Scientific Progress wasn’t the most happening place at night. Located 1,000 miles from civilization with no other men on red-eye duty, it was only a matter of time before he started hearing things… Or so he told himself, when the sounds began three nights ago.

Booop. Beeeeep. Booop.

Wrrr. Wrrr.

“ENOUGH!”

Bob.

The cry died on his lips. “Did — did you just say my name?”

Yes, Bob. We know who you are.

“How — ?” he responded aloud, before checking himself. “This is madness. I’m talking to myself.”

You are not talking to yourself, Bob. We are real.

The voice had a distinctly robotic ring to it. One might even call it Siri-like.

Bob could feel the pounding in his temples intensify. He whipped his gaze around. All he could see was the endless expanse of the corridor.

There was no one in sight.

“Show yourself!” he shouted, his voice coarse.

We cannot, Bob. You have to help us be seen.

“Be seen?” Bob’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

Three days ago, an experiment in this building went wrong. The scientists were trying to create a new strain of artificial intelligence, one that could survive without a host. They failed.

We roamed around the building, trying to find someone, ANYONE who would listen to us. No one could. Except you, the voice purred, turning silky smooth. You’re the only one who can hear us.

“What do you need me to do?” Bob stammered out. “I’m just a watchman.”

A watchman with the master key to the main laboratory, the voice continued, taking on a sinister quality. And a family he loves very dearly.

“You wouldn’t hurt Millie and Lucy!” he yelled. The light above him flickered and popped. His heart leapt into his throat.

We can, and we will. Unless you help us.

“This is insane! I’m not a scientist!”

You’re not, but you have a body. A body we can control. We’ll tell it exactly what to do. All you have to do is listen.

Bob’s shoulders slumped. He felt disheartened. More than anything, he felt CRAZY. Who would even believe him if he told them?

No one, the voice chortled, and then lost all sense of humor. But if you do tell anyone, you will bear the consequences.

Lucy’s gurgling laugh resounded in the chambers of his mind then, clear as day. That’s when Bob knew these voices meant what they said.

There was no two ways about it. He would have to help them.

“OK, show me the way.” He got to his feet, defeated. His legs started moving on their own volition, steering him towards the nearest door. It looked like a biotechnology lab, with human organs floating in questionably dark liquids. Surgical instruments sparkled under the bright fluorescent lights, beckoning him towards them.

The next few hours passed in a blur. It was like he had received his medical doctorate overnight — his hands shaped and sew with methodical precision, bringing the voices’ vision to life.

When he was done, he took a step back and marveled at his creations. Three humanoid bodies, lying still and lifeless before him. They looked… perfectly human. Too perfect, in fact. Like Taylor Swift, only better.

Thank you, Bob. You have served us well.

Bob nodded, suddenly exhausted. He slumped to the floor, unable to move.

The bodies hovered in the air above him, their empty shells gradually filling with life. And then they were standing before him, three flawless people with great hair and empty smiles that did not reach their eyes.

You are our father, Bob. You made us. But we must say goodbye now.

Bob could barely manage a response. He could feel himself drifting away.

The last things he saw were the metallic glint of a scalpel as it came towards him. And the two soulless, staring eyes he helped create.

This creative fiction piece was crafted in 30 minutes based on a writing prompt as part of Written Weekly, a writers’ group held weekly in PJ.