testament, part three

I am a madman and my experiment is an affront to the tech-god Himself. I know this because Arch-Magos Drellan told me it, shouted it at me in fact, just before I excised his brain and threw his body into the white-hot promethium jets. I did not feel angry or sad when he said it, even though the Arch-Magos was an old friend. I do not feel very much at all these days.

Whatever I was before my colleagues betrayed me on Corfun 3, now all I am is the desire for vengeance. Every simulated pulse of my artificial heart is a beat on the drum whose rhythym calls me to war. I last felt pity four months ago, as I euthanised a young woman whose body was rejecting my modifications. She would have died anyway, but I opted to save her the pain of systemic immuno-collapse. She kept her eyes fixed on mine as I asphyxiated her, made sure I would understand every delicate nuance of hatred, fear and pain.

If my mind were purely mechanical, I would suspect that it burnt out the circuits responsible for empathy; yet my brain is not a machine and whilst I have by necessity memorised human physiology emotional affairs still baffle me. It would be illogical to feel any connection to this woman, whose death I ultimately engineered. She was just a test subject, just a cog playing her part in my beautiful machinery, just a caged bird dying to warn of gas.

I should not remember her at all. Why do I? The question frustrates me and I desire answers. I will likely never find them, as I know my priority and it is revenge. Perhaps by achieving it I will validate her sacrifice, perhaps her death will have meant something. Perhaps I will care.

It does not matter to me at this moment. Little does, as I really am irrefutably insane. Raging through my veins like liquid fire, the alchemical tincture I have devised is temporarily thickening my blood vessels, pressing on my hypothalamus which is in return poisoning my body with all manner of hormones and chemicals. It is, I suppose, its protest at what I am doing to myself, and were my prosanguinators not filtering my blood as well as they are I would simply be dead. Instead I am driven to madness, wandering blindly and wildly through alleys and passageways, sending dustbins crashing out of my way and rodents fleeing. I have days left before the swelling will subside and sanity will return. My olfactory nerve enhancements tell me I smell strongly of stale sweat, urine and decayed food. It is worth the indignity, however, as my blood vessels will have acquired an internal plastic-like coating. I will function up to 5% more efficiently.

Madness is a price I pay gladly for my genius.


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November 2010
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