Undisclosed Experimentation: Chapter 1 The Commission

      In a not-too-distant future, one that lovingly embraces progress while still endorses the charm of the past...robots have finally been realized to their nigh-fullest potential.
   Instead of taking the majority of humanity's jobs, they have instead made our own lives more palatable.
   More workers that need less time off, in the form of anthropomorphic service droids, means more human workers can afford more time off, *and* more pay.
   Thanks to robots lightening the load, the disparity between haves and have-nots seems virtually non-existent. Virtually, but not literally.
   On the positive side, the institution of robot servitude has allowed more humans to be able to enjoy their time off, to fully find more time to sleep, relax, or enjoy bingeing the watching of a favored series on a video streaming service.

   Unfortunately, with humans being as they are, all of that extra time to themselves left them a little negligent of the robots' needs. Soon there were swathes of automatons deviating from standard programming, questioning their purpose, their accomplishments...and in a few good cases, their alliances and affiliations.
   A robot that would not do their designated task, refused orders, or even gave sass would soon find themselves in a terrible category of desperation and unwanted exception..."Out-mode."
   Due to the out-mods problem steadily rising, one man and his knowledge of robotics, combined with his understanding of human psychology, rose up to meet the demands of a market, of a populace in desperate need for reliability and consistency.
   That man came out with a line of highly sought-after robots that were the pride of any household, and each generation after was only a greater improvement upon the last. It gained him a stellar reputation with a shining, silvery record of guaranteed quality and, in many cases, refinement for those in possession of one of his robots...

   But just like with any great man of science and a boon to man-kind, there are demands left un-met...Demands that will soon come crashing down around his head, and the heads of others in his field.


   Twenty(20) years ago, very powerful people made such demands. They made it clear that they were not to be ignored...

    A dark, semi-lit room filled with seven men and three women, aged variably between their early thirties and some into their golden years...
   A large, mechanized, expandable round table with a stylized, capital 'S' is slightly off-center of this large room, windows at the far back of the room looks down into a detailing and chassis dress-up line of an android factory, bodies and parts sitting idle and silent.

   Back at the table, these men and women, these people, are all of the world's leading experts and producers of high-end robotics.
   At one end of the table was a very familiar face of a man with silver, swept-back hair and a push-broom mustache. Upon one of the lapels of his silver-blue, pinstripe suit was a pin with an 'S' similar to the one on the expandable table. He leaned over his end of the table, his left hand clasped over his right fist, his eyes acting like a scanner over the other faces at the table.
   At another part of the table, starting at his left was a middle-aged woman of South Korean descent.
   She seemed quite smart in her red business suit with the tame lapels and the white and red pin.
   Next to her, going clockwise, was the second youngest member of the group. His hair was only slightly peppered at the temples with one streak going up the front of his well-moded coif. The gentleman's face didn't seem capable of bearing a frown, still, his smile gave the impression of a man who was slightly smug and filled with patient enthusiasm. On his lapel was a small pin of a man's torso holding up a geometric globe upon the shoulders.
   Next to him were three men slightly older than him. One was a man with fully peppered hair and a silver suit with handsome, strong features and fierce blue eyes. His was a pin in the shape of a triangle, a block-text 'V' in shiny chrome filled in the vector with a soft, light robin-egg blue.
   Next was a man who had red hair that was streaking in places of silver, eyes of gray with small hints of green. This man's ears stuck out just slightly, a suspicious scar on his chin unable to be hidden by his closely cut beard. Regardless of the scar on his chin and his tired brow, he seemed to have a sympathetic look on his middle-aged face. This man wore a faded-black suit, a pastel-green silk shirt, and a tie of an olive green, seemingly of some rayon weave. In the middle of that tie was a tie clip decorated with a gently curved 'M'.
   Next to the aged copper-headed man was a slightly portly but strong looking old man that was bald, a ring of stone-gray hair around the temples and back of his head. He had a very straight, hard-angled nose, upon which rested a pair of simple and fashionably masculine glasses. This man had two pins on his lapel: one was a flag pin colored white, blue and red; the other was a small rectangle with two decorative circuits in the upper left corner, the bottom right corner displaying a single, simple typed Greek letter.
   Next to the Russian was a man in a standard navy-blue suit with a white, pinstriped and cuffed shirt with a stark white tie with silver and pearl, embroidered geometric patterns. He was nearly as well-known as the impromptu host of this gathering of the minds, one of said host's highest competitors. In fact, he used to be a colleague of the host, sharing a similar look of pensive concern.
   A dark-haired Japanese man sat next to the concerned, older Caucasian man, looking directly to the host with a look of anticipation. Sometimes the Japanese man with the all-black business-casual ensemble would look to The man with the 'S' pin and then over to the man with the pin of the god Atlas.
   Then there was the youngest of the group, a young lady with smooth, chocolate-dark skin, wearing wing-shaped, clear-frame glasses. Her hair was done in close braids from her hairline down to the back of her head where the thick, smooth braids were capped at their ends with sculpted aluminum decorations. Each cap etched with either a design resembling grid-work, circuitry or traditional African patterns. Hers was a dress-suit with wide, near-white culottes, a colorful blouse with millions of triangular patters in natural shades of earth and clay. Atop everything else was a half-length jacket with what looked like an astral constellation above the top left pocket.
   The last member of this secret meeting was a woman who seemed rather cold. She had glasses dangling from a beaded length of wire, wearing a taupe lady's suit, her shirt a cream-colored turtle-neck. Her chin was small, but her lips were angular, accentuated by her no-nonsense frown. Her tri-toned pixie cut did little to hide the fact that she was a woman exceeding her 50s and had all the warmth of a flat-edged stone. One of her lapels sported a pin of the letters LCP in platinum.

   Misses Coffman of Lawrence Coffman Proctor Incorporated, Doctor Ankila Howard of Sirius Technologies, Shiro Yamamoto-san of Yamamoto Corporate, Franklin Chapman of General Robotics, Engelgardt Maximovich of Citadel Dynamics, Daniel Murdoc Murphy of Murdoc Conglomerate, Morten Valebrokk of the Volkman Company, Eric Atlas of Atlas Global and Misses Kori Tokuyama of Tokuyama Technologies.
   All of these people were gathered in one of the production factories of their present host, Mister John Sterling, the founder of Sterling Robotics.

   Earlier, a phone call had been sent to Mr. Sterling by Mr. Chapman, a competitor and friend of Sterling's since their college days.
   The call simply told Sterling to show up at the first production building that he ever established.
   Mr. Sterling thought nothing of it and tried to go about his business, but then men in dark suits, white shirts and stark, black ties came to call at his front door. It happened that very night.
   Before he knew it, Mr. Sterling found himself being escorted to one of the main factories that had been in operation ever since he became a big name in the robotics world.
   When he arrived, there were 9 others arriving either in their limousines or escorted in black, unmarked cars.
   It was rather strange how it was the head of Atlas Global that addressed everyone as if they had arrived at one of *his* buildings...

   An hour later, it was Atlas that made the suggestion that made everyone currently quiet as a graveyard and tighter than a drum.

   “Are you aware of what you're suggesting, Atlas?” asked an incredulous Doc Howard, the quick turn of her head making the caps woven into the ends of her braids clink and clatter. The disgust was palpable in her tone.
   “That with a capable, anatomically-correct android we could prevent terrorist actions from happening across the world? That with an android meant to deter thuggish, slovenly behavior we might break a counter-productive and a consistent mind-set of bad faith? Or how about preventing rapists from getting to rape, and by extension, prevent not only rape victims from having to wait too long for justice, as well as prevent the temptation for desperate people *to* rape?” returned Mr. Atlas, with a bit of venom in his own tone.
   The man from Murdoc leaned over the table, pointing an accusatory finger at Atlas, seeming insulted for the whole world's sake, “Oi! You hold that toxic tongue of yours, Mister Atlas! You're in the presence of professionals and people of scruples!”
   “ALL THE MORE REASON FOR YOU TO GET THE BROOMSTICKS OUT OF YOUR ASSES!” the chubby man barked with a slam of his fist to the table's surface. His were the eyes of a man possessed, a man incensed as his passions were hard to even control by himself. “Don't...assume you EVER have the moral high-ground with me, any of you. You know about my background. You KNOW what I had to go through to get everything I have... The rest of you only had to do what?...Get enough of your buddies' investments? Prove that your creepy mechanical hobby wasn't just for a bunch of lonely and desperate college-brats, or an All-Boys-Club? That you weren't a living stereotype?”
   Eric Atlas gave a hard glare at everyone at the table. “I've had to do that and then some...starting since childhood...Must be nice living a life where crime isn't right outside your doorstep...Must be nice to come from a strong community, with people to support you because you share a culture, or a common influence, or ethnicity, OR a gender-based double-standard, especially when you get into trouble simply for existing...Must. Be. Fucking Nice.”
   Only now was the slightly chubby man's face showing the ghost of a frown.
   Mr. Sterling leaned a little over the table. “We are aware, Mister Atlas. Because you are somebody who is familiar with such a criminal element, being exposed to it as long as you have been... why would you want to suggest using an android to be used to fuel the pursuit of justice? We never intended any of our products, ANY of us, to be used as bait or deterrent for the law or-”
   “Let me stop you right there, John,” Atlas interjected, that smug grin in full force.
   “*Sigh* Here we go~,” muttered Misses Coffman, leaning sideways in her chair, propping her jaw up on her hand, index finger laid alongside the front of her ear as the other fingers curled under her cheek, displaying a stark display of boredom. The pose made the shadows on her taupe suit look all the more dramatic as she made it seem you could cut her boredom with a chainsaw.
   Atlas continued, undeterred, “Androids, robots in general, are made to do all of the jobs that we humans CAN do but don't WANT to do. That and the jobs we can't do at all. So wouldn't it stand to reason that we just go ahead and speed up the natural progression of what we're all hoping to accomplish with robotics? We are ALL of us-- Frankensteins here, ladies and gentlemen. Pretending that we aren't is pretty much the dumbest thing we could possibly commit.”
   “And the dumbest thing YOU committed, Atlas, was bringing us all here to waste our time,” claimed Misses Tokuyama as she stood up from her seat. “What is it you're really suggesting here? Anyone can just go and get a sex-bot. Hell, that's what people go to Yamamoto-San for more than anything.”
   “Oyyyy~” complained the Japanese robot-maker, feeling hurt and insulted. He considered himself as more than just someone that made smut-droids. “I ahm also responsible for the advancements in prosthetic rimbs and cybernetics. I have made possibur the existence of artificule sensory reception. I have even made nurse robuts to help with children hospitarus.” Yamamoto-San's tone seemed quite earnest.
   “You perhaps mean AFTER I made der discovery of der sensory receptor apparatus?” corrected the man of Volkman. “AFTER I made der perfected synthetic flesh that no-doubt gets used for those cybernetics?”
   “Ah, sou~,” added Yamamoto-San with a comical coo of suspicion in his voice. “Speaking of the smut-droid trade.”
   “Ah-Hey! That was uncalled for!” protested Mr. Valebrokk.
   “Oh, just what we need, a game of dozens.” groaned Doctor Howard, slipping off her glasses and rubbing at one of her chocolate-toned temples.
   “E-Nough~!” Sterling called out to the people arguing at the table, causing the other attendees to hush and look directly at him. The elderly man sighed with ennui as he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and drew his right hand over his face. “I'm honestly trying to see the point in all of this.” He looked across to all of the people at this very odd meeting of the robotics-minded and seemed to be sincerely confused. “Frank,” he called out to the man at the head of General Robotics, “what is the nature of this meeting? Why are we all here and why in the heck did I get ushered into one of my own buildings by men in black suits with ear-pieces? The last time I checked, not many of us had any direct connections or business with secret service or the military. Plus, as soon as this meeting began, Mr. Atlas talks about helping reduce common crimes as well as rape, assault and murders...u-using, what, anatomically correct infiltration androids?”

   Mister Chapman sighed, running a hand through his hair as he thought about how he might break the news to his old colleague. That was when Mister Maximovich, his accent slight, but still obviously Slavic, spoke up. “Mister Sterling...if I may?” he asked, placing a hand over his heart.
   Sterling made a bewildered and tired look, his eyes searching with a thousand yard stare before weakly gesturing for the Russian to take the floor.
   “We have all been brought here by interested parties, most especially the American Government, to create an android, a robot, that can perform duties that involve infiltrating a common populace and learn of worst elements. Once the worst elements are discovered, they can be reported upon, or perhaps delegated with to prevent future incidents.”
   The young, African American doctor looked suspiciously at the bald Russian. “So, what, we're talking about a...neighborhood, live-in guidance counselor? We're doing- what- Robo-Jesus?” The young doctor's scoffing query was palpable by all of the elders in the wide room.
   Mrs. Coffman rolled her eyes and gave out a short scoffing chortle. Her first real smile since she had been here. A small, muttered laugh meant less for amusement, and more for concurring contempt.
   “No, good Doctor,” stated the head of Citadel Dynamics, his brows held high above his metal framed lenses, “more like mechanical Mother Theresa.”
   At least half of the table now seemed interested. The head of Murdoc Conglomerate, most of all. “Oh that sounds, lovely, actually,” stated the red-haired old man, his eyes seeming to light up with a sort of innocence.
“Perhaps the androids might help young people with their courtship and professional relationships, and instruct them on how to be better at relating to people in general. Maybe even make them better parents to their children, and friends to their neighbors.” The Irishman seemed quite taken with the idea of being able to help people, especially if it helped people with love, understanding one another and a sense of togetherness.
   “Have we all forgotten that rape was a subject that'd been brought up?” mentioned Misses Coffman as dryly as possible. She leaned in her chair and leaned over the table as she told them, “Look, as a scientist, I'm also an idealist. I'm into that kum-bah-yah shit the same as anybody here. But we're still essentially talking about either-- taking a bot that's at least as good as Sterling's, A.I. Included, and making them able to fuck- Yes. I. Said. It. On top of that, what, making them the literal epicenter of an imposed nanny-state? Last time I checked, Hollywood pulled that garbage and they had to hit the brakes before doing a hard reverse. And if the general public found out we- if any of us, had something to do with it, they'd hang us like Christmas geese in a butcher shop.”
   “That's the reason for the men in the black suits, and the weird chaperoning to this little get-together,” mentioned Eric Atlas, looking rather sly as he leaned back to rock in his office chair.
   “Of course,” grumped Misses Tokuyama as she thumped her hand on her chair's arm-rest.
   Mr. Chapman took a deep, troubled sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he leaned forward on the table.
   Sterling looked curiously to his old friend, still a little confused. “...Frank?”
   The man of General Robotics looked up to his colleague and competitor, seeing the question in good, old John Sterling's eyes. “John...this is a...direct commission from the United States government.”
   That gave the youngest, Doctor Howard, adequate pause. She turned her braided head much more cautiously in the direction of Frank Chapman, looking like she had just heard the worst profanity of all time. “Www-what?” she asked, sounding nearly breathless.
   “That's right,” mentioned Atlas, “Franklin here got a call from Uncle Sam and they demanded that he make some black-ops bots for them... OH, of course Frank had the good sense to refuse. Isn't that right, Frank?”
   “They offered me a deal, that: if I couldn't do what they asked, give them what they wanted, then I should tell them who I knew could,” explained the man with the white and silver tie as he fidgeted with the shirt decoration. “It was either that or they would have us each ruined, one by one. They even brought in the foreign makers here to make sure they would still get what they're after, even if they couldn't get it domestic.”
   Many shocked or insulted faces populated the table now. “How many of us...do they need?” asked Mister Murphy, feeling willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of the others.
   Doctor Ankila Howard stood up from her seat with a nonplussed expression, her decision already obvious by the way her brows were held above her half-closed eyes. “I'm out.” She then adjusted her jacket and turned away from the table.
   As she walked away, Yamamoto-San called out to her. “Where are you going?”
   “Anywhere that isn't here. Maybe you like selling your souls to save your hides, but I don't. They get rid of me or try to ruin me, they'll have to go back to having cable as the nation's high-standard for internet service. I. Am. Out... Bye y'all.”
   The other two ladies then stood up from the table.
   “Where do you think you're going?” snidely asked Mr. Atlas.
   “Back to my estate in South Korea,” answered Mrs. Tokuyama. “I will have nothing to do with any war machine, and I certainly do not want to take part in any behavioral or thought-control measures development. That sounds like North-side, Communist Party ideology to me, and I lost family to that way of thinking. Thank you.” She then collected her phone and followed after the good doctor. Mrs. Coffman then took one look back at the table as she was half-way across the room. “Yeah, no war-bots, no spy-bots, and sure as hell no fuck-bots and any other meat-clownery... Enjoy your 'Murrican' circle-jerk, fellas.”
   And out sashayed the last of the secret meeting's female guests.
   Then Mr. Chapman stood up and buttoned his coat, leaving Sterling to also stand. “I'm afraid you shouldn't follow me, John... They really insisted on you.”
   Sterling balked at his former colleague in shock. “What?? Frank, I can't be a part of this! Hell, you heard what the ladies said, and they're right. Besides, what makes you think you can leave?”
“John...they don't want me.” The founder of General Robotics gave Sterling one forlorn look before running his hand through his hair and sighed as he scratched the back of his neck. “They only wanted me here to guarantee that nobody would try to run out in the first twenty minutes of Atlas' parroting of the situation.”
   “So you're just going to throw me under the damn bus!?”
   “JOHN!” barked the other elder. “With some caveats, you are the most responsible, well-meaning person here...Whoever is left, you're going to have to be here to be the anchor to keep them in check...Inspire these people, you know I can't. Besides, if I had been made the head of this operation, you know what kind of product I would have turned out.” He then walked away from the table. “There's still some hope though, John. They need at least five men, and only one of them has to be American. Good luck, and good night.”

   It was at this point that Mr. Atlas brought out a manila folder and slid it to the center of the table.
   “Gentlemen, in here are the specifics of what the American government is looking for in its line of defense against threats familiar or otherwise at home and abroad. A quick read-through of those two pamphlets will start to make the picture rather clear of who they were planning on getting, and specifically why...”
   As Eric Atlas talked, John Sterling began to leave the table. Atlas only paused when he saw the oldest man in the room now trying to make his way for the door.
   “I would reconsider there, Johnny-boy” called out Atlas in his typically smug demeanor.
   “Hahhhh~ Not on your life,” Sterling returned with a bit of sass. But as soon as the man tried to leave the room, opening the double doors to the hall outside, he was met with a wall of men in black suits all staring him down.
   “Is there anything you need, Mister Sterling?” asked a considerably tall man of African descent with a frighteningly peaceful face. He held his hands together in front of him near the waist, his ear piece in and his eyes looking unimpressed by the slightly shorter old Caucasian man before him. Mr. Sterling tried to return the same amount of relaxed masculine presence with a fatherly smile. “Why yes, young man. I happen to be preparing to return home, thank you.”
   The tall black man held out a right hand to block the path of the elder white man.
   Sterling gave the younger fellow in his intimidating suit, a tired, yet still patient expression. “Look, young man, there's no problem here. You want your American, he's right inside.”
   The black-suited men were insistent and cold as they crowded a bit more around Sterling when he tried to side-step them. A similarly dressed white man with his head shaved completely bald instructed the old man, “Back inside, Mister Sterling.”
   By now, the old man seemed bewildered, if not frankly disgusted.
   “What? You can't do this! You don't need me for this. You've already got Eric Atlas in there. There's your American robot-maker, leave me out of it.”
   Then guns were pulled. The weapons were held at rest, but no less silently menacing.
   The old man's eyes widened in shock and terror. “Wha—why are you doing this?”
   “Sir...please step back inside.” said another of the guards outside the room, considerably more sensitive.
   Terrified at the obvious lack of a choice, and the extremity the government(or anyone powerful) was willing to go to get his compliance, he returned inside the room. Inside was Atlas sitting at the table, the other four men looking at John Sterling as they all had skimmed over the details of the packets since his attempt at leaving this all behind.
   “Lemme guess...Frankie tried to hint you an escape route, but forgot one little detail, huh?”
   Only silence met Atlas' question to the man in the silver-blue suit.
   “You see, Sterling...both me and Uncle Sam knew that you were going to try to duck-out because you have this whole...'Uncle Walt' idea of what you think you stand for... and the truth is, you don't...Not really.”
   “...What are you talking about?” queried the old man in disillusionment.
   “Oh?...The whole 'don't associate with out-mods' rhetoric? That doesn't sound familiar to you at all?”
   The man with the mostly dark hair looked Sterling up and down, leaning over in his seat to dramatically prop his jaw upon a splayed hand, chin jutting outward. “That's not you? The whole 'mix ye not with the great uncleansed and tarnished'?” He then smiled with a sort of tired look in his eyes up at his senior in the industry. “Have a seat, John,” he hissed in an amused whisper.
   After the old man replanted himself at his chair, Atlas leaned forward, making a steeple with his hands. “You see, old man...Uncle Sam and I...we have an understanding. They knew you liked your family-friendly image, and they wanted somebody who insisted on the ability to use psychology as a standard programming feature...Someone who has a good understanding of the human psyche.”
   Atlas then shrugged with chagrin. “That's just not me, man. But I knew that was your deal, so I cooked something up to trap you into this little cabal of great robotic minds.”
   Sterling grumbled and rubbed at his forehead. “...So you tricked me into serving the government.”
   “Oh, not quite~ You see, according to them, you're serving your country, serving the people, blah-blah-blah. Whole lot of red-white-and-blue ego-stroking. Oh, and there was a catch...Get at least...the five best guys for the job, make sure they're bleeding hearts, and-uh...yeah, get them to make the best kind of android. In this case 'Nan-droid.' See, they specifically want the bots to have that 'Sterling Charm' that so many are drawn toward. I'm still kind-a miffed that they didn't want me to head the whole project...but then again, I had to concede...I mean, shit! Heh! I have a nandroid back home, as we speak, wondering where the hell I am and why I haven't had the dinner she probably made.”
   Sterling listened to it all, mentally kicking himself for letting this happen to him. He thought he was better guarded than this, and he thought that he and the American suits had an understanding up until now.
   Damn, he thought, so much for “no politics.”
   Then Sterling heard something that made him think.
   “Poor thing.” uttered Mr. Atlas, looking at his phone, his tone surprisingly tender and sincere.
   On Eric Atlas' phone was the image of him and a nandroid laughing together. It was hard to make out what the background was, but he looked so honestly happy. The nandroid almost seemed humanly joyous as well.
   “Anyway,” the youngest man present said before putting his phone away, “Maximovich, comrade, you make the sturdiest, most human skeletal structures for androids in the world. Even your country's Sterling knock-off company can't match what America has got in terms of anatomical correctness.”
   “Da, this is sadly true. Plus, my own company has not been able to make the outer shell, how you say, accommodating?”
   “Ye mean the harsh metal outside?” asked Mr. Murphy, sounding more like a statement of fact.
   “Ehhhh~ Sad but true,” conceded Maximovich.
   Atlas then pointed to Yamamoto. “And you, Shiro-Sempai. You make...freaky-good machinery in the inner body. An actual pseudo-musculature that allows for realistic, reliable, graceful movement and strength. Carbon fiber weave and instant information relay with built-in cool down and efficient energy distribution and consumption. Look at- the huge 'brain'- on Yamamoto-San.”
   Yamamoto stood up to give bows in amusement. “I aruso make the best-shaped skins for the android bodies and prosuthetics.”
   “Yeah, you do.” mentioned Atlas. “But, *tsk *, can't seem to keep 'em waterproof, and your full androids tend to not feel sensations as well as your single prosthetics can.”
   Yamamoto had to sigh in defeat with that, nodding his head, making his shoulder-length hair bounce.
   Mr. Atlas then tilted his head in a leading way, fingers pointing at the man with the fierce blue eyes.
   “Valebrokk~” the man with the goatee and the lightly grayed temples called in good humor, “VERY impressed with YOUR work.”
   “Thank you?” offered the head man from Volkman, seeming just a little confused.
   “I mean...near life-like synthetic flesh...Advancements in skin-graft tech for burn victims...” Atlas seemed rather enthused, listing off Valebrokk's accomplishments, seeming to be taking his time to lead up to the man's short-comings. “Not only that, you have been able to make it possible for said synthetic flesh to be able to FEEL~...That is AMAZING!”
   By now, Mr. Valebrokk seemed rather pleased at the praise. The Volkman CEO even mentioned, “I did think it rather sad that robots were not able to feel touch, heat and cold the same as we. Also, people with prosthetic limbs have been able to keep them in better shape thanks to being able to tell the damage was happening to zhem. Many people have been able to save much more of their money on future prosthetic limbs.”
   All of the men at the table nodded in happy acknowledgment of the Dutchman's achievements.
   “Oh yeah,” Mr. Atlas continued, “excellent quality of artificial skin. And the ability to give it tactile response? Priceless, truly priceless... And it was pretty neat how you put it on some of your maid bots to try to compete with Sterling's bots....onlyyyy for those bots to ultimately not be waterproof, and the human activity response to be kinda sub-par...resulting in your bots...to be...mostly relegated to sex-work.”
   Mr. Valebrokk had to shyly run his hand over his head as his eyes looked away. Even Mr. Atlas looked away, scratching the side of his nose. “Well,” abdicated Valebrokk, “at least I make money off of the prosthetics and skin-grafting business, ja?”
   “Yeah, but you could contribute to something more. You've got the smarts for it, Herr Valebrokk.”
   Mr. Valebrokk could only give a curt nod.

   Mister Murphy, the man from Murdoc Conglomerate, raised a hand up. “I'll not be waiting for mister Atlas to reveal me. I make robots that have a weak constitution. Hell, forget being susceptible to water, they're unable to do little more than kitchen work.”
   “But they can feel,” softly protested Mr. Atlas.
   The group all looked to the chubby man, surprised by the visible humanity and the sincere tone of voice. Then they did a double-take as they realized what Atlas had said. The other four men then looked to the Murdoc man.
   “Mr. Murphy...what is Atlas telling us?” asked Sterling.
   The Irishman sat quietly, unable to look most of them in the eyes. He rubbed his hands together and rubbed his fingers before speaking again.
   “I, uh...”
   Atlas interrupted, “Some company spies of mine...went in and looked at the tech that Murdoc had developed. An autonomous emotional response in his robots...He's even developed advanced abilities for their robots to give sympathetic facial expressions... On top of that, he has managed to make a fully realized visual orbital apparatus. 4K resolution capable camera lenses, better or as good as the current smart-phone cameras, with adjustable irises. 120 degrees vision capable, like a true pair of human eyes, and they sit in an aqueous solution to help guide them inside an orbital socket, with a synthetic flesh cushion.”
   Sterling's eyes widened slowly with a deep-rooted realization, then turned to Mr. Murphy. The man of Murdoc sat quietly seeming a bit shy.
   “They can cry?~” John sterling slowly asked, making the other men except Atlas mutter or make small sounds of surprise and awe.
   Murphy looked up, staring at Atlas like he was something inhuman. “How did you figure all of this out? Who's your man on the inside, then?”
   “I don't know who he is. Just goes by 'Anonymous'. But he's a good man. He shipped me a custom job for a face-plate and the internals for the expression motors...Gave me the eyes and their inner workings, too. I reverse-engineered a thing or two....I installed them into my Sterling girl, Katie, and...installed the emotion software.”
   Murphy looked curiously at Atlas. “...What were the results?”
   “Huh, beg pardon?”
   Murphy kept prodding, “What was she like after the...'upgrade'?”
   The man with the goatee smiled in earnest. “We watched The Iron Giant together...She cried with me.”
   Mr. Murphy smiled and the other men cooed in awe.
   “Zhat is amazing!” exclaimed Valebrokk.
   “Sugoi!” praised Yamamoto.
   “A bot that can feel your touch, that is impressive,” commented Maximovich. “But a robot that can feel what you feel? That is genius.”
   Murphy smiled as he nodded, gripping his hands together. “It can work. It can work.” the old red-headed man muttered to himself enthused.
   John Sterling seemed befuddled by what he heard the Murdoc CEO utter. “Murphy...what do you mean by 'it can work'? Hasn't it worked before?”
   “Not successfully,” admitted Mr. Murphy. “My robots are capable of feeling emotions, and understanding their human counterparts' emotions. But once they felt those emotions, they would start to go too far with them.”
   The other men seemed confused. “You see,” continued Mr. Murphy, “many of the bots we have tested so far feel the emotions as intended, but many just get stuck feeling one thing most of the time. In other words, many of my emotion-capable and expressive robots have gone...well, mad.”
   The red-haired gentleman then made the universal sign for insanity at the side of his head, his finger twirling a loop in the air close to his right temple.
   Sterling seemed suspicious as he leaned forward on the table, his brow furrowed. “And...the remaining bots you've been testing?”
   “Oh, well, I believe the reason why the emotion modulators and software affected my robots so severely is because they don't have the psychology programming built-in like your bots do, Sterling, sir.”
   John Sterling waved off all of that with a shake of his head. “No-no-no, Murphy...What—about the other bots you installed the emotions and expressive capabilities into? The ones that didn't go insane?”

   The top man of Murdoc Conglomerate scratched at one side of his head with his upper lip curled with a bit of discomfort. “W-w-well, er...”
   The Russian man now leaned sideways to stare at the Irishman with a tilted brow, waiting to hear the full response. “Da?...What happened to the remaining robots with emotion built-in?”
   “They...they became sort-a simple, you see... They became much not unlike....children.”
   The other men looked at each other in disbelief. But not Mr. Atlas. He crudely simplified Murphy's explanation with, “Great, if they don't end up crazy they become retarded.”
   “Atlas, could you not...use that word?” Sterling called out, gesturing toward him with a plaintive tone.
   “It still means what it means, John. And that 'Anonymous' guy that sent me those mods for my Katie might be a lot more sketchy than I bargained for.”
   Then Sterling asked the youngest of the men there, “Your Katie...has she developed any tics or oddities since you've had the emotional display stuff put in?”
   “Oh, no, no. In fact, she already started having a weird hobby after the first three years of my having her.”
   “Oh, do tell.”
   “Yeah, it's the weirdest thing. She just really likes to make models. Only now when she messes up I can tell when she gets frustrated, or when she gets really happy with her work. Guys, I'm telling you, it is adorable. I'll have to show you a video of when-”
   Sterling cut him off with a churlish, “That's it??”
   "What?" Atlas shrugged.
   Sterling stared him down in disbelief. "You mean to tell me that with the extra emotional expressive capabilities, and the psychology programming, that all she did was pick up some hobby?"
   Another shrug from the chubby, goatee'd man. "She swears when she's upset...WELL, at least she *thinks* she swears. I think the harshest language she's ever slipped out was the word 'shit'."
   Mr. Murphy, Maximovich and Valebrokk had to chuckle. Yamamoto shook his head with a smile. "Paerhaps you should-uh teach her a beegah vocaburlaly?" suggested the Japanese master of artificial movement and body molding with a bit off cheek in his tone.
   Sterling gave a bemused grin as he rubbed one of his temples, leaning over the table.
   "Nahhh," dismissed Atlas, "I prefer it that it's kept mostly PG-13. It's more endearing that way."
 The other men all nodded, Mr. Murphy giving a tender chuckle.
 "And to think," stated Mr. Maximovich, holding up his chin with the back of his palm, "the strangest quirk she has developed is making of models. My robots usually very much like Nietzsche."
   Mr. Sterling shook his head. "I don't think anyone is surprised by that, if you don't mind my saying so, Mr. Maximovich."
   "It is too typical, no?" responded the bald, bespectacled man with a small hint of humor in his voice.
   "At least she didn't read something like Lolita," mentioned Atlas.
   That made the other men groan or scoff.
   "BAhhhhh-! Hidoyo~"
   "Cyka Blyat."
   "Muther o' Chroiste~!"
   "Sheissfockle," griped Valbrokk.
   Sterling gave a hard roll of his eyes before giving a disdainful stare at Eric Atlas. "I don't think any of us really needed to have that idea planted in our heads."
   Atlas nodded, "All the more reason to get these bots made. If this is successful, even messed up scenarios like that will be a thing of the past." He then slid the pamphlets over to Mr. Sterling, which the eldest gentleman took gingerly and began to read over.

   A bit of more debate, and some shared topics of interest and caucus over intentions later, Mr. Atlas now opened the big doors with a big smile on his face, facing the large group of black-suited men. "Okay, fellas. They're ready to play ball. Get out the contracts and make sure John Sterling's people exchange numbers and E-mails with everybody else's."
   "Thank you for your contributions, Mr. Atlas." stated a man who had come up from behind the group of men in military dress uniform, joined by a nervous and then younger Mrs. Bradbury. "Your country thanks you for taking on this task for our society, and for the potential of future prosperity."
   Eric Atlas just took the uniformed man's offered hand and gave it a shake. "Meh, all I did was help get your foot in the door. It's all R&D stuff from here. Just don't go asking for a whole army of robo-Valkyries. There won't be enough materials in the world for the amount of resources you'd need."
   "Oh really?"
   "Yeah, unless you WANT wounded service men to go without wheelchairs and prosthetics for the next 20 years."

   And so, it came to pass: it was revealed by the men in black suits and the military man that the commission was to be agreed upon, and that Eric Atlas had also been commissioned to work as the middle man between the machine-makers and the facets of big-brother Red White and Blue.
   Hand-flesh was pressed to hand-flesh, ink was put to paper, words were parted to ears; especially words from one silver-headed man who made it clear he would only perform this coalition task set before him under protest.

   In the morning, Sterling and four other men would arrive at the main headquarters addressing his most gifted and essential employees and heads of staff.
   "Alright, people, listen up...the wheels of progress are demanding to be turned once again."

[End of chapter 1. Comments welcomed.]