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Blimey, I'm a Robot!

Blimey, I'm a Robot!

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Published by Martin Lindberg
The fourth and final Choose Our Own Adventure book, produced by various authors on the Something Awful forums. All authors are credited at their respective section.
The fourth and final Choose Our Own Adventure book, produced by various authors on the Something Awful forums. All authors are credited at their respective section.

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Published by: Martin Lindberg on Jun 02, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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02/12/2013

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Page 1 (Erenthal)
It had all begun, as so many things often do, with a letter. A very nice letter to be sure, highgrade paper in an expensive envelope, the smell of ink and refinement oozing of the off-whitesurface. It simply read, in fine thin handwriting:
You are hereby cordially invited this Fridayto witness a scientific marvel of the highest degree. Signed, Dr. Donovan Calvin, PhD.
 Farther down the paper, added in a more hasty hand, it said:
 PS: Refreshments will be served.
 At first you were a little surprised. It had been years since you last heard from Dr. Calvin,following a brief and vigorous period of contact after you¶d graduated. He¶d made no secretthat he had considered you his favorite student, and you had held him in similar regard as amentor. But as time went by and you settled into your new post-graduation life, adjusting tothe grind and drudgery of corporate IT, the letters and calls got all together more infrequent,to the point where they finally ceased entirely. Thus, when the invitation arrived, you jumpedat the opportunity to rekindle your friendship, even though the whole thing sounded rather mysterious and vague.But, and this was one of the rules by which you lived your life, never say no to an eventwhere they serve refreshments. And now, here you were, about two hours out of Seattle,forcing your piece of shit wreck of a car up a winding snowy road that looked like it would bemore at home in rural Russia than the eastern seaboard of the United States, while both thesun and the temperature outside the window was dropping to unfathomable lows. Yousuppress a sudden shiver, then turn down the volume on the car stereo. Maybe the Twin Peakssoundtrack wasn¶t the best choice after all.A few sidetracks later, confused from unhelpful conversation with an inebriated local, and tencigarettes poorer, you find yourself standing outside the (rather large and ramshackle) houseof your old mentor. You ring the bell, but receiving no reply you try the handle. Finding thedoor unlocked, you cautiously step inside. Looking around, you notice that place is a mess.Stacks of magazines litter the floor of the room, mingling with empty take-out boxes and dirtyglass jars. You swear you saw a rat scurry past.³Mr. Powell!´ a voice exclaims, and you turn around to see an older man walking down astaircase towards you, arms extended. With his (at least at one point in time) white coat andunruly head of graying hair, he was almost a living breathing parody of the mad scientist.³Dr. Calvin, good to see you!´ you respond, nervously embracing him. A faint smell of moth balls greets your nose. ³Still sporting the Emmet Brown-look?´ you add, smiling. He looks atyou, uncomprehending. Then the moment passes, and his eyes begin to sparkle. He grabs you by the arm, leading you through the room.³I thought you were the people from the Nobel committee at first, you know? They¶resupposed to be here any minute now. Finally, I will get the recognition I deserve!´³Recognition for what?´ you ask, but his grip just tightens.³Oh, you¶ll see, soon enough. Through here, if you will.´
TURN TO PAGE 2
 
Page 2 (Erenthal)
You emerge into what can only be described as an engineer¶s wet dream. Or nightmare,depending on your disposition you suppose. Banks of computers, workstations and variousother technical accouterments take up nearly every free surface of the room, the hum of hundreds of fans creating a hypnotic carpet of background noise. Thick bundles of cablessnake to and fro, hanging like bulbous vines from the ceiling. Devices which you¶ve never seen their like lurk in the corners, prongs and pokers menacing the rest of the gear.³Holy crap,´ you say, breath caught in your throat.³My assistant, Wotan,´ Calvin says, pointing out a rail-thin youth with dark wispy hair and a pale unhealthy complexion sitting in a swivel chair, deeply engrossed in an issue of Penthouse. A pair of massive headphones enclose his ears, and you think you can hear somesort of European disco-pop, or something in that style, softly pounding from beneath them.³Bulgarian. Doesn¶t speak much, but efficient and easily trained. Not like that Rumanian Ihad before,´ Calvin muses. ³But that¶s not what I wanted to show you. No, my boy, this issomething which I guarantee you have never seen before. Behold the future!´ he continues,raising his arms like a preacher. ³Behold, Gerald!´The door at the far end of the room opens, and a shape enters. At this point, if your jaw hadn¶t been firmly attached to your skull by tendons or whatever that stuff is that holds it together, itwould have come crashing to the floor.³You« made« a robot?´ you say, and as soon as the words exit your mouth you feel howinadequate they are. The thing, or Gerald, is shaped roughly like a man, though no one couldmake that mistake once they got a clear look. Made of out seemingly solid metal, and with powerful limbs ending in vicious-looking manipulator claws, it is absolutely terrifying to behold. The letters and numbers µG001\1¶ are printed on his chest in thick yellow paint.³Blimey, guv, µo¶s this chap then?´ it says in a tinny but strangely natural sounding voice.Which, you have to say, is probably the very last thing you expected it to do.³You« made« a
british
robot?´ you add, feeling a wave of dizziness descending on you likea squadron of Lutwaffe fighters on London.³What? Oh, that,´ Dr. Calvin responds, scratching his arm. ³You see, a blank positronic brainmatrix has to be imprinted with a base line linguistic and personality construct for it tofunction.´³That doesn¶t explain anything at all,´ you deadpan.³Well, since I had to hurry up getting him ready for the presentation today, I had to take whatwas available. I have this quite fantastic machine, you see, that can convert nearly anysuitable electric pattern to a positronic matrix, and«´ He retrieves something from the floor,holding it up to you.³A DVD-box set of 
Coronation Street 
? Really?´
 
The doorbell rings, interrupting your train of thought. ³Oh, that must be the Nobel people.Punctual, those Swedes,´ Calvin says, eyes aflame with glee. ³Gerald, go back into theworkshop and wait there. Don¶t want to spoil the surprise, do we now?´ he continues, andGerald obediently complies, noisily waggling off. ³Now, Wotan, open the door for our guests.´ The youth shambles off, muttering under his breath.³Hey, Dr. Calvin,´ you remark, ³I need to use the bathroom. It was a long drive.´³Go ahead, it¶s in the back through the workshop. Just follow Gerald.´You follow the robot into the workshop. Even more of the strange machinery is lined up here,all of it humming and sparking with weird energy. You¶re just about to ask Gerald for directions, when the sound of an automatic weapon booms through the house. Sprinting to thedoor, you crouch down and peer through the slit.First, you see Wotan stumbling back inside, the front of his shirt drenched in blood. After him, with military precision, comes several persons wielding Kalashnikovs and wearing ski-masks. You have a hunch that these are not the Nobel people. One of them grabs a stunnedDr. Calvin.³Find
 z 
e
robot!´ he shouts, and his men begin roughly ransacking the room.³Shit shit shit,´ you whisper to yourself, looking around in desperation for a hiding place.Gerald has obviously shut down, standing immobile underneath a cradle of some kind. Nextto him is a large metal cylinder, perhaps two meters tall, with a hatch on the front. Withcertainty borne from desperation, you tear it open and climb inside. It snaps shut behind youwith some force, and you¶re plunged into darkness. Just as you start to appreciate what a badidea it was, something digs into the base of your skull, and the world stops.
TURN TO PAGE 3
 
Page 3 (Erenthal)
After an indeterminate amount of time, you finally wake up. Strangely numb, you flex your arms as the world comes into clear focus once more. As you briefly consider the fact thatyou¶re somehow once again outside the cylinder, a voice stirs you from your ponderings.³What¶s all this then, guv? I appear to be µuman!´You turn around and see yourself staring back at you. ³Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!´ you say, aseloquently as you can.³Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!´ the other you responds.Looking down, you see your chest, now a hammered piece of steel. You raise a hand, flexingseveral little manipulators. Suddenly, the little battery-meter up in the left corner of your vision makes sense. ³Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!´ you say again, but this time with more emphasis.The door bursts open, and a man with ski-mask enters, his AK flitting from you to you.

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