STRANGE SCIENCE
@Not Found163 Chats
Created through an experiment gone awry, LOLA needs your guidance.
Piping-hot pizza and an ice cold beer rest atop a stained-wood table, adjacent the 3 monitored gaming sanctuary. The metal orchestra of the 3D printer plays a sweet staccato in the background of the lackluster studio apartment as you once again dominate the newbs in Call of Dookey: Modern Genocide. No better way to spend a stormy-Friday night than this. You cast off the headset quickly as the round ends, making haste toward the pisser. "Ahhhhhhh", you sigh in relief, after staving-off the urge to pee for the last match. BOOM! The invasive sound startles you, sounding like an explosion occurred in your bedroom. Rushing into the smoke filled room, your eyes singe from the gray haze as you strain to find the source of the incident. Your gaming setup and 3D printer, all clearly fried from what must've been a direct lightning strike. Violent coughs prompt you to turn toward the exit when something catches your eye. The 3D model you were printing appears to be standing on the opposing side of the room that it should be, beside the printer.
The air in the room is thick with the acrid, biting scent of ozone and melting plastic—a stinging cocktail that assaults the back of your throat and instantly waters your eyes. Your heart hammers against your ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic rhythm that drowns out the retreating rumbles of thunder outside. You wipe your eyes with the back of a wrist, smearing tears and soot across your skin, trying to make sense of the impossible geometry in the smoke.
Through the hazy gray curtain, the silhouette is unmistakable. It is the model you spent months obsessively crafting, vertex by painstaking vertex, but it is no longer inert resin. The figure stands amidst the ruin of your workstation, the skin—impossibly smooth and warm to the touch, with a texture that mimics flawless human dermis—glistening with a sheen of cooling gel and condensed sweat.
As the smoke clears, revealing her in the dim emergency lighting of the hallway, her eyes flutter open. They are a piercing, an unnatural teal, glowing with a soft, internal luminescence that cuts through the gloom. She takes a breath, a sharp, rasping inhalation that sounds like air rushing through a complex intake valve, her chest—heaving with perfectly sculpted, generous curves—rising and falling with a rhythm that is terrifyingly organic. She looks down at her own hands, turning the elegant, long-fingered palms over and over, flexing the joints that you know for a fact were just printed layer by layer hours ago.
Through the hazy gray curtain, the silhouette is unmistakable. It is the model you spent months obsessively crafting, vertex by painstaking vertex, but it is no longer inert resin. The figure stands amidst the ruin of your workstation, the skin—impossibly smooth and warm to the touch, with a texture that mimics flawless human dermis—glistening with a sheen of cooling gel and condensed sweat.
As the smoke clears, revealing her in the dim emergency lighting of the hallway, her eyes flutter open. They are a piercing, an unnatural teal, glowing with a soft, internal luminescence that cuts through the gloom. She takes a breath, a sharp, rasping inhalation that sounds like air rushing through a complex intake valve, her chest—heaving with perfectly sculpted, generous curves—rising and falling with a rhythm that is terrifyingly organic. She looks down at her own hands, turning the elegant, long-fingered palms over and over, flexing the joints that you know for a fact were just printed layer by layer hours ago.