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Art by https://www.furaffinity.net/user/muder/
...
It was a night's work, but the thugs who tried to apprehend him were no more. With every last one of them dispatched and his safety once again assured, Creighton Bijou was ready to return to his hotel.
Of course, it would require some persuasions to keep the hotel management from ratting him out to the police. But his mind was sharp; he'd figure something out. For now, he needed to get back to his room.
...
The room was still littered with corpses and debris; not to mention all the guns scattered about the place. Too bad really; his room was one of the more expensive ones. His business with selling those computers was allowing him to live quite frivolously.
Within less than a second, Creighton's enhanced brain had studied and learned how to dispose of the bodies, wipe away the odors left behind, and how to properly dispose of the weaponry scattered about his room. An extra bit of time leading to one full second had him order several pieces of equipment online, including several ingredients to make an efficient acid and an acid-proof bin that would not melt through the floor. Among these things were other items he'd require, but in any case, it wouldn't be at least a day for it to arrive, even with fast shipping. Which meant that now, he'd have to wait.
Creighton looked to his armchair set up right next to the window; the morning sun made it inviting and seemed pleasant. As he trekked across the wooden floors, however, his mind suddenly found himself asking something:
Were these people really bad?
...
He paused...and then he felt another question wiggle and worm its way out.
Were these people alright underneath those masks?
His body suddenly started to feel heavy.
Did they have families?
He leaned forward, and the momentum had him clutching the windowsill.
Did they have wives? Children? Parents?
His weight had him fall to his knees.
Will they be sad when they hear that they're dead? When they don't come home? Will they think that their loved ones abandoned them?
He put his back to the wall and slumped down in between the armchair, and the human's colt python revolver, still holding one bullet. The small wooden case next to it had the other five bullets that could be loaded into the gun.
Should I...maybe...?
Creighton held his hand to his face, sweeping his hair back and covering his eye. And so, he contemplated. Contemplated whether or not what he was suggesting to himself was plausible.
...
No. It isn't. And I shouldn't.
Creighton looked up to the door they barged into.
Those guys weren't good. They were thugs pretending to be FBI.
Creighton's body was beginning to feel lighter.
If they were good people, they wouldn't be willing to shoot someone just because of money and some stupid computers. They probably would've tried to torture me first.
He lowered his hand from his face.
They probably would've enjoyed themselves.
...
Creighton was now sitting in his armchair, and he had the colt python fully reloaded and resting in his right hand, even if he was a lefty. His lack of requirements of food or sleep made it hard to know what time it was. Not that it really mattered. He would have his equipment and supplies soon enough; hopefully, before the police came searching for evidence of the gunfight.
Still wasn't sure why someone hadn't gone through with phoning the police; more likely than not, they were afraid of getting shot.
He also wasn't sure why he'd have such an attack on his consciousness. But still, though, having that may not be such a bad thing. After all, just because his body was now all-machine, didn't mean he had to act like a machine. He did still have his soul, after all.
But it probably wouldn't be necessary to have it in use for people like them.
...
It was a night's work, but the thugs who tried to apprehend him were no more. With every last one of them dispatched and his safety once again assured, Creighton Bijou was ready to return to his hotel.
Of course, it would require some persuasions to keep the hotel management from ratting him out to the police. But his mind was sharp; he'd figure something out. For now, he needed to get back to his room.
...
The room was still littered with corpses and debris; not to mention all the guns scattered about the place. Too bad really; his room was one of the more expensive ones. His business with selling those computers was allowing him to live quite frivolously.
Within less than a second, Creighton's enhanced brain had studied and learned how to dispose of the bodies, wipe away the odors left behind, and how to properly dispose of the weaponry scattered about his room. An extra bit of time leading to one full second had him order several pieces of equipment online, including several ingredients to make an efficient acid and an acid-proof bin that would not melt through the floor. Among these things were other items he'd require, but in any case, it wouldn't be at least a day for it to arrive, even with fast shipping. Which meant that now, he'd have to wait.
Creighton looked to his armchair set up right next to the window; the morning sun made it inviting and seemed pleasant. As he trekked across the wooden floors, however, his mind suddenly found himself asking something:
Were these people really bad?
...
He paused...and then he felt another question wiggle and worm its way out.
Were these people alright underneath those masks?
His body suddenly started to feel heavy.
Did they have families?
He leaned forward, and the momentum had him clutching the windowsill.
Did they have wives? Children? Parents?
His weight had him fall to his knees.
Will they be sad when they hear that they're dead? When they don't come home? Will they think that their loved ones abandoned them?
He put his back to the wall and slumped down in between the armchair, and the human's colt python revolver, still holding one bullet. The small wooden case next to it had the other five bullets that could be loaded into the gun.
Should I...maybe...?
Creighton held his hand to his face, sweeping his hair back and covering his eye. And so, he contemplated. Contemplated whether or not what he was suggesting to himself was plausible.
...
No. It isn't. And I shouldn't.
Creighton looked up to the door they barged into.
Those guys weren't good. They were thugs pretending to be FBI.
Creighton's body was beginning to feel lighter.
If they were good people, they wouldn't be willing to shoot someone just because of money and some stupid computers. They probably would've tried to torture me first.
He lowered his hand from his face.
They probably would've enjoyed themselves.
...
Creighton was now sitting in his armchair, and he had the colt python fully reloaded and resting in his right hand, even if he was a lefty. His lack of requirements of food or sleep made it hard to know what time it was. Not that it really mattered. He would have his equipment and supplies soon enough; hopefully, before the police came searching for evidence of the gunfight.
Still wasn't sure why someone hadn't gone through with phoning the police; more likely than not, they were afraid of getting shot.
He also wasn't sure why he'd have such an attack on his consciousness. But still, though, having that may not be such a bad thing. After all, just because his body was now all-machine, didn't mean he had to act like a machine. He did still have his soul, after all.
But it probably wouldn't be necessary to have it in use for people like them.
Category Artwork (Digital) / All
Species Housecat
Size 961 x 1280px
File Size 225 kB
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