You and Dr. Finch both hide behind Michelle as the low thumping continues. Michelle starts to say something, but Finch interrupts, his voice low.
"Sh, shh, shhhh. Shhh. Listen."
You all fall silent. The only sound in the room is the tap tap tapping on the ceiling. Michelle throws a glance back over one broad shoulder, glaring at Finch. "Uh, what are we listenin' for?"
Dr. Finch adjusts his glasses. "The pause. The pause between each tap. It's consistent. Whatever these things are... they're communicating, possibly planning an ambush. You see? Whoever's programming the bio printer, they're getting better at handling it. They're forging less instinctual brains... and in such small bodies. I think I was wrong. They're not slowly working their way toward humans. They're making--"
It happens all at once. One large, red hand bursts from the ceiling, the other leaps out from behind the lockers. Michelle fires, the blast incinerating both hands before one of them even hits the floor.
There's a long pause, the sound and flash of the gun briefly stunning everyone behind Michelle. Dr. Finch, as he likes to do, eventually continues speaking.
"--weapons. They're... they're making weapons. Trying to see how much effective animal brain they can cram into a killing machine. Weapons that can shred a door, minds potent enough to form an ambush... human isn't the goal. They're trying to slap together an ideal assassin."
There's a longer pause as you and Michelle let his speculation sink in. Michelle turns, facing him directly. You were all already so close together that the gesture comes off a little imposing, with Michelle staring past you, straight down at Dr. Finch.
"Why? What's the point? We can already MAKE killin' machines. You're LOOKIN' at one. I was grown in a vat to smash and shoot, why bother pumpin' out these gross monsters?"
Dr. Finch is visibly unnerved, his hands idly playing with each other. "Y-y-yes, genetic engineering is experiencing a golden age, this is t-true. But... but but but, t-that's only useful if you have money. Not everyone can afford to grow their army in a laboratory, no? But picture a hacker--likely some disenfranchised anarchist from the lower tiers. With no money, no resources... nothing but an internet connection and his own talents... he could, ideally, weaponize every hospital and laboratory and skin shop in the city. If he mastered this bizarre art he's practicing, he could disassemble modern society as we know it overnight from the comfort of his basement.
And while I do believe his choice of this hospital was intentional--he's after someone here--I also believe it's exactly that: practice. This hospital has a cheap, worn out, out dated bio printer. If he can learn to perfectly manipulate that into doing his bidding, then imagine what he could do with something top-of-the-line."
Something sinks in. You read Dr. Finch's notes; manipulating the bio printer to such a fine degree would require medical expertise, as well, not just hacking ability. You bring this up, and Dr. Finch flinches. It doesn't seem like he'd put two and two together on that front.
"True... true true true. The agenda and the desire say lower class independent hacker, but the knowledge required to piece together a functioning, coherent creature actually fulfilling its designed purpose... that would take extensive medical knowledge. I'd bet money there's two or more of them, then. Someone with the hacking know-how and a chip on their shoulder, and someone feeding them the data they'd need to plug into the bio printer."
"Sh, shh, shhhh. Shhh. Listen."
You all fall silent. The only sound in the room is the tap tap tapping on the ceiling. Michelle throws a glance back over one broad shoulder, glaring at Finch. "Uh, what are we listenin' for?"
Dr. Finch adjusts his glasses. "The pause. The pause between each tap. It's consistent. Whatever these things are... they're communicating, possibly planning an ambush. You see? Whoever's programming the bio printer, they're getting better at handling it. They're forging less instinctual brains... and in such small bodies. I think I was wrong. They're not slowly working their way toward humans. They're making--"
It happens all at once. One large, red hand bursts from the ceiling, the other leaps out from behind the lockers. Michelle fires, the blast incinerating both hands before one of them even hits the floor.
There's a long pause, the sound and flash of the gun briefly stunning everyone behind Michelle. Dr. Finch, as he likes to do, eventually continues speaking.
"--weapons. They're... they're making weapons. Trying to see how much effective animal brain they can cram into a killing machine. Weapons that can shred a door, minds potent enough to form an ambush... human isn't the goal. They're trying to slap together an ideal assassin."
There's a longer pause as you and Michelle let his speculation sink in. Michelle turns, facing him directly. You were all already so close together that the gesture comes off a little imposing, with Michelle staring past you, straight down at Dr. Finch.
"Why? What's the point? We can already MAKE killin' machines. You're LOOKIN' at one. I was grown in a vat to smash and shoot, why bother pumpin' out these gross monsters?"
Dr. Finch is visibly unnerved, his hands idly playing with each other. "Y-y-yes, genetic engineering is experiencing a golden age, this is t-true. But... but but but, t-that's only useful if you have money. Not everyone can afford to grow their army in a laboratory, no? But picture a hacker--likely some disenfranchised anarchist from the lower tiers. With no money, no resources... nothing but an internet connection and his own talents... he could, ideally, weaponize every hospital and laboratory and skin shop in the city. If he mastered this bizarre art he's practicing, he could disassemble modern society as we know it overnight from the comfort of his basement.
And while I do believe his choice of this hospital was intentional--he's after someone here--I also believe it's exactly that: practice. This hospital has a cheap, worn out, out dated bio printer. If he can learn to perfectly manipulate that into doing his bidding, then imagine what he could do with something top-of-the-line."
Something sinks in. You read Dr. Finch's notes; manipulating the bio printer to such a fine degree would require medical expertise, as well, not just hacking ability. You bring this up, and Dr. Finch flinches. It doesn't seem like he'd put two and two together on that front.
"True... true true true. The agenda and the desire say lower class independent hacker, but the knowledge required to piece together a functioning, coherent creature actually fulfilling its designed purpose... that would take extensive medical knowledge. I'd bet money there's two or more of them, then. Someone with the hacking know-how and a chip on their shoulder, and someone feeding them the data they'd need to plug into the bio printer."