WRIGHT's Story

WRIGHT's rhythmic footfalls rang through the mansion's lonely corridors.  It was the time of afternoon that he found most appealing; most of the servants had paused in their duties for dinner, leaving the building open for him to wander in peace.  When he was first constructed, people had moved out of his way in the halls and addressed him with care.  Six years on, he was treated more like part of the furnishing than an important asset to the master of the house, and ignored by most.  Which was a shame, because now WRIGHT might have been willing to talk to them.

Further down the hall, a screen of sunlight from the open balcony doors reflected off a gleaming white wall and into his face.  Ceramic eyelids slid shut, giving his ocular sensors time to adjust.  On these bright days, Seraph Chase shone painfully at every window.  Had WRIGHT been built seventy years ago, he would have designed the place more intelligently.  He opened his eyes again and was pleased to find the world rendered in a darker shade, one that wouldn't impact his vision quite so torturously.  On a whim (WRIGHT was still getting used to those), he ventured out onto the balcony and looked down upon Kingwolf.

From the forty-sixth floor, the view was quite spectacular.  Seraph Chase was prime real estate befitting of the Collective Muster's kingpin.  It stood at the end of a long valley, with a wide cobbled road leading up to it.  The road was mostly for the servants; goods were usually transported to and from the building through the underground railroad.  Workers, mostly Imperfect, had toiled long and hard to build the master's home, and their efforts clearly showed.  Encompassing an entire mountain, the white marble mansion stood as a testament to the wealth and audacity of the Luminaries.  WRIGHT didn't think of it in those terms, of course.  It was one thing to analyse his master's home, and quite another to admonish him for it.

A single peal of the grand bell signalled the end of the servants' mealtime.  Soon their shifts would rotate, many of them leaving via the main road on the long trek back to Titan's County or the Province of Imitations.  Many more would be arriving for the night shift, or simply staying in the residential halls.  

WRIGHT had his own place.

Turning on his heel, he marched back inside and through an archway that led down a narrower, even more brightly lit corridor.  At its end was a box-shaped compartment, big enough to perhaps fit a troll.  He stepped inside, punched a number into the nearby console, turned around and pulled a lever.  A grate slid over the compartment's entrance - a little slowly, WRIGHT noticed.  Perhaps nought-point-three seconds slower than necessary.  A better one could be designed.  Eventually, WRIGHT imagined, he probably would.  Then the design would be implemented all across the world, earning the Collective Muster ever more money, and never once crediting him.  He bore them no ill will for it.

With a hiss, the elevator plummeted down into the darkness.

As he approached the main boardroom, WRIGHT mentally counted down the seconds to ten o'clock. He reached the door and quietly opened it just as the hour changed, and crossed over to his usual seat. Each of WRIGHT's footsteps echoed through the cavernous room, built in a dome shape with the rectangular oak table in the centre. The seat at the end, a giant and ornately carved throne, was reserved strictly for the master whenever he chose to appear. As expected, the boardroom was empty save for Taskmaster Hecate, with a briefcase full of documents lying open on the table before him. He didn't bother to look up as WRIGHT sat down.

"Good morning, sir," WRIGHT said. A disinterested nod came from the pale man, who reached into the briefcase to pull out a sheaf of papers. He pushed them across the table, and WRIGHT recognised the layout as his own work. 

"Do you remember the designs you made for our optimised woodcutter's axe?" Hecate asked the android in his typical soft-spoken drone.

"Yes, sir." That had been months ago; electricity and the tools that made use of them were complicated and expensive, so the Collective Muster had decided to equip their workers with a time-tested model until they could fund something better. WRIGHT tilted his head at the papers on the desk. "Was there a problem with them?"

"No, not at all," came the reply, a hint of a smirk tugging at the edge of Hecate's mouth. "They were adequate for our purposes, but now priorities have changed. How effective do you reckon your old design is for cutting bone?" He leaned back in his chair, produced a plain black flask from his pocket and took a swig.

"Not optimally, I would imagine." WRIGHT studied the Taskmaster as he drank for a moment. It was rude to ask a person what their species was, but WRIGHT had his suspicions about the exact nature of Hecate's drinking habit. "I do not believe you mentioned this when you asked for the schematics," he said.

Hecate put the flask away with an irritated grunt. "Recently, there's been a few terrorist attacks against our logging crews in the Edge. We don't want to send them under armed escort just yet, so they need to be able to defend themselves." He gestured to the design documents. "Modify them so that they can be used in combat, without entirely sacrificing their effectiveness as tools. Unless, of course, you think they could be used to kill as they are."

"I am not sure, sir," WRIGHT mused. "If you would prefer, I could arrange for some tests to this effect." 

He couldn't quite understand the look that Hecate gave him. "I would prefer to have a revised schematic which the Luminaries can rely on," he replied stiffly, "sitting on this table in 24 hours' time. Whether or not any "tests" are necessary is up to your initiative. Understand?"

"Absolutely, sir." WRIGHT picked the old designs up off the table, turned and headed for the door once again. Inside, he was grateful that he hadn't been told to conduct any harmful experiments, and decided to avoid such a thing if at all possible. Hecate knew that this was what he wanted, didn't he?

Papers clutched in his hand, WRIGHT prepared to go to work.