Believe it or not, I actually started writing this weeks ago, long before the Scars trailer dropped everyone’s favorite brand new
laughingstocksurprise villain from nowhere into our laps. This fic, I assure you, has nothing at all to do with either Uprising or vaccuum cleaners, and any relevant references to similarly-named characters are entirely coincidental.
For Spicer, who knows why.
And I Feel Fine
Edward Dillinger got the last laugh in the end, though by that time, nobody was laughing.
“You do realize,” Edward Dillinger says, hands folded on the table in front of him, “that my reputation in this industry has…blemishes.”
Blemishes, of course, is stating it politely. In the toilet would probably be a more accurate description. Six months in a federal prison in Sheridan, Oregon for white-collar crime. Bankrupted and publicly humiliated in civil court. His attempt to start his own company specializing in large-scale systems integration torpedoed before it could so much as get off the ground, thanks to Kevin Flynn and his friends’ spectacularly successful campaign to make sure that Edward Dillinger will never be taken seriously again.
“We’re well aware, Mr. Dillinger,” says one of the three men sitting across from him, a robust-looking but nondescript fortysomething in an impeccable black suit that screams government contractor. ”What we want you to realize is that we don’t care.”
Dillinger raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking upward along with it. ”Alright. You’ve got my attention.”
The one who speaks up this time is young and black, barely out of his twenties, from the look of it, ill-at-ease in his three-piece suit. ”Mr. Dillinger, five years ago you were the lead programmer in charge of a massive integrated supercomputer system. A supercomputer system with learning capability.” His eyes gleam as he speaks, wide and practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
Dillinger twitches, though to his credit, he manages to keep his poker face up admirably. ”Yes. It failed. Crashed under its own weight. As I’m sure you must know.” He reaches for his scotch, taking a sip.
“But it was years ahead of its time,” the young man counters, admiration clear in his voice. ”Nobody else had anything close to your Master Control Program at the time, not even—” Fortysomething government suit gives him an understated glare, and he cuts himself off, abashed.
“Our point, Mr. Dillinger, is that you have considerable experience in a particular specialization of your field, experience we could use,” says the third man, sandy-blonde and tanned, all businessman. ”What we’re working on is going to change the world, and we want you and your mind to be a part of it. Miles here has been at our heels for the better part of a year now, convincing us to chase you down.” He flashes a smile at the young black man, then turns back to Dillinger. ”So what do you say? You in?”
Dillinger finally allows himself to smile. ”I’d say I’d be a fool not to be, wouldn’t I.” He raises his glass in a casual toast.
Miles, the young black man, beams back at him. ”You don’t know how happy I am to get a chance to work with you. Welcome to Cyberdyne, Mr. Dillinger.”
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