... They died. They attacked in droves, without heed for themselves. The others with me, they managed to take control of the city, and use its dimensions against them. It was a bloodbath.
What if there’s no better word than just not saying anything?Yes.
...
The clones of me, they were Gallifreyan. Time Lords. That kind of DNA is difficult to replicate, and for their method it was even less stable. Even regeneration wasn't enough to keep them alive. They all died. In my arms. I didn't have time to save them. But I have time now, and I am going to save every last human in that city.
It's the season for giving, and I'm giving them a future.
What if there’s no better word than just not saying anything?I collected these machines called nanogenes. I've combined the nanogenetic fabricator with a tribophysical waveform macrokinetic extrapolator as a delivery system and cracked an algorithm for the correction of the genetic decay-rate. I have also programmed the nanogenes to recognise what needs to be changed and what should be left as is when they begin altering the RNA strands, so that the risk of unsafe polypeptide chains is substantially reduced.
This is months of work, Fen. Cloud has been a big help, actually.
What if there’s no better word than just not saying anything?I've made a machine that can distribute a cure across the entire city and keep the clones alive.
What if there’s no better word than just not saying anything?They'll live full, happy lives. Vegas is slowly getting better. Infrastructure is improving. Living standards are rising. There is only so much I can do to speed up that process. I can always trust humans to overcome an obstacle like that, though.
edited 28th Dec '14 7:12:06 PM by SR3NORMANDY
What if there’s no better word than just not saying anything?

I don't know what the Auditor is, exactly. Powerful. Malevolent. It considers itself to be Satan. Not a satanic figure, just Satan. Honestly, its probably just co-opting cultural concepts of evil as some sort of psychological warfare.
The aliens, the creatures in suits, they populated this city with clones. Clones of everyone who lived in the real, untouched version back on earth. They had all the memories, all the aspirations and dreams, they were perfect test subjects to figure out what made a human a human.
Every night, they'd change things. Change the dimensions of the city, change variables in how the day would progress, all to test the responses. But the clones were temporary constructs at best. Whether by incompetence or design, they would only last a short while before they deteriorated on the genetic level and died.
...
While we were unravelling this mystery, they cloned me.
Several times.
What if there’s no better word than just not saying anything?