A place for those who "Trust the Fungus"

jka12002 wrote:*pulls a lever activating a trap door under Prime Evil's feet. Dropping him into a pile of bat poop*

jka12002 wrote:I do like your idea though, you gotta admit the first Inspector Gadget movie was kinda good.

jka12002 wrote:If you want conspiracy, remember how everyone thought the chief was Dr.Claw becasue of the end credits where he happend to say "Ill get you next time Gadget" in sync with Dr.Claw's voice.

That was until we got to see Dr.Claw's face in the last animated movie

CHAPTER ONE: A CLAW IS BORN

Late one night, an imposing black helicopter landed on a seemingly uninhabited Polynesian island.

“So tell me...what makes you think there’s anything here?” the powerful-looking, dark-skinned pilot demanded. Sikes was the well-paid personal bodyguard of Sanford Scolex, whose corporation was America’s leading producer of computer chips, electronics, and robotics. But this and other details didn’t concern him. His father was in the earliest stages of stomach cancer, and Sikes knew that Scolex’s paychecks were very good. Besides that, college was expensive, too. He wished he’d gone sooner, but the family hardware store came first.

“It’s on the radar, isn’t it?” the other voice shot back. He can be so rude, Sikes thought, but instead said, “You know how radar can pick up things you can’t see. What are we looking for, anyway?” And then it hit Scolex. “Mr. Sikes, use the rotors to kick up some sand. I think I know why we can’t see it.”

The helicopter started up again and hurled sand in front of it. The sand hit what should have been empty air, but instead took on the shape of a square, manmade structure. “Holographic camouflage! I should have known.”

“Huh.” Sikes was amazed that the technology existed on such a grand scale. He may not have concerned himself with Scolex Industries’ day-to-day operations, but he had a pretty good idea of the company’s products. “Y’know, I remember you and that Tenma guy came up with some kind of EMP thing a month ago. Are we shielded against it?”

“What, for the charges?” Scolex replied. “Ah, nothing to worry about, Mr. Sikes. Did you know that this very helicopter survived the Severnaya incident? Oh, that’s right, you don’t work for MAD.”

“MAD? What the hell are you involved in? Tell me, or I’m taking us out of here.”

“There’s no need for that, Mr. Sikes. Very few people know about MAD. It’s sort of an open secret, but one that’ll blow open any minute now. Do you know why? Because my boss, the extraordinary Dr. Claw, is dying. He sent me to kill him. I’m the last one to try.”

“You’re telling me that others were sent to do that? And died? What makes you so sure you’re going to survive?”

Scolex just grinned devilishly, showing the faintest hint of teeth. He opened the sliding side door and jumped out.

A tall, handsome (handsome insofar as his profile looked exactly like that of a cockatoo) man in his late thirties, Sanford Scolex was also fearsomely intelligent and had the cutthroat personality traits necessary to succeed in business…and in war. His company produced consumer electronics, yes, but much of his R&D went into guidance systems for planes, missiles, and attack drones. He half-expected to see some of his own stuff being used in this castle…mini-tanks equipped with armor-piercing rounds; laser tripwires attached to poison-gas canisters; automated grenade-launchers, and other fun stuff guaranteed to break the ice at your next fundraising event or your money back.

He didn’t exactly come from wealth—he used his unique knack for electronics and business throughout his time at Harvard, where he met the love of his life, Ms. Brenda Bradford. Or so he thought. It didn’t quite pan out in exactly the way he wanted: she rejected him for some reason.

Her rejection affected him: His company, Scolex Industries (then a small, garage-based startup), was in danger of going under and leaving Sanford and his close friend Dr. Tenma nearly bankrupt. And then, like Clarence coming to George Bailey’s aid, someone from MAD came to Sanford’s door and offered him untold wealth in exchange for the technology he developed. He knew full well that his discoveries could be used for weapons of war…and signed on with aplomb.

Over time, he came to learn much about MAD and the people in it. He especially admired the confectionery tycoon Arthur Slugworth, whose company dealt in sweets and delights legal and illegal (chiefly, guns and drugs). Yes, he owed no small debt to MAD and its mysterious leader, the feared Dr. Claw. In fact, Sanford didn’t remember ever seeing the man’s face, only hearing his electronically-distorted voice through telephones and computer speakers. The man reportedly never left his secluded castle deep in the Polynesian wilderness, like some kind of Dr. Moreau. So concerned for privacy was Dr. Claw that he referred to his agents only by codenames: Slugworth was “Acetylene Torch”; Scolex himself was “Duke Red.”

Enough reminiscing, Sanford decided. Time to focus on the mission at hand. He planted the EMP charge at the base of the building, stepped back, and detonated. In a brilliant flash, the hologram generator lost power, and the castle appeared as if out of thin air. It was an impressive structure, somewhere between the Gothic and the Fascist/Brutalist periods. The whole thing gave off a foreboding air, with its gargoyles and spires coexisting (somewhat uneasily, Sanford thought) with very machinelike ornamentation. Indeed, it looked just like a gigantic machine or factory of some kind.

But, its uninvited guest wondered, to what end? And…were those gargoyles actually watching him? He certainly had that feeling of being watched. In a way, he compared himself to Sir Lancelot going into the Lady of Shalott’s castle, or to Childe Roland scaling the Dark Tower. He felt as if he were on a heroic quest, but one with a few really nasty surprises at the end.

As it turned out, Sanford Scolex could not have been more right. He was being watched. The gargoyles not only directed rainwater away from the castle’s foundations and provided excellent scary décor, but their eye-sockets were also fitted with small fiber-optic cameras. Their heads could move imperceptibly as the cameras followed their prey and transmitted the images directly to the highest tower, where Dr. Claw monitored things.

The dying man’s control room was a dark, sparsely-furnished room, consisting of a high-backed, almost monolithic chair with computer keyboards attached to its arms, and a concave wall of nine computer screens. These screens flickered with near-constant activity. Tonight was a special night. Tonight, Dr. Claw would oversee what he knew would be his final crime…and tonight, he would die, but not before giving his killer a good scare in the process.

He pressed a button, and the image on the top left-hand screen filled to all nine of the screens.
“ROCK, HOW IS YOUR SQUADRON DOING?”

A young man wearing sunglasses responded. “We’re fine, Doctor. We’ve just reached the building where the Bradfords and their cronies are giving their spiel.”

“EXCELLENT. WHEN I GIVE THE COMMAND, GO FORTH AND SAY ‘HELLO’ TO ARTEMUS BRADFORD FOR ME...AND FOR SANFORD.”

“You got it. The agents are armed and ready for the signal. All we need is the police to give us a hard time, and we’ll be ready for ‘em.” The image returned to the top left-hand screen.

“SUCH A PITY ABOUT DR. BRADFORD,” the criminal mastermind sighed with just the slightest hint of…regret? Remorse? It was hard to tell. “HIS INTELLECT COULD HAVE BEEN REWARDED. BUT HIS CONSCIENCE GOT THE BETTER OF HIM.” But something else caught his attention. His top agent, Scolex, was prowling around inside the castle. The sadness was soon replaced with an arrogant glee.

“HMM, IT SEEMS MY EXTERMINATING ANGEL IS ON HIS WAY,” he said wryly. He pressed another button, and the nine screens filled with the image of the Elite MAD Guard’s commander.

“Yes, Dr. Claw?” the woman said.

“SANFORD SCOLEX HAS ARRIVED. I THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW.”

“What are your orders?”

“LET HIM GET THROUGH…BUT LET’S NOT MAKE IT TOO EASY FOR HIM, SHALL WE? AT THE VERY LEAST, MAKE IT LOOK CONVINCING. USE LIVE AMMUNITION FOR YOURSELF, IF YOU WISH. BUT FOR THE REST OF YOUR MEN, I WOULD RECOMMEND RUBBER BULLETS AND BLANKS.”

“Getting soft in your dying days, Doctor?” she asked with a smirk on her face.

“NONE OF IT!” he roared. “I MEAN…AHEH…THAT I MYSELF HAVE A FEW TRICKS UP MY SLEEVES. WHEN HE GETS UP HERE, HE’LL HAVE LET HIS GUARD DOWN.”

“Oh, the element of surprise, I see…Well, we’ll give him a nice, warm welcome.”

As soon as Scolex set foot inside the castle, red lights started flashing and a warning siren blared. Well, that’s torn it, he thought. Going immediately into “battle” mode, Scolex didn’t stop to take full stock of his surroundings. Of course, the room was almost completely dark, with only a few red floodlights illuminating the room. Dr. Claw wanted it like this at the moment—all the better to confuse his would-be killer.

Scolex heard gunfire and took cover behind a boxy control console. The first wave consisted of heavily-armed tailor’s mannequins emblazoned with the MAD logo (a red circle with a stylized black cat’s face inside) and on a four-wheeled, motorized platform. He didn’t recall designing them, but he figured that he must be their father in some way or another. Even so, he reflected, it was high time he offed the offspring. He pulled out a handheld device called an Electro-Tool, took aim, and fired at the attack droids. Each sparked and fell to the ground.

Satisfied, he went to work on one of them, removing its ammunition belt and machine gun. Good, that evens the odds, he thought. “Mr. Sikes,” he called on his radio earpiece, “can you tell me something about this room? A light switch would be helpful.”

“Okay, boss, it looks like that console you were hiding behind just a few seconds ago should have something for the lights,” the earpiece squawked. “That is, if those robots didn’t completely turn it into Swiss cheese.”

“Gouda!” Scolex said, grinning at his own little joke. “Doesn’t seem to be too badly damaged. Knowing Dr. Claw, everything here is pretty well armored.” He flicked a few switches, pressed some buttons, and brought up a touch-screen control. “Okay, Mr. Sikes, here we are. There are no controls for the cameras, alarms, or tripwires. That sounds like him. But… aha, here’s the control for the lights.” He switched the lights to the “ON” position, and the huge room came into greater detail. There were huge generators, coolant pipes, and other big machines all over the place. “It looks like I’m in the generator room,” he reflected. “It seems to be the least important place, which is odd, given that it’s where the main door goes through.” “I guess this guy didn’t take very kindly to uninvited guests,” Sikes mused. “Yes, that’s true,” Scolex said, “but then again, all this looks like it was done after the fact. Like the main room was built first, and then all this equipment came much later. I wonder what it’s for…Is there some kind of a way up? An elevator, say, or stairs?”

“Check the other end of the hall. It looks like there’s a metal spiral staircase somewhere around there.” And so Scolex went in search of the spiral staircase. He took the first step on the grated, purpose-built structure, and a bullet whizzed by his head, barely missing his cockatoo-like hair. Snipers! Sure enough, he was right. There, on the balcony, was a man in a black bowling-shirt with red trim and a MAD insignia on the left breast pocket. He wore a red beret and held aloft what looked like a Dragunov sniper rifle. Scolex didn’t think he’d get a clear shot, so he risked ascending the staircase in a zigzag pattern, and ventilated the grunt when he reached the top. This level was a bit more ornate. “Hey, boss,” the radio blared, “there’s an armory in this hallway. Should be down the hall and to the left. Oh, but watch out for the cameras. Don’t want to get any more guns on your tail, do you?”

Sure enough, there were cameras dotting the hallway on either side. The Electro-Tool made short work of them as Scolex dashed toward the armory. He reached the room and marveled. Here, suits of armor from the Middle Ages stood side-by-side with heavy powered armor and gleaming MAD prototypes…he wasn’t sure if any of them had ever seen production. His eye caught something that looked like a grenade launcher and some kind of mechanism at its side. “What’s this?” he asked himself. “A prototype rappelling line and launcher, designed by R. Laughton of Alliance Weaponry R&D. I like him already!” And, off to the corner, there was a castoff prototype jetpack, also constructed by Alliance but based on schematics stolen from a company called Secord Avionics Enterprises. It was a gleaming backpack with a Kevlar harness and control rods mounted onto handlebars. It looked easy enough to get into and out of. He examined the pack itself and noted the highly-advanced miniature jet engine sandwiched between two compact cylinders, which he figured must contain the fuel necessary to run it. Amazingly, the gauges still read “FULL.” He paused for a moment, wondering if the fuel inside had caused corrosion, but everything seemed all right. The tanks must be double-walled, he thought.

There was a muffled explosion outside. It sounded like a demolition charge. Scolex figured that someone must have destroyed the next staircase as he strapped on the jetpack and took arms. “That explosion sounded like it came from the art gallery,” Sikes reported. “Watch out, boss. I think some of them have rocket launchers.” “Relax,” Scolex said. “I’m wearing a jetpack. Could be dangerous, I know, but I don’t feel like using up any more bullets for a while.” He ran to the middle of the hall, where he was before, and looked up as the halls above stretched nearly to infinity.

Up in the main room, Dr. Claw watched as his predator switched on the jetpack and rocketed up, up, up. “YES, THAT’S IT,” he crooned. “COME TO MY LAIR. THERE’S NO DANGER HERE; THERE’S NOTHING TO FEAR…SAID THE SPIDER TO THE FLY.”

Scolex saw the doorway leading to the control chamber: armored and circular, no doubt rigged to explosives. But the doorway also had a relief of the MAD insignia engraved on its surface, and along the outer rim were the words “Nemo me impune lacessit.” “No-one insults me with impunity,” Scolex translated. “Good to see he’s been catching up on his Poe.” He noticed the circular 10-digit keypad in the middle of the door. “It’s another touchscreen. I wonder if my digital manipulator would…” He produced a small, tubular gadget from his belt. It seemed to be machined from aluminum, with two large caps at either end. On the business end was a kind of “eye” that could send and receive data, and in the middle was a long activation pad. He pointed it at the keypad and pressed the button. Immediately the keypad’s display frazzled and flickered. All the keys went dark until four lit up in sequence: 2-5-2-9. “It reads ‘Claw.’ I should have guessed…but then, nobody comes up here.” He punched in the digits and watched as the door slid open.

There, in the fairly-small central tower, was Dr. Claw himself. Or, rather, what was left of him. The central chair did not move, except for the swiveling upper part. Two “shoulders” on the chair transitioned to a pair of robotic arms clad in black leather, terminating in a pair of gauntlets reminiscent of a knight’s armor. Inside the chair sat the pitiful, emaciated husk of a man…if one could say that about Dr. Claw, for he was now more machine than man. The room was filled with the sounds of life-support equipment—the steady beep of an EKG, the induced breathing of a ventilator, and other sounds. Scolex took aim with the machine gun he still carried, and fired at the equipment. Alarms sounded and lights blared. Ignoring the resulting smoke, he ran to a panel savagely and ripped out wires and circuit boards, destroying whatever he could see. He also ignored the camera above him and to his right. That proved fatal, for it also boasted a high-powered laser cutter. It fired, and he howled as it sliced his right arm at the elbow joint. A hidden panel on the ceiling launched small, acid-laced flechettes at his face. He tried to shield his face, but he was too late.

The castle shook. Apparently Claw’s death triggered a self-destruct mechanism. Sensible, really, for he didn’t want his secrets to be revealed after his death. Blind in one eye, and nearly crippled with pain, Scolex staggered to his feet and made his escape as the wall of monitors exploded, revealing the outside world. He switched on the jetpack and flew out to the helicopter. The door slid open, allowing the injured man to get in, and the helicopter took off just as the castle crumbled to pieces

His mission complete, Sanford Scolex collapsed as he whispered, "Requiescat in pace."
“Don’t worry, Mr. Scolex,” Sikes said almost to himself. “We get you fixed up in Metro City, and you’ll be all right.”

While Sanford Scolex was making his own fun halfway across the globe, INTERPOL was hosting a scientific conference in the heart of Metro City. As it happened, the Hyatt Regency hotel and convention center had a large gathering that weekend, and it made perfect sense to conceal the Bradford meeting inside the larger framework. This conference, headed by robotics expert Prof. Artemus Bradford; his daughter, Brenda Bradford, and bionics specialist Dr. Baxter von Slickstein, signaled the end of the INTERPOL-funded “Gadget Project,” an effort to create a kind of super-policeman equipped with the latest in high-tech detection equipment.

INTERPOL contacted Prof. Bradford and his team a few years ago with the briefing, mostly because he was already renowned for the firefighting robots that won a battle with a blaze at a nuclear power-plant many years ago. But they also went to him because of his humanitarian streak. The Bradford family had for generations contributed much of its fortune to public aid projects around the world and in what is now known as Metro City. For one thing, Artemus personally opened Bradford University's robotics research wing and newly-upgraded science labs.

“Ladies, gentlemen, members of the press, good evening,” Prof. Bradford began. He was an odd-looking little man (5’) in his mid-sixties. He had a bald, spherical head framed by clouds of curly white hair and an absurdly large nose. Indeed, he remembered that the scientists he worked with for the past three years on Project Gadget had taken to calling him “Prof. Elefun” as a joke. Of course, the professor himself had a wicked sense of humor and took the jokes in stride. But nobody dared to make fun of his intellect or his imagination, for without these the project would have lacked its unique touches.

“It is with much pride that I can demonstrate for you the fruits of our work. This is the culmination of our efforts…the Gadget Project. But I’d like my daughter, Brenda, to take the stage. I tend to go off on incomprehensible tangents, and she’s been my ‘translator.’” There was much polite laughter in the audience. The auburn-haired woman of twenty-eight years took the stage. Years of watching her mother and father living together and talking to each other had taught her how to balance scientific language and plain, everyday English.

“All right. Now…your first question is, ‘how does all of this work?’” She punctuated the question with a click of her remote pointer. The screen in front of her displayed a computer-generated android encased in bulky-looking armor.

“In the beginning, we planned for an android. Cheap, reliable, easy to make copies of—you could buy parts from suppliers and put them together like an Erector set. But we hit a snag along the way: how on Earth could we hope for a machine to understand human justice?” Murmurs swept across the crowd. “Besides that, our proposed AI would have bankrupted you. So we scrapped that, but just couldn’t throw away the parts. Baxter hit upon the idea of creating a cyborg—a human with machine parts grafted on.” Click! Parts of the robot vanished, replaced by a CG-rendered human with the mechanical limbs attached.

“How would you have it move?” someone asked. “Aren’t normal prosthetics slow and clunky?”

“Good question,” Brenda replied. “In fact, we asked that of ourselves. That was another of Baxter’s ideas: he suggested, totally out of left field, that we try fake nerve-tissue.” Click! The “camera” zoomed in on the mechanical arm. The “appendage” exploded to show the layers of technology: micro-hydraulics, gas cartridges, electronics, wires, and artificial nerve tissue. “It took us a few months of false starts before we got something that worked. Now…all of this is able to move thanks to a microchip called the Neuron Synapse Amplifier.” The screen zoomed into the human’s head and displayed a CAT-scan-like cross-section of the head.

“The NSA chip goes directly into his brainstem and allows him to move the new machinery just like it was an ordinary, flesh-and-blood arm. Without it, the prosthetics wouldn’t respond nearly as well. It’s only about as big as a dime, and integrates with the organic matter like a clownfish to a sea anemone.”
Click! A still from Finding Nemo appeared to a titter of polite laughter. “Sorry, that one was mine,” she added with a blush. “Yes? What was your question?” she asked of a raised hand. A female voice said, “We looked into one of your recent progress reports and found a passage about something called ‘shape-changing metal.’ Would you share that with us?”

Dad took the stage. “Yes, well, that was one of my ideas. I thought long and hard about that name we picked: ‘Gadget.’ It speaks volumes. The idea came to me in a dream, see—I had fallen asleep while watching something on our TV, and in it someone’s hand changed into different shapes: a drill, a big wrench, or anything else. I wrote something quickly into a nearby notebook before I could forget. Had a few sketches in there, too. Brenda picked it up, did some research into it, and found out that it does exist.”

He took the remote from Brenda and clicked. An image of the periodic table filled the screen, and selected elements flashed brightly as he narrated. “We got samples of platinum, gold, silver, titanium, aluminum, copper, zinc, and other metals. Then, we pounded them down to the molecular level until only a very fine dust remained—had to wear special respirators for that one in case someone breathed it in.

Finally, we combined each sample and infused them with nanotechnology. A specialist came in for that one. Working with the NSA chip, we found that the resultant alloy eagerly responded to human brainwaves. For example, if you thought of baking a cake, you’d get an egg-whisk shape. But for some reason the stuff didn’t want to take the shape of a hand. It simply reasserts itself into a paste.” An accompanying video demonstrated this in action. “I was disappointed for quite some time. I liked my handy hand. But, we thought, we’re working for INTERPOL. They want a policeman, or some form of detective. Detectives wear trench coats and fedora hats. Thus, it became blindingly obvious that we should put this stuff into the hat. Oh, also, before I forget—it recharges with solar energy. The brim of the hat’s got solar panels in it.”

A diagram of the hat appeared on the screen. It pointed out: the inner nanotech lining, the brim’s solar panel, a hatband made with Organic Light-Emitting Diodes in its black cloth, and a special “scope” concealed on the underside of the brim. “This last bit came from something Baxter saw in Popular Mechanics. It’s a pair of glasses with transparent video screens in its visor. He can’t be here tonight, because he had jury duty.” A few faint groans came from those who knew how painful that could be. “Fortunately, wisdom teeth aren’t one of the gadgets we came up with. Anyway, this visor slides out from inside the hat and acts as binoculars, magnifying glass, and can also allow our cyborg to see in night-vision, thermographic vision, and something very similar to X-ray vision. Yes, what’s your question?”

Someone else said, “How’s he going to hold himself together?” “We plan to reinforce the skeleton with a metal called Adamantium,” Brenda said. “We tested a sample on a lab rat. Mousetraps had no effect from that point on.”

Things were as peaceful outside the hotel as within. A laundry truck pulled into the delivery area, the same as almost every other night. But this truck was not carrying laundry. Instead, it carried twelve MAD agents (all wearing identical black, red-trimmed bowling shirts and red berets) and their leader, the fearsome Rock Holmes. The truck also carried smoke and gas grenades, MP-5Ks, and other weapons, as well as three one-wheeled pod-cycles. Lightweight and agile, they could outrun and outmaneuver even a NASCAR driver…or a cop in hot pursuit.

Rock addressed his men. “Okay, guys, Claw wants you lowlifes to shake up the Bradford conference. Mr. Grout, the owner, is in with the Big C, and he told us about it. So, you’re going to use satchel charges and smoke grenades to cause a ruckus. You guys go in and steal whatever files Artemus has. When you’re done, I kill him. Are we clear?” The agents grunted in assent. “Good! Now get in there! And remember, you’re KnightHawk employees. Anyone who dies and you’re not supposed to kill comes out of your paychecks.”

Someone took notice of the truck’s license plate and checked the day’s log. Surprise, surprise—no deliveries were scheduled for that day. The employee ran off and called the police just as the agents streamed out of the truck. Two of them placed the satchel charges against the wall facing the main foyer and set them to blow in 10 seconds. KA-BOOM! The blast ripped a hole through the wall, sending smoke and chunks of drywall everywhere. The twelve agents ran like madmen, taking hostages, shooting in the air, and wreaking general havoc. Rock took three of them with him to the Bradford conference, enlisting three more as a precautionary backup. The remaining six he instructed to watch for the cops.

At the main door, Rock produced two grenades: one a flash-bang, the other a concussion grenade. He threw both into the room, where the “thud” of the concussion and the flash stirred up a panic among the INTERPOL agents and the scientists. Before he and his men could strike, there was a cry of “POLICE!” at the door. “Right! I need four of you to give ‘em hell,” Rock said. “Two of you, in with me.”

While Rock’s four agents distracted the cops with a firefight, he and the other two went into the room. One had a gun aimed at the agents, and the other had Prof. Bradford at gunpoint. Rock was busy at the laptop stealing and deleting the Gadget files. When he finished, he told the two MAD agents to take the pod-cycles out with the laptop. He took one look at Artemus and pulled out his Desert Eagle. “Hey, Artie,” he taunted. “I got a message for you: Dr. Claw and Sanford Scolex want to say ‘hi.’” He shot the old man in the chest and ran off.

Det. John Brown heard the shot and ran to the room where it came from. He found Brenda weeping over her father. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Whoever you are, I promise you, I will bring justice upon the people who killed this man.” “Wait!” she called out. “Before you go…I’m Brenda Bradford. They stole a laptop. Can you get it back?” “I’ll do my best,” he replied as he headed to leave the room. “No, wait!” she called out again. “I heard their leader say something about pod-cycles. They’re wearing black shirts and red berets.” “Thanks,” John said. “Come down to the station and tell me everything you know later.” He headed out of the room. As he left, Brenda noticed the back of his head, and how his hair protruded out in four conical spikes. That’s an unusual hairstyle, she thought.

“Dispatch, this is Det. John Brown. Suspects are wearing black shirts and red berets. They’re on something called ‘pod-cycles.’ What’s a pod-cycle? Over.” The radio squawked. “Hey, John,” the voice said. “This is Takahashi. I’m in pursuit after two guys on…one wheeled motorbikes, it looks like. That must be the pod-cycle you were talking about.”

“Where are you?” John asked. “I’m at the intersection of State and Old World. Looks like they’re heading northeast.” “All right, I’m coming to give you backup. Over and out.” John started the car, hit the lights and sirens, and gave chase.

Ah, Metro City, that shining city of the Midwest. John couldn’t remember when he’d last seen anything like this. He occasionally had to deal with the odd break-in, or a group of high-schoolers (or frat-boys) making mischief for a laugh, but as far as he knew, this was the first time he’d ever had to deal with a murder. He was also taking on a high-speed chase for the first time, too. Up until now, he and his niece Penny had led charmed lives in the rarest of American cities: one that had it together and was determined to put on its best face for the world.

His reflections were interrupted by the sudden blare of the alarm on his car’s computer system. A few of the other cars had the bikers on GPS and were in pursuit. The bikers were represented by red dots, while the squad cars were (of course) blue dots. They just turned right on West Pleasant, left on East Vine, right on East Reservoir…where are they headed? He couldn’t think about that right now. Best thing to do is to head them off at the pass, he decided.

“I need units on North Water, North Cass, and…East Lyon,” he commanded. “I’m on the corner of State and Van Buren.” He switched on the sirens and raced down Van Buren, hoping that there’d be some traffic to slow his prey. Then, on the intersection of Water, Holton, and Brady, he found them ten feet ahead. They saw him and drew their MP5Ks. John saw the dull grey metal glint off the setting sun and jerked the wheel hard to the right as soon as he saw Humboldt Avenue. “Brown here!” he declared on his radio. “I’m on Humboldt and they’re on Brady…I’ll make them chase me on Prospect. Be ready to back me up—they have automatics.”

He found them as he turned right on Ogden and Prospect. They didn’t have their guns drawn. “This is my chance,” John muttered. “Just get these two, come back alive, and I’ll be Inspector John Brown in a few days.”
He didn’t see the small object in the hands of the leftmost agent. A small, circular device not unlike a hockey puck, made of some kind of plastic, and with a raised “X” of stainless steel intersecting in the center. Directly in the middle was a flashing red light. The agent tossed it behind him and sped off. The thing attached to John’s car with a dull “clunk!” right where he couldn’t see it.

Passersby on North Lincoln Memorial Drive saw the explosion lift the car a foot-and-a-half into the air, and watched as it rolled roof over chassis on the road. Miraculously, John was thrown from the explosion, but it left him with many broken bones and a lot of other damage.

Wham! Wham! Wham! The crash-cart jolted through a seemingly endless hall of doorways.

“Vital signs fading! His blood pressure and heart rate are dropping!” And then there was another voice he couldn’t hear. “Stay with me. Dad told me I’d know when the right man came along. You’re that man.” There, dressed in surgeon’s clothing, were Brenda and her friend Baxter, a tall, portly man with black hair, a big nose, and wearing black, thick-rimmed glasses. She had called him to meet her at the hospital as soon as she heard the news about the fallen policeman. She also let INTERPOL’s top brass know that the Gadget Project was a go, and that they needed the city hospital’s cooperation. The doctors and surgeons were briefed on the Bradfords’ work and progress.

“So, doctor, what are we looking at here?” one of the surgeons asked. “Well, judging from what I can see, his body’s intact for the most part, but his heart and lungs are badly damaged and may need replacing. The nerves in his left arm and his lower legs are almost unsalvageable. His ribcage is fractured, and that’s jeopardizing everything else. I’m sorry, but we’ll need a miracle if we’re to save this man. Look at him! He’s already close enough to death as it is!”

Both Brenda and Baxter were in the operating theater. They were soon joined by an army of men and women in identical black suits wheeling in suitcases and trunks of ballistic metal. These trunks, which had “PROPERTY OF THE BRADFORD INSTITUTE FOR TECHNOLOGICAL RESEARCH” engraved on them, contained an unfathomable amount of components, tools, electronics, chemicals, raw materials, and other ephemera.

“It’s a good thing we came to change our focus to a bionic policeman,” Baxter reflected. “I was worried that most of my ideas would never get beyond the concept stage.”

With John Brown on life support, and with the parts all gathered into one place, the surgeons and scientists set to work on putting together Professor Bradford’s crowning achievement…the greatest hero ever assembled.

First, the damaged lungs were replaced with new biomechanical constructs. The heart was replaced with Baxter’s ‘Narvik 7’ artificial heart, which he had designed and built with a team from Narvik, Norway. It was named after the place because none of them could agree on naming rights, and also because it literally “flowed off the tongue” and was instantly memorable. Baxter hoped that further improvements would make it a cost-effective emergency replacement for an ordinary human heart, but it was prohibitively expensive at the moment. Micro-thin tubing replaced damaged vessels.

“Okay,” a surgeon said. “Get the plastic blood pumping.” The hospital had a ready supply of artificial blood as a way of keeping people who had lost a lot of blood alive. (The term “plastic,” dear readers, implies that this substitute blood conforms to a patient’s blood-type; the stuff itself isn’t made of polymers.)

“Vitals stabilizing. Heart-rate good,” Brenda said. “Now we have to introduce the NSA system into John’s brain. Are there any neurosurgeons among us?”

“I’ll help,” a voice said. The sliding doors opened, revealing a tall man with black and white hair. An ugly scar ran across his face, and he was dressed exactly like the Phantom of the Opera. (Someone noted that he looked a lot like Gerard Butler, which only cemented the comparison.)

“My name is Black Jack. INTERPOL hired me in the event of…complications.” The head surgeon stormed in front of him. “Excuse me, but who told you that you could just barge in here and take over? This is medicine we’re talking about here!”

“MEDICINE?” Black Jack bellowed. “THIS! IS! SURGERY! Now please get out of my way! No, not you, Dr. Bradford. I need your help.” Brenda asked what he needed. “I just need you to hand me the NSA chip when I ask for it.” He noted the anger that briefly flashed in her eyes and said, “And no, that’s not sexist. I’m a more-than-slightly-mad genius surgeon. It’s what I do. First, help me turn him over so we can work.”

Together, they turned him on his back, leaving his head and neck exposed. Black Jack prepped the area and asked for a scalpel. He cut the back of John’s neck open, careful not to hit any of the blood vessels around the brain. Within a minute, he was looking at the man’s brainstem. “I need your help in keeping the muscle walls separated,” he said. “I also need a pair of tweezers and the microchip.” Brenda dutifully held the partition open while the master surgeon swiftly inserted the Neuron Synapse Amplifier chip into the brainstem. The fragment of artificial nerve tissue inside the chip immediately bonded to the organic material. Black Jack sewed him up with the skilled hands of a tailor. “He’ll only have a small scar back there. It’ll go away in time. It seems my work here has come to an end, ladies and gentlemen.” He quietly exited, leaving everyone slightly confused.

Brenda shook her head, attempting to regain composure. “The next step is to remove the left arm and the lower legs, and reinforce the skeleton. I don’t think we’ll need the ‘Phantom of the Operating Theater’ to help us with something as simple as that.” The surgeons made short work of said limbs.

Two of the INTERPOL agents set to work on a strange-looking machine with two nasty-looking probes attached to a support arm. Brenda opened a suitcase and pulled out a stasis cylinder of metal and tempered glass. Inside it, there was a thick, grayish substance not unlike mercury. “This is refined Adamantium,” she said. “We’re going to electroplate his bones with it from that machine.” She inserted the cylinder into the socket on its base, plugged it into the mains, switched on, and set to work on a pair of joysticks and a viewscreen. One arm swung around and sprayed a fine mist onto John’s ribcage, clavicle, and scapula. The monitor showed the liquid coursing through the rest of his bones. “This formula has a natural affinity for calcium,” she explained. “It’s moving faster than I expected.” 92%...93%...94%...Soon the entire skeleton was completely covered.

“And now, we shall attach the prosthetic arm and legs before permanently bonding the Adamantium to the bone,” Baxter said. He reached into a trunk and brought out the prosthetic arm and hand. The whole thing was covered by an outer housing made of some impossibly lightweight yet super-strong plastic. The same went for the shins, which attached at the knee joint. The machine sprayed some metal onto the shoulder and knee joints.

“Now to cure it,” Brenda said almost to herself. She turned a knob and the sprayer probe rotated on the arm’s circular track. In its place was a longer, telescopic section with a conical metal probe attached. She pressed the button and high-voltage electricity coursed through John’s body. In seconds, the metallic putty took on the sheen of stainless steel. “This is unbreakable now,” she said. “To prove it, I’ll need one of our agents to help us. Baxter, would you go get someone? Make sure he’s well-trained in judo and other martial arts.”

Baxter returned with a black-clad agent. “My karate-trained assistant will attempt to break these metallic bones,” Brenda said. The agent did some dramatic breathing exercises, did some flashy poses, and brought his hand down onto the bone. Hand met bone with a colossal vibration, and the agent doubled over, clutching his hand in pain. “Tada!” Brenda declared. “That well-trained man just broke his hand. Nothing less than an atomic bomb can make a dent. Baxter, we’re almost finished. We only need to install the chest plate and graft some bio-flesh onto him. Then we get to install some of his gadgets.” Baxter brought out the chest plate, a lightweight piece of metal with a flexible midsection. He put on a welder’s mask and bonded the piece to the skeleton with a laser-welder. He screwed two power cables into the ports on the plate, followed by cables in the shoulder and elbow joints of the arm, and in the knee joints of the legs. “He’s running off the mains,” Baxter declared. “It’ll keep him alive while we finish off the last few details before turning it up full-blast.”

The two of them set to work on the Gadget Arm. The hand hadn’t been installed yet, and with good reason: the prosthetic needed to be installed first. Only then could the other gadgets follow.
Baxter popped the shoulder-joint and the bicep’s outer housing open. Inserting a tube into the outermost part of the shoulder, he injected what had been described as a “self-regenerating blue goo.” The innermost part of the bicep, from shoulder to elbow, contained a long, 1 ½”-thick pipe. This was the main reservoir. The elbow carried compressed CO2 gas in its outermost section. Nobody wondered why a cybernetic policeman would need to carry self-regenerating blue goo, but it was decided that the stuff might be useful for something. That was the cake. The “frosting” of solid-state circuitry, micro-hydraulics, and artificial nerve tissue came immediately thereafter. Satisfied, Baxter put the housing back on.

Next was the forearm. Brenda popped its outer housing open and set to work on the Extendo-Arm. A miniature version of the Maglev propulsion system launched part of the forearm along a Hoberman-designed double spring that would keep its shape even after it was extended. When Dad showed her the initial designs, she thought of a paper yo-yo shooting out and being retracted.

Finally, they both set to work on the Hand. Baxter was somehow able to design a gas-powered hand that could work independently of the arm—“handy” when reaching for something with the Extendo-Arm. The palm of the hand contained a small electromagnet that could grab metal objects or erect a somewhat-powerful force-field. The fingers contained: a laser-cutter, a lock-pick, and a small metal “pincer” for holding small objects. The thumb and pinkie were reserved for a cell-phone receiver and microphone.

They stretched a pebbled, rubberlike material over the fingers and palm. It allowed John to feel sensations in his fingertips as well as he would with a normal hand. The material on the palm also had OLEDs in it for the Gadget Phone’s keypad.

“Oh, I’m bushed,” Baxter moaned. “You’ll be able to hibernate for the winter when we’re finished here,” Brenda said as she fixed the material into place once and for all. Baxter looked at her as she worked. “You know, you’re really devoted to this guy,” he commented. “I know it’s your father’s work and all, but you’re going at it like a mother to an injured child. How can you care so deeply when you don’t even know his name?”

“I can because he risked his life for our work. He went after the men who stole the laptop with the files on it. I know he’s the right man for this, and I want to make sure we get it right the first time.” She paused as she realized the truth. “Oh, of course, of course,” she said. “I get it now. You’re jealous, aren’t you?” Baxter sheepishly admitted that he was. “Well, don’t worry about it. We’re only friends and co-workers anyway. Besides, you’re right—I’d love this man as a son, but I don’t know about anything beyond that.” She attached the hand to the wrist joint, gave a final twist of the Allen wrench, and soon that was finished.

“We’re almost finished. All we need to do is power him up and graft the bio-flesh over his chest.” Baxter attached his cables to the huge socket at the end of a thick, insulated cord. This cord was 75 meters long, and would plug into the hospital’s main and backup generators. Brenda made sure everything was in working order and sent him to the generator room, giving him a small walkie-talkie before he left. He huffed and he puffed as he lugged the heavy, wheeled spool down the halls.
She made sure everything was securely attached as the minutes ticked by. Baxter radioed in after ten minutes. “All set?” he asked. “All set,” she replied. “Give my creation life.”

All of the hospital’s power surged into John Brown’s enhanced body for twenty seconds. When the lights came back on, Brenda plugged a handheld readout into the chest plate. “STATUS: FULLY CHARGED AND 100% OPERATIONAL,” it read.

“Come on back to the operating room, Baxter,” she said. “After we put the bio-flesh over his chest, Detective John Brown will get a second chance.

John woke up in a hospital recovery room on Sunday morning. When he opened his eyes, he saw that woman from the hotel…B-something, her name was. Brittany? Bethany? No, that couldn’t be right. Brenda! Yes, that was it! And across from her were Penny, his niece, and Anatole Quimby, the police chief. A wave of adrenalin coursed through his head as he lurched upright. The short, balding chief sprang forward. “Now, don’t do things too fast, John. You’ve been in traction for five days. Don’t worry; the station’s been getting along fine.” “Ugh…” John groaned. “My head feels so heavy…THE HECK?!” He looked at his left arm in shock and no small degree of horror. It was no longer flesh and blood, but metal and plastic.
He reached up to touch the fingers and accidentally pressed the index-finger knuckle. The fingertip popped off on a hinge, revealing a red lens set in a metal barrel. A ruby-red laser beam fired from the finger and seared a long, thin scar in the ceiling. Surprised, Brenda reached into her pocket and pressed a button. The laser stopped firing and the fingertip retracted into place.
“I…I’m hallucinating. I must be!” he screamed. “No,” Brenda said. “You’re not hallucinating. This is real. I don’t know how else to say it, but five days ago, after you met me in the hotel—after my father died—your car was attacked. There was an explosion. By some miracle, you survived, but you lost your arm and legs and suffered a lot of internal damage. What I’m trying to say is, you have crossed the boundary between man and machine. You are now a Cyborg, codenamed Gadget.”
“Wowzers,” John moaned as he collapsed from the shock of it all.
==============================================================================
“NOT BAD, TENMA,” he said. Sanford Scolex was also out of commission for a while—officially, he had been in a car crash while racing his Maybach Exelero. Only he, Sikes, and Dr. Tenma knew the truth. He came out mostly all right, but his face was horribly disfigured on one side. He had lost his left eye, which was replaced with a large, constantly-roving blue sphere. He had a large, nasty scar and a lot of burn damage on the left side of his face too. And his right arm was lost at the forearm. In its place was a fearsome, three-pointed claw with pincers of chrome. His once-silky tones were now much rougher since he’d breathed in all that smoke and ash in the destruction of the first Claw’s castle.
“NOT BAD AT ALL. IN FACT, I’D SAY IT’S WHAT CAPTAIN HOOK WOULD USE IF HE WERE ALIVE TODAY. IT’S VERY DIABOLICAL, DON’T YOU AGREE, MR. SIKES?” Sikes nodded in approval, even though he didn’t really approve at all. “YES…IT SEEMS FITTING FOR A NAME LIKE ‘DR. CLAW.’”

Tenma looked at him, utterly confused.

“HAVEN’T YOU HEARD?” he chuckled. “I NOW CONDUCT THE BIGGEST CONSPIRACY SINCE THE ILLUMINATI. GOVERNMENT, ORGANIZED CRIME, MAJOR CORPORATIONS…I HAVE IT ALL AND MORE AT THE TIPS OF MY CLAW.” He subtly flexed his pincers for emphasis. Then, in one movement, he fully extended all three and pulled them back with a satisfying “clank!” as the base of the claw spun like a drill. “YES, THE REACH OF MAD IS ENOUGH TO SEND THE FORCES OF GOOD COWERING IN FEAR. OF COURSE, I’LL STILL TAKE CONTROL OF SCOLEX INDUSTRIES…BY THE WAY, HAVE YOU TAKEN A LOOK AT THAT LAPTOP MY MEN STOLE?”
“Not yet, ‘Dr. Claw,’ or whatever you call yourself,” Tenma said. “You’ve been out for a few days. We flew some surgeons in to try to reconstruct your face, but…well, you may not like what you see.” Dr. Tenma’s fear was well-placed. As brilliant as he was with robotics and cybernetics, he was definitely not a plastic surgeon. When Sikes brought Sanford back to corporate headquarters in such a dismal state, Tenma knew that his friend and employer could not necessarily be seen at a hospital. A doctor’s report on his injuries would almost certainly contradict the “official” explanation of the car crash.

Instead, Tenma had Sikes bring in supplies from the hospital, buying the staff’s silence when necessary, and he himself converted the boardroom into a makeshift operating table similar to the one aboard Air Force One (and, coincidentally, aboard the Scolex corporate jet). There, Sanford’s condition was stabilized and his claw and eye installed. Cosmetic surgery would just have to wait.

Scolex purposefully strode over to a mirror and looked into it. “HMM,” he mused. “BELIEVE IT OR NOT, I DO LIKE WHAT I SEE. IF NOTHING ELSE, THE OUTSIDE MATCHES THE INSIDE. NOW BRING ON THE LAPTOP. I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE WHAT ARTEMUS WAS WORKING ON.”
Amazed at how well his colleague adjusted, Tenma opened up the laptop and hooked it up to a projector. After a few minutes of tinkering and manic typing, he was able to get past the myriad codes and passwords set up to protect the precious research. He, Claw, and Sikes watched as streams of data and images flashed upon the screen: the initial “android” designs, the secondary “cyborg” concept, the “gadget” database that detailed almost every single gadget conceived of by the team, information on the Neuron Synapse Amplifier chip, and the words “PROJECT GADGET—FOR ‘INTERPOL.’”

“We may have to put in some overtime, Claw,” Tenma observed. “This may have some bearing on the prototype android R&D came up with.”
“YES, THE ‘HITMAN’ MODEL,” the scarred man said. “I REMEMBER THAT WE NEVER COULD GET IT TO WORK. WHAT ON EARTH COULD BRENDA BRADFORD KNOW THAT I DON’T? AND MORE IMPORTANTLY, WHAT IF SHE ACTUALLY PUTS HER FATHER’S WORK INTO PRACTICE?”

“It’s a mad scientist’s dream,” Sikes chimed in. “I know about Bradford, sure, but he was harmless—he just built robotic arms. I don’t believe for one minute that he could actually do any of this. All I’m saying is to wait and see what happens.”

Dr. Claw realized that his bodyguard was absolutely right. After all, MAD had never dealt with anything like this before. Besides, he needed to take an active role in the organization’s day-to-day activities…and maybe look into getting some work done on his Exelero. And then he remembered the NSA chip, which gave him an idea. Since he was no longer Sanford Scolex, the company now needed a human face—or an android face. Yes, that’s a good idea, he thought. That way, I can move more easily and have a ready alibi. His thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched miaow at his feet. There was his beloved Birman, which he’d called “Sniffy” in years past. But maybe it was time for the furball to receive a new name.

“AH, SNIFFY, OR SHOULD I SAY…‘MAD-CAT’…HAVE YOU BEEN GOOD WHILE I WAS AWAY?” The cat looked at him for a second, totally confused. Then its ears folded down and an angry expression descended upon its face. It hissed, showing a row of crooked teeth with one upper tooth missing. “OH, WHAT’S WRONG, MY PET?” he said in as sweet a voice as he could manage.

He caught his reflection in a computer monitor. “YES, THAT’S RIGHT. I’D FORGOTTEN. WELL, WHAT CAN I SAY? WE’LL BOTH HAVE TO GET USED TO MY NEW VISAGE.” With a smile, he stroked the cat’s head and set him down on the floor. “NOW, WHY DON’T YOU RUN ALONG AND FIND SOME MICE TO CATCH? DADDY’S GOT SOME THINGS TO TAKE CARE OF.” He opened the built-in computer on his desk and connected the laptop to it. As he scanned the Gadget files, he found that there was a whole swath of information missing. THIS PINCER WON’T MAKE TYPING ANY EASIER, he reflected, as he made a note to get himself a chorded keyboard. He looked at his screen in frustration as a warning told him that the information was elsewhere, and it wasn’t telling him exactly where. I MUST THINK LIKE HIM. WHERE WOULD I STORE SUCH DATA? I’D STORE IT IN PHYSICAL FORM, SOMEWHERE SECURE...He checked the original Dr. Claw’s master list of agents and contacts, searching for banks and post offices in Metro City. He found the contact at the central post office. It was time for a new MAD to strike.

Serum wrote:My God, you must really, really like Inspector Gadget, the way I like the Super Mario Bros. movie, you write a lot. That's great, keep it up!

Serum wrote:You could probably make something completely original based on all of this-- like, just remove the named "Inspector Gadget" and "MAD" from it and rename them and rework it and you might have something you can actually sell as original material.

Prime Evil wrote:

Serum wrote:You could probably make something completely original based on all of this-- like, just remove the named "Inspector Gadget" and "MAD" from it and rename them and rework it and you might have something you can actually sell as original material.

Or I could take this to Cookie Jar and tell them that it's what the now-cancelled 2009 reboot should be.

Serum wrote:Why, when you could really make it your own thing?