John Fiverr’s electric eyes zoomed in on the scene, scanning it with robotic, job-stealing efficiency. He had given away his soul for this job, but the augmentations were kinda cool. As he marvelled at his new, Terminator-like abilities and ignored the morally questionable dilemmas that came with it, he realized that he was, in fact a cypher.
With the realization came a short circuit, and John Fiverr ceased to exist for any purpose other than scavenged parts on eBay for dodgy merchants to flog as refurbished or just plain broken.
As the the boat sank–the swaying being titantic symbol of a sinking ship, matched only by this prose–so did John’s AI. Unknown to the Pear corporation, however, was that John, in the distracted act of throwing away the robot had actually unleashed a very complicated virus that killswitched the entire eastern seaboard of the United States.
As John Fiverr hit the ground with an awkward thump, his life flashed by. He couldn’t tell if it was concussion or not, but he felt a little bite of sand in his face. As he blinked in confusion, the sand bit hard into his eyes. “Argh!” he said. “This hurts quite a lot!” as he flailed about before dropping dead, the book of appropriate responses cinematically falling by his now lifeless hands.
As the cacophony of the ship orchestra going down with the ship subsided, Armin emerged from underneath the oil-slicked boatwreck water. He stared at John Fiverr’s contorted and lifeless body, the messy sandcastle wreck and the ongoing natural disaster with string and woodwind accompaniment.
“I was only playing!” he cried. But it was too late. A big raptor with machine guns flew down and killed him instantly with karma before flying away again.
The ship plopped under the sea horizon with a wah wah wah.
Silence reigned for a while. But before nature could reclaim a grain of sand back, Burt McGringleDangles had returned. Walking on the rolled out carpet towards the scene of much misery and distruction, he sniffed. “Goddamn lazy bastards”
Burt had dealt with this many times. Crushing his well-worn stress ball between his fingers, he sneered contemptuously at the montage of death before him. It was all he needed for his pep talks. “Why,” he screamed, spittle drowning the dead bodies around him. “You useless [ahem ahem ahem] couldn’t do a thing between you!”
He paused. The lifeless body of Agent Fiverr was mocking him, with its page perfectly open on Vol 1, Sect 1435, entry 13456576452: how to deal with kicked sandcastles.
Burt shuddered with anger, and spun around to berate his companion…