Meanwhile, with the forces of darkness and or utter stupidity.
In her subterranean military sci-fi lair,
Dr. Maggie Walsh was hard at work on two projects, which made her temperament to everyone around her colder than your atypical ex-girlfriend's heart. Her first project, code named project ADAM, was a human-demon-cyborg hybrid, which combines all of the desirable military strengths of each while maintaining proper targeting control and IFF designation of civilian, military, enemy and hostile sub-terrestrial targets. Or rather, it should be targeting appropriately. It was the IFF system that was driving her up the wall for the last six hours.
For some reason, the wet ware, being the transplanted human brain from a recently deceased Master Chief Petty Officer Ryan Styles, killed in the line of - Hell if she knew what- was refusing the commands she entered into the cybernetic link. She was using the same code that worked with the captured vampires' behavior modification chips. The chips were coded correctly, she had triple checked this, something on board constantly switched the IFF targeting to "Enemy Detected: Exterminate with maximum prejudice."
Which wasn't even a setting she coded!
She was beginning to think this was some elaborate prank, but for the life of her, she couldn't even begin to imagine who would have the balls or the sheer lack of a sense of self preservation to dare prank her. Never mind the technical expertise to do so in a way she couldn't fix.
Dr. Maggie Walsh held doctorates in both psychology and computer programming. The actual Frankensteining of this mochary of science and God was engineered by her equally brilliant but remarkably spineless colleague Dr. Francis Angleman. A brilliant scientist in his own right, he was no where near his boss in this foul a mood.
Frankly, the project's been an absolute monstrosity to manage, never mind appropriately budget for, which made her secondary set of responsibilities a near absolute cakewalk in comparison.
Running Project: Initiative like her own personal thiefdom.
How on or off Earth did she manage both you might ask? The answer is surprisingly mundane.
Her husband, John Jacobson, a congressman from Washington state was somehow delegated to the DRI (Demon Research Initiative) as oversight. And totally her submissive bitch. Their marriage was one of practicality and one of surprising strength. Both generally kept the other from going over the deep end of obsessive workaholism. Their sobriety, for lack of a better word, actually started to fail as she was assigned to this project, at her own insistence.
Actual monsters, things of legend actually existed. Her inner scientist demanded to understand them.
Her inner tyrant demanded that she control them.
Taking a deep breath and counting out pi to ten decimals, Walsh stands from her work bench, grabs Her obscenely large coffee mug and leaves the high security chamber, room 314, leaving the Frankenstein super soldier monster resting silently on its reinforced gurney.
She walks the hallways and nods and greets various hired hands, both civilian and military. She enjoyed her reputation as "The evil bitch monster of death" but she was their evil bitch monster of death. Walsh made an effort whenever possible to be seen in the trenches. It's just good leadership.
It also occasionally introduced her to truly interesting young minds. Like Captain Reilly Finn. Malleable, highlight intelligent, yet refreshingly naive. She enjoyed her discussions with her de facto second in command, and surprisingly did hold a level of what one might call motherly affection for him.
But that didn't stop her from pumping him and his squad full of performance enhancing steroids and a prototype global positioning slash behavior modification chip. If anything it was more motivation.
Dr. Maggie Walsh walked in to her official office and sat at her desk, powering on the Mr. Coffee, pre loaded with coffee and filter, and activated her work station to teleconference with the oversight to deliver yet another progress report.
The teleconferencing system connected to the desired person, showing the worn and weary face of a middle aged man in a general's hat.
"Doctor Walsh, I have a number of my colleagues and the president of this great country enquiring about the status of this program. Give me some good news."
"General Ericsson, we've had continued successes with our hunter gatherer quads, obtaining various species of hostile sub terrestrials. Experiments have been enlightening and so far have yielding results. The control chip designed by Dr. Song has been proven successful with vampires. No other species has accepted it as of yet."
The general nods in approval, and motions for her to continue.
"We've had limited success with replicating some of the toxins generated by various species. The most successful synthesis yielded the anabolic steroid cocktail we have been testing on alpha squad. " incidentally Riley Finn's unit.
"And what of Project ADAM?"
Maggie couldn't spin this one. "So far, the platform has been fighting the IFF programming every step of the way. One minute it targets everything for destruction and the next it targets everything for hugs. Otherwise, biomechanically speaking, ADAM is ready for controlled testing."
Nodding his head, turning his head to look at something.
"Doctor, continue as you have. You have the full support of the project and White House behind you. If you find yourself wanting in matériel, requisition as you see fit. Unfortunately at this point we are unable to vet more personnel for this project. Use who you have to the best of your abilities.
Taking a breath that she didn't realize she was holding, Maggie took a drink from her mug, another breathe, and reclined in her chair.
"Have as much money and guns and microchips as you can stick in your cave, but you can't have more manpower. The one damn thing I desperately want."
Maggie head desks. Cursing the world, HSTs, science and Republicans.
"Wish I could get another programmer."
Location: slightly out of phase with our dimension
Babidi, the ancient evil midget alien sorcerer, responsible for many atrocious pieces of spell craft, notably the unleashing of his father's creation, Majin Buu, sneezed in his slumber. He rolled over, smiling as he relived the day of his ultimate victory over the protectors of the Earth in his twisted evil midget dreams.
Babidi had been asleep for a long time now. Nearly 50,000 years. One of the unforseen consequences of his diabolical plan to permanently screw over Son Goku and his friends, family, and their descendents, phased him and his fortress out of the dimension as he phased the earth itself out of its regular location into what is affectionately referred to as a hell dimension.
As you can imagine, for being an evil douche, he sleeps fantastic.
This sneeze thing though, dear readers, is concerning. Babidi hasn't moved, rolled over, sneezed never mind snored since the shift.
Let's wait and see what happens.