The pittering and pattering of the harsh winter rain fell loudly on the dark alleyways of Atlanta, but the rain wasn’t the only sound that cold and windy night. The otherworldly hum of airborne machines scouring the area and the electric tap of dying streetlights bolstered the monotone drone of the downpour.

All of these sounds drowned out the footsteps of a man, however. A man with very peculiar attire. He walked briskly along the alley, never looking up from his well-shined and soaking shoes. He wore large round glasses and a black bowler hat. His hands were stuck stiffly in his long black double-breasted overcoat, fingering a small metal key. He was small and round, with a bald head and a small mouth. As he walked, he mumbled to himself in a small, breathy voice. On the lapel of his coat, there was a pin with a peculiar symbol on it. The small and smartly dressed gentleman walked until he reached an unassuming shed at the end of the alley. Looking around warily, he pulled out a small key from his pocket and put it into a keyhole that was all but visible in the wet ink alley. He opened the battered door and looked in at a metal circle in the center of the floor. He entered the shed and flipped a unassuming switch. The fluorescent light bulb in the ceiling flickered on. The small man tapped his foot twice on the circle, then descended under the floor.

A metal door slid open, and the man in the circular glasses lowered into sight. He exited the elevator and entered a very large and circular room. The place wasn’t terribly far underground, so it had a rather low ceiling, but it was very wide. The room was of black tile, except for a large symbol in white that was laid into the floor. The symbol was the same as the one on the small man’s lapel.

A tall man in a white lab coat approached the small man. “Mr. Luitpold.” he said, his accent was tinted with a southern drawl.

“Herr Dr. Carmichael,” replied Luitpold, raising his hand in an offhand salute. His voice practically swam in a German accent. “Is the operation ready?

Dr. Carmichael fidgeted with a small squeezable ball. “Um, yes sir. Just some minor adjustments, sir.”

“Ausgezeichnet. Excellent. I feel my experiment will not fail this time.” Whenever he said a “W” or a “Th” sound, he pronounced them as “V’s” and “Z’s.” “Nein, I feel that we shall finally accomplish what the Fuehrer started. Continue.”

At this, Dr. Carmichael retired to his station at the side of the circular black room, where many gigantic computers harbored. In fact, that was where everybody was. There was nothing in the middle of the room except for a metal circle in the ceiling, much like the elevator the small Mr. Luitpold had used.

Luitpold himself was now impatiently pacing the room, circling, doubling, wandering around the lab. His thoughts traveled in the same way in his small bald head. Finally, a female lab assistant with snow-white hair and rose-pink eyes approached him.

“We are ready, Meneer Luitpold. The Preparation Stage is ready. At your command, sir.” Her accent was similar to Luitpold’s but less obvious. She sounded like she was from another country. At any rate, her voice was higher than even his and much more harmonious. The woman twisted and braided her white hair with her equally bright hands.

“Start the operation. And don’t ask me again for my opinion, Dr. van Hallst. You always have my permission, my dear.”

Dr. van Hallst hurried back to her computer, where Dr. Carmichael also worked. The computer was complicated enough for four people, and it was a wonder they could operate it with such ease. With much clicking, clacking, tapping, and pulling, they ordered a thick glass cylinder to lower from the metal circle in the middle of the ceiling with a pneumatic whoosh. The cylinder was hollow enough that there was room enough for a large hospital bed. The glass had an unearthly green tint that made the whole room succumb to its hue. A fat man on the western side of the room pulled a lever and said, “Lowering operation platform.”

At that, a mechanical buzzing resounded throughout the lab, and from the metal circle in the ceiling, there came a woman. A woman with coffee-brown skin and abyss-black hair. She was wearing a loose-fitting blue hospital gown and a black gag in her mouth, which was strange, because she wasn’t conscious. She was manacled to a blue plastic platform attached to a pneumatic arm, and fitted with many gadgets. An older lady on the north side of the room pressed a button and said, “Initiating preparation sequence.” in a calm, soft voice like a grandmother. It is terrifying what kinds of people become wicked sometimes.

The platform in the green cylinder was raised to a vertical position, and the woman’s head dropped to her chest. Dr. Carmichael announced, “Tinting cylinder.” The green tint of the glass became as dark as sludge.

“WHAT?” exclaimed Liutpold, standing up from his cushy black chair. “I did not design the cylinder to inhibit my view of the subject! What if she malfunctioned?”

Dr. Carmichael squeezed his ball and stuttered, “S-sir, this isn’t the Capital. The things people would say if they found out that we observed the girl… what our families would think…”

Luitpold grumbled something about weak Americans and disobedience in German, then sat back down. Dr. Carmichael tapped at his control panel, which caused the platform in the cylinder to erect. Then, with a push of a button, pure pain was released on the woman in the glass. A bright light shone throughout the room from inside the glass, and a dozen metal tool-laden arms operated on her. She let out a blood-curdling scream, and shook so violently her restraints rattled. The light grew brighter and brighter, and the rattling increased, and it seemed as if the woman would break free of her restraints and escape. No such miracle occurred.

Instead, the machine slowly powered down, and the screaming followed its example. The dark silhouette of the woman’s head dropped to her heaving chest. All around the laboratory, scientists dashed about, and technicians pattered away furiously at megalithic computers. Dr. van Hallst shouted “Phase Two, Birth, commencing in T-3, 2, 1. Phase Two commencing.”

With a push of a button, Dr. van Hallst resumed not only the experiment but the pain of “the subject.” The writhing and crying disturbed all but Mr. Luitpold, who couldn’t have been more raptured in the ordeal. It seemed the torture only made him more determined to do more. The writhing of the woman and the humming of machines continued for what seemed an eternity, but eventually, a voice called out, “Powering down,” and all was still.

All except for the crying of the woman – and of a baby.

Mr. Luitpold was practically hopping with excitement. “It’s worked!” He thought.”All of my work leads to this moment!” A cheer broke out from the mouths of the many malefactors. Even fidgety Dr. Carmichael threw in a few shy hurrahs. Only the gasping woman was quiet now.

Dr. Carmichael started to announce Phase Three, but someone interrupted him, a young man with long hair. “Wait!” he said, knocking over his chair, “The clone, she’s, you know, she – she doesn’t have clothes on.” A woman slapped her hand to her forehead and rushed inside the cylinder with a bundle of black cloth. Mr. Luitpold was getting impatient.

“Get on with the operation!” he screamed. “We do not ‘ave all day!” At that, Dr. Carmichael pulled a switch. That switch may have very well changed the course of history as we know it.

All was silent. Everyone was still. Every lab rat that they had found had died at this stage, and Mr. Luitpold was not ready to bring his master another dead body. He would not accept failure again. Mr. Luitpold mopped his brow as Dr. Carmichael raised the electrical magnification to sixty percent.

Seventy.

Eighty.

The discomposed doctor winced as he raised it to full power. A hum reverberated around the black tiled room. Everyone cheered and whooped. Finally, the König would be pleased. Somewhere, a child took her last breath.

Something strange started happening to the baby behind the glass. Her head started sprouting kinky black hair. Her arms and legs lengthened and became knotted with muscle. She stretched and thinned. Her features became sharpened and defined. The body of the infant was growing at an inhuman speed. But stranger than all this was the fact that the rapidly growing child looked unnaturally similar to the woman beside her.

A few minutes had passed. The ecstatic scientists were now staring at an almost teenage girl. Then, at long last, the first glimmer of hope entered the story.

“YO! YOU NASTY SON’S OF A BISCUIT! COME AND DIE WITH HUNTER MOON!” The heavy doors exploded open with a magnificent bang, and smoke billowed out of the doorway. And out of the smoke, there came a boy. Some laughed. Some were confused. But the ones who knew that explosive voice paled. They knew they were about to die.