Ficly

1.1.1

I had spent the last nine years of my life in various fields of postgraduate studies and, like everyone else fresh out of the pool, was without a job. Well, a real job I guess. Immediately upon graduation I was referenced to a mister—excuse me, DOCTOR—Bartholomew Green (to this day I have not found any documentation regarding his education) who was in dire need of a lab assistant and offering decent pay. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I gladly accepted the position, at least temporarily.

To the common man, the Age of Invention had long since past. Instead of uncharted waters, scientists spent their time perfecting that which already existed. This was not the case for Dr. Green. Why cross the ocean in a boat or a jet when you could build a Hovermocar? Or maybe a machine that let you draw pictures… with your mind. What about roller skates? No no. Rocket boots. These were all inventions created by the unremarkable Bartholomew Green. My boss.

As expected, none of them worked.

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