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Father of Bots - Short Story

Just a little something written for a class I teach...
Ellin Tenkin's hands worked feverishly with the twister tool in his thick fingers, tightening each screw bolt into place, but not so much that it would bend the frame. 
He had to work fast and was afraid too much time had been wasted already.
The glow in the corked vial was fading, it's blue duller than it had been when first extracted.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he yearned for a good long bath, but knew it would cost him dearly and he wasn't willing to give up, not when all of his research and studies had brought him this far. People like him weren't supposed to delve into the arts he studied, stick to the shovel in your hands, the rocks crumbling at your feet. But he couldn't, not when it meant life or death. Would it be life?

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