Lord Biohazard’s castle was big. Incredibly big. Half-a-planet and constantly expanding under robot slave labor big. Big enough that anyone could look in any direction, see the sky-scraping black walls, the fearsome labyrinthian design, the almost impossible ways the towers were built up, and say, “Yeah. That's pretty big, for sure.”
Indeed, the over five-billion people who lived there were almost exclusively guards, armed to the robotic teeth with impale-o-lasers and other such implements. There were hallways that lead into the abyss--three thousand feet down into several pits filled with spikes and under-fed scorpions. There were over fifty two thousand trap doors, forty three hundred dead ends, and the entirety of the west wing was covered in well-gardened poison ivy. The reason Lord Biohazard had all of this rather gaudy protection was because he guarded one thing and one thing only: His heart.
To be completely honest, nobody worth a damn kept their hearts inside their bodies. The rich and famous all had theirs surgically removed, to live longer with the help of a bio-connection. It was a chamber that kept a heart beating with a quasi-magic lifeline aligned only to its host, making it an incredible conversation piece. His heart was placed in a floating anti-chamber above a pool filled with sharks, surrounded by bullet proof window panes and a dragon chained to the top of the tower, just for extra measure. To his daily disappointment, people rarely visited.
He glowered from his throne, watching the pedestal hover menacingly. He felt the connection, the deep thrum of constant beat, but something today was… off. He stood up and felt dizzy. Light-headed. He walked over and stood an inch from the glass. His breath fogged and tinted the pane. The sharks were sluggish and not as excited to see their master. The dragon poked his head through one of the holes in the top grate and shivered.
“Is that snow?” He angrily wondered.
Just then he received a message from the head of command, a robotic demon with a bit of lip, considering his position. Not that robots have lips.
“We’ve uh, got a bit of bad news sir.”
“It's cold in here.”
“That’s uh, what the bad news is about, sir.”
“Teleport here immediately.”
He heard an electronic whoosh behind him and the commander was there, bowing at the ready.
“Sir, the collateral reports are in and-”
“What’s happening to my heart commander Cyan?” He growled.
In the cheeky way robot demons were programed to move, he got on all fours and hobbled over next to Biohazard. He adjusted the steel badge that identified him as head honcho, and gave him a look that indicated just the slightest amount of indignation.
“If my lord would kindly let me finish, I could recommend what you should do to remedy this.”
Lord Biohazard glowered.
The robot began to pace, their little electric mouth humming with the motors in his head. “According to the castle’s lead scientists, we’ve been lead to the conclusion that your heart is so powerful, so... what's the word….” He stomped. “Intense, that it’s begun to generate it’s own atmosphere.”
“What the hell does that mean.”
“To be what you people call ‘frank’, my lord, you’re dying from a lack of… emotion? Feeling? What do you humans call it? I personally think it's related to your….”
Dying? The word jutted in his mind as a mountain peak juts out to the climber. As the robot rambled on, the lord brought up a program on his wristwatch that allowed him to see his face. It was young, gaunt, topped with a thick head of dark hair. All in all, pretty good for 114. But dying? Under these circumstances?
“Never.” He promised to himself.
He stopped staring at his watch long enough to kick the monologuing robot. “So what should I do, huh? What should I do to fix this?” He gestured to the dome that held his strained heart, which was currently gathering a little pile of snow.
The demon looked up at him with big, electromagnetic eyes. “Well, if m’lord would be so...” They coughed, a clunky sound, “humbled, as to accept the idea that maybe he should get out more.”
Lord Biohazard tilted his head. Was this robot suggesting what he thought they were suggesting?
“This castle, the grounds, the innumerable wealths and riches that you have obtained over the years, they don't seem to stimulate you as much as, say, an actual person.”
Lord Biohazard thought. He furrowed his brow at the intrusive idea. He looked back over at his heart, the demon, then strangely enough, at his shoes.
“In that case..” He said slowly, deliberately, “In the immortal words of the late and great Lionel Richie,” He leaned in close, his breath fogging up the demon’s face, “Find me somebody to love.”
