Simon was at it again tonight. And for the umpteenth time for the past six months now. Echoing in his garage was the typical cacophony one could expect to hear from a middle-aged man’s home – shrieking drills, thundering hammers, and the deafening clangs of tools falling to the concrete floor.
At forty-two years old with a mostly-bald head, brown eyes, and an average stature in jeans and a white t-shirt, Simon Wells was an inventor by trade, through and through. Though his line of work could rarely ever be considered profitable, there was nevertheless a sense of pride in it that he could derive from nowhere else, from having invented numerous new methods of engine production, to new chemicals he would synthesize from simple household items. This time around, he was hard at work at what would be his magnum opus.
Standing at around eight feet tall before him was a rectangularly shaped contraption comprised of glass, steel, copper, wires, and a plethora of other materials with multisyllabic names – a cloning machine he dedicated so much work into to the detriment of his relationship with his wife, Cecilia.