The scientist in the booth forwarded the footage to a collection of his superiors, a gathering of Generals and military scientists. They were silent as they watched it, only a few nervous mutters as Private Richards was wiped clean from reality. Good, the scientist thinks. They are seeing the weight of the matter, the terribly implications if this technology ever fell into the wrong hands.
Then he plays them footage of the little tabby cat pushing fridge magnet letters around a whiteboard with its paw, spelling out 'RICHARDS' and a now-non-existent social security number, and the assembled military minds awww'd and cooed like schoolgirls. Not exactly the desired response.
The last piece of footage he sends them, that he had taken the liberty of filming prior to the test of the Prototype #2, was a video of the non-existent Private Richards shaking hands with each one of his superiors in turn.
"Great scott! What sort of range are we talking about here?!"
"As per my request, a file containing Private Richard's details were uploaded to a satellite currently in orbit above Russia," the scientist replies. "Since that file no longer exists, we can assume the range to be at least worldwide."
The military brass began to talk loudly at each other, escalating rapidly in volume, occasionally punctuation their sentences with the words 'the President!'. Eventually, however, they came to an agreement. The scientist would be given maximum security clearance and any resource necessary for hunting down prototype #1. Meanwhile, the meeting would relocate to War Room A, the nice one with the leather seats.
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