Never did I imagine the movies being what was happening now. My dad was glowing blue, and he was clear. Almost. He looked like a projector was behind him, controlling him like a puppet. I took what he held in his hand, staring with no such form of
Any humor. This little trinket was small, a transparent cobalt blue. Small wires spread through the chip.

Then, it started to spread through me.

The wires seeped through my skin. I had widened my eyes in disbelief. I looked up, and my father was emotionless. I started picking at the chip and started to cry. Scratching, hitting at the little item. It hurt so much. It hurt to get it off, and it hurt to have to feel it go into me. Blood had trickled on hand, and I winced in pain. That's when the boy, the boy who threatened to call 911 with a toy phone, came in with a surprisingly real axe. Except, the rim was coated with a red, gel Looking substance. With a strong strike it spread across my dad. And almost instantly he faded away. And for a second, I saw him there. He looked at me with disbeleif. His eyes were locked on me. And it made me forget a while about the chip. I just found my dad and this is now the second time I've had to see him go. He boy dropped his axe and ran over to me and had worried eyes, possibly more worried than mine. He put his thumb in the center of it all and waited. The wires then retracted into the chip and he quickly picked it up and put in his coat pocket.

In my hand was a square full with blood from that chip. What was it doing? My thoughts were racing and I looked up to the boy, who had a firm expression. "Where's my dad?" I stuttered painfully.
"He wasn't your dad. " he says, like it was being read from a script.
at the moment, I felt like cursing. A lot. Very loudly. But I bit my to tongue an stood up, looking down at my gory hand, and said this:

"Do you have a bandaid?"
How do you even treat something engraved into your hand?
"No. But I got something to ease it with. " he paced his way to one of the book shelves and trailed his finger along the books, when he came to a stop at  The Art Of Bandages. He came to a stop at a page and in it  was a square chip, like the one I had, but a green transperancy instead.  He then again touched his thumb in the chip and it responded.

A talking square. Lovely.

"Indentified: H 3210." Said the square.

"Pain relief, please." Asked the boy, whose since I noticed, has a name tag that reads Peter.

Peter held out his hand to me in which held a little pill, green one white side and black on the other.

"It's going to make it feel better," said Peter, almost too solemnly.

This is just a dream isn't it? It'll be fine.

"Alright." I said, taking the pill and downed it.

And instantly, it all went black.