Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round Three: The Epigen Center]
01-22-2012, 07:01 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
Brom didn’t consider himself to be all that close to the Hazmat crew—hard to form much of a bond with a body whose face is obscured by the glare off his helmet—but he was banking on the notion that his indifference wasn't reciprocal. Everyone fancies themselves friends with the elevatorman when the alternative is taking the stairs. “Sector C, I take it?” he asked.
One of the Hazmats shrugged, making a crinkling noise where the bits of his suit rubbed together. “If you insist,” he said, clutching his Cleanup Rifle to his chest like a newborn.
Brom turned the key and pulled the lever. “Going down.” And down they went.
An aside: you might be thinking that standard skyscraper procedure is to avoid elevators in times of emergency, because elevators are like to shut down or crash or explode or the like in response to happenings in the rest of the building. Not so much in Epigen, where the elevator is not only distinct from the power grid of the building as a whole, it is actually disconnected from the building itself; it is situated on a columnar gravity well around which the elevator shaft was simply erected to make people more comfortable with the whole experience. Thus, unlike the stairwell, which in the event of a power outage will turn into an exceptionally dangerous waterslide, the elevator will never betray you—at the elevatorman’s discretion, of course.
Brom pulled the lever back to the neutral position and the elevator decelerated to a halt with a satisfying “ding!”. The Hazmats huddled by the door with their weapons drawn and were met with the bewildering yet relieving sight of a bare concrete wall on the other side of the door.
The Hazmats turned back to Brom, who gave his best Wile E. Coyote smile. “Welcome to limbo, boys,” he said, leaning up against the lever. “Now, there are two ways outta this here purgatory. You could keep on going the way you’re headed and end up down among the demons. Or you can repent, and we can go see the man upstairs. What do you say?”
* * * * *
Tech Xodarap looked exactly like Quantos—of course—only older, and instead of having cyborg bits he was simply missing an arm and wearing an eyepatch, which depressed Gabe on a number of levels. He tried not to stare.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m looking for, uh, a spare janitor’s uniform.”
”No, you’re not,” droned Xodarap. ”You’re looking for the red orb. You’re about to admit it to me.”
”Uuuuuuuuuum...”
”Don’t worry, Gabe. You can tell me. I’ve already seen how it all ends, so I have no agenda.”
”Okay, fine. I’m trying to find the red orb, but I have no leads and don’t even know what the thing does or what the breakroom is doing collecting... artifact... things.”
Xodarap sighed and explained what the orb did and where Gabe would find it. ”Now,” he said, as if it meant something important. ”If you do me a small favor, I will have just told you what the orb does and where you can find it.”
Gabe didn’t quite follow. “So can’t I just—“
”No.”
”Okay. Sorry. What’s the favor?”
Xodarap paused for a very brief moment that seemed to take a very long time, as though he were looping that brief moment into itself over and over several times in succession. Then he broke it off and spoke. “Kill me. Please.”
Gabe groaned. The corporate world was getting to be too much for him. He missed being his own boss.
* * * * *
”Okay,” growled Mr. Clemens here. “I’m going to make a blanket statement here and then sort it out later. Absolutely everyone involved in or even sympathetic towards this so-called strike is f—“
”You sure that’s a good idea, Mr. Clemens?” asked that goddamn elevatorman, who looked a lot more smug with six heavily armed cleanup men backing him. ”Without us, who’s gonna clean up your alien problem?”
”Let me make this clear. Nothing, I mean nothing, neither money nor safety nor the threat of the domination of the human race by extradimensional arthropodal macrointelligentsia, are more important to me than the loyalty of my employees. And I would much rather just evacuate the whole building, have it all scrapped than acquiesce to the demands of a bunch of Negroes in rubber suits!”
”We all know that’s your fetish anyways, Clemens,” sniggered one of the Hazmats. ”I’m white,” mumbled another.
This wasn’t going well for Mr. Clemens. These people simply weren’t scared of him anymore, or else they were more afraid of the aliens, which was understandable. “No more jokes!” he roared. “You’d better hope the unemployment office finds you funny, cause you’re fi—“
”By the way,” chimed in Brom, jangling the elevator keys. ”I must have forgotten to set the elevator to auto on the way up. So when you talk about evacuating I hope you know you’re gonna have to take the stairs.”
Ah. Mr. Clemens took a look out the window to confirm that he was, in fact, sixty stories up, a fact that only ever registered in his brain as a metaphor for his success and not so much a physical, architectural fact. “Alright,” he conceded. “Step into my office, and we’ll talk.”
Brom didn’t consider himself to be all that close to the Hazmat crew—hard to form much of a bond with a body whose face is obscured by the glare off his helmet—but he was banking on the notion that his indifference wasn't reciprocal. Everyone fancies themselves friends with the elevatorman when the alternative is taking the stairs. “Sector C, I take it?” he asked.
One of the Hazmats shrugged, making a crinkling noise where the bits of his suit rubbed together. “If you insist,” he said, clutching his Cleanup Rifle to his chest like a newborn.
Brom turned the key and pulled the lever. “Going down.” And down they went.
An aside: you might be thinking that standard skyscraper procedure is to avoid elevators in times of emergency, because elevators are like to shut down or crash or explode or the like in response to happenings in the rest of the building. Not so much in Epigen, where the elevator is not only distinct from the power grid of the building as a whole, it is actually disconnected from the building itself; it is situated on a columnar gravity well around which the elevator shaft was simply erected to make people more comfortable with the whole experience. Thus, unlike the stairwell, which in the event of a power outage will turn into an exceptionally dangerous waterslide, the elevator will never betray you—at the elevatorman’s discretion, of course.
Brom pulled the lever back to the neutral position and the elevator decelerated to a halt with a satisfying “ding!”. The Hazmats huddled by the door with their weapons drawn and were met with the bewildering yet relieving sight of a bare concrete wall on the other side of the door.
The Hazmats turned back to Brom, who gave his best Wile E. Coyote smile. “Welcome to limbo, boys,” he said, leaning up against the lever. “Now, there are two ways outta this here purgatory. You could keep on going the way you’re headed and end up down among the demons. Or you can repent, and we can go see the man upstairs. What do you say?”
* * * * *
Tech Xodarap looked exactly like Quantos—of course—only older, and instead of having cyborg bits he was simply missing an arm and wearing an eyepatch, which depressed Gabe on a number of levels. He tried not to stare.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m looking for, uh, a spare janitor’s uniform.”
”No, you’re not,” droned Xodarap. ”You’re looking for the red orb. You’re about to admit it to me.”
”Uuuuuuuuuum...”
”Don’t worry, Gabe. You can tell me. I’ve already seen how it all ends, so I have no agenda.”
”Okay, fine. I’m trying to find the red orb, but I have no leads and don’t even know what the thing does or what the breakroom is doing collecting... artifact... things.”
Xodarap sighed and explained what the orb did and where Gabe would find it. ”Now,” he said, as if it meant something important. ”If you do me a small favor, I will have just told you what the orb does and where you can find it.”
Gabe didn’t quite follow. “So can’t I just—“
”No.”
”Okay. Sorry. What’s the favor?”
Xodarap paused for a very brief moment that seemed to take a very long time, as though he were looping that brief moment into itself over and over several times in succession. Then he broke it off and spoke. “Kill me. Please.”
Gabe groaned. The corporate world was getting to be too much for him. He missed being his own boss.
* * * * *
”Okay,” growled Mr. Clemens here. “I’m going to make a blanket statement here and then sort it out later. Absolutely everyone involved in or even sympathetic towards this so-called strike is f—“
”You sure that’s a good idea, Mr. Clemens?” asked that goddamn elevatorman, who looked a lot more smug with six heavily armed cleanup men backing him. ”Without us, who’s gonna clean up your alien problem?”
”Let me make this clear. Nothing, I mean nothing, neither money nor safety nor the threat of the domination of the human race by extradimensional arthropodal macrointelligentsia, are more important to me than the loyalty of my employees. And I would much rather just evacuate the whole building, have it all scrapped than acquiesce to the demands of a bunch of Negroes in rubber suits!”
”We all know that’s your fetish anyways, Clemens,” sniggered one of the Hazmats. ”I’m white,” mumbled another.
This wasn’t going well for Mr. Clemens. These people simply weren’t scared of him anymore, or else they were more afraid of the aliens, which was understandable. “No more jokes!” he roared. “You’d better hope the unemployment office finds you funny, cause you’re fi—“
”By the way,” chimed in Brom, jangling the elevator keys. ”I must have forgotten to set the elevator to auto on the way up. So when you talk about evacuating I hope you know you’re gonna have to take the stairs.”
Ah. Mr. Clemens took a look out the window to confirm that he was, in fact, sixty stories up, a fact that only ever registered in his brain as a metaphor for his success and not so much a physical, architectural fact. “Alright,” he conceded. “Step into my office, and we’ll talk.”