Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round Three: The Epigen Center]
04-01-2012, 02:07 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
It wasn’t ever going to be enough.
The elevator operator had hit the top floor. There was nothing more that Brom could demand and receive, even if it meant the higher-ups firing everyone and getting eaten by aliens. And, frankly speaking, it was a pittance. A 10% bump of not-enough was never going to be enough. Increased safety protocols for a team trained to murder aliens were never going to be safe. And health insurance, in the end, wouldn’t be much help to the good men in the weaponized carcinogen lab.
He’d done the best he could. But something inside Brom wanted to throw it all away for a chance of getting what he really wanted—or, barring that, just to get out of this damn job. He wanted to slap Mr. Clemens across the face, to insult his family, to insist that he would settle for nothing less than the overthrow of capitalism altogether. He wanted to get fired, as though it would cause him some release from the pain of normal existence, which was nonsense of course. Thinking rationally, he’d take a lifetime of humdrum up-and-down movement over the decidedly horizontal unemployment line.
Brom overwrote the voice in his head begging him to end it all, walked out of Mr. Clemens’ office and addressed the Hazmat team. “We can have everything we could have asked for,” he said wearily, “More or less. But it’s conditional on your killing those aliens.”
He couldn’t see their reactions behind their helmets, but he expected it was much the same as his. Still, all of them together proceeded into the elevator, and Brom closed the door and pulled the lever downward.
Nothing happened. A voice blared over the intercom. ”Attention, elevator operator,” it said. ”The crew of Lucky VII is remotely taking control of the elevator for the time being. Please find a phone to state your case for why you want to descend.”
Brom suddenly felt embarrassed and impotent. “Well, this just takes the cake,” he said, more to himself than to the Hazmats. “Motherfuckers brought in scabs. You stay here. I’m going to sort this the hell out.
* * * * *
”Operator, Epigen.”
”Hello, this is Lucky VII. This is a courtesy call to say we’ll be handling Epigen’s communication remotely for the time being.”
This was all news to May. ”I’m sorry. You’re replacing me?”
”Don’t worry, your job is secure. In fact, reducing employee turnover is one of our primary goals here.” Click. Silence for a bit. Then another click. The voice this time may have been slightly different, May couldn’t tell. ”Actually, we have an important use for you yet. You’re familiar with the behavioral patterns of most of the employees here, no?”
May briefly considered the possibility that this was all some joke by the bosses trying to catch her eavesdropping, and weighed it against the likelihood that she was being paid to eavesdrop. “Yes I am,” she answered.
”Good. Our work has a certain... sociological component. We were wondering if you’d noticed any groups behaving oddly.”
Were they trying to sniff out the union? “No,” she responded. “Business as usual, except for the aliens.”
”Hmm. Listen in on our conversations. If anything seems out of the ordinary, we’d like to know right away. Lives are at stake.” Odd. Click.
May did her duty and listened as the new managers initiated a number of conversations at once, with the general goal of sniffing out a few particular employees and containing the alien infestation. Resolving that she didn’t know these people from Adam and had no real reason to let them know if anyone was acting “unusual,” whatever that meant (it was probably, she decided on some reflection, a euphemism for either “Communists” or “infected with alien parasites"), and focused in on a conversation with Brom.
”Hello, this is Lucky VII, how may I help you?”
Brom’s voice on the other end sounded a bit gruff. May hoped he was okay. “Yes, well, I’ve been informed that I need your say-so to operate my own elevator.”
”That is correct. We apologize for the temporary inconvenience. What do you need the elevator for?”
”I’ve got a Hazmat team that’s supposed to be killing the aliens down in Sector C. Our jobs are on the line.”
Brief silence over the line. ”Alright, the elevator’s yours, under one condition. I’ve been informed that two employees by the name of Gaurinn and Cailean are currently dispatched to do your team’s jobs for them. You are to ensure that they do not engage the aliens and that they are neither harmed nor fired. Kick some ass for the company, okay boys?” Click. Satisfied that things seemed to be going well, May sat in silence and let the drone of conversation wash over her. Apparently an employee had been found murdered in hallway C-II, well out of the alien zone. So there was that.
* * * * *
Gabe needed a break.
Luckily for him, that goal was finally within his sight. Gabe changed out of his blood-spattered clothes and into a spare janitor’s uniform and allowed cognitive dissonance to take him back to the cryptic last words the tech had spoken to him. ”Never forget, Gabe,” he’d said, intently watching Gabe’s hand turn into a straight razor, ”Every tool in the world was built with a specific purpose in mind. Though the razor can kill, it was made to shave. The razor knows this, and accepts that it is sometimes used to kill because it knows what it is. Do not despair that, in the end, you are just another tool. So long as you remember what you were made for, you will be well equipped to deal with whatever necessities are forced upon you. I’m ready now.” That was a funny thing to say. Well, not funny.
Cailean and Gaurinn, he remembered, had the orb. And he needed the orb so he could take a break. This all seemed very straightforward from here on out. On his way out he grabbed a mop so he would look busy.
* * * * *
The Isolation Chamber lacked the comfort of the Panic Room, the supplies of the Bomb Shelter, or the high-concept appeal of the Emergency Pocket Dimension, and therefore had the advantage that in the case of emergencies it was usually unoccupied. Elli sat down in the middle of the floor and tried to imagine something interesting she could do with her time. Even with the (fading now) assistance of the acid, it was hard work.
“Can I keep the typewriter?” she asked the science project. “It’s been growing on me.”
The furiously clacking typewriter was clamped between two of the science project’s metal bits. “I think,” came the voice out of the speaker, ”That I should probably hold on to this. But is there anything else you need?”
Elli shrugged. “I’ve always wanted a cat.”
* * * * *
”Who called this meeting again?” asked Mr. Deels.
Everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats before Mr. Itou stepped up. “I assume,” he said, “That we’re here to talk about either the alien invasion or the employees who have taken over all our communications. Does anyone here have any strong opinions as to how to resolve either of these situations?”
“I’ve got Hazmat on the aliens,” yawned Mr. Clemens. “That should resolve itself shortly. As to this other situation, rebellious employees are just a cancer in the corporate body, and how do we deal with cancer?”
“Cut around the tumor and remove it,” answered Mr. MacKenzie.
“And if you can’t, for whatever reason,” added Mr. Deels, “Expose it to radioactive materials until it quits of its own accord.”
“We’re agreed then,” resolved Mr. Itou. “We track down this ‘Lucky Seven’ and fire hi—“
The phone started ringing. The emergency phone. Mr. Clemens gestured for silence, picked it up and shouted, ”This had better be damned important!” It was. After half a minute of listening he put the phone back on the receiver and addressed the room. “That was Lucky VII. She... it... made a very strong case for its continued employment.”
“Elaborate,” demanded Mr. MacKenzie between sips of scotch.
Clemens took a deep breath. “One: somehow, this one employee accounts for 99.99994% of employee diversity, and firing it would legally constitute a hate crime. Two: apparently if we give Lucky the run of the place for twenty-four hours, it can cut down overhead by 76% and expose multiple conspiracies going on right under our noses.”
“Tempting,” mused Mr. Deels. “By conspiracies, they mean the Russians, I take it?”
“Actually,” said Mr. Clemens, “It said something about a break room. But that must have been a mistake, since we don’t have a break room.”
* * * * *
Fucking Gabe was walking down the hall towards them in a janitor’s uniform. Why did it always have to be this guy?
”Ah, hello, Mr. Ferrell! How goes the round?” Etiyr changed his mind. He was glad that Gabe was here because even Gabe’s general vapidity couldn’t be worse than AMP’s overly enthusiastic attempts at conversation. Gabe said:
”Hi. Sorry I can’t stop and chat. I need to find Cailean and then I’m taking a breakdown. Break. I meant break.”
Etiyr changed his mind again.
* * * * *
”Well, it looks like the cavalry’s arrived,” said Gaurinn.
The word cavalry stirred something deep in Cailean’s brain, and then it leaked out his nose and he licked it off his face. It tasted like feelings, so he spat it out.
The leader of the men in the rubber suits with the weird weapon-looking things stuck to their backs looked at nothing on particular on his wrist and cried out, “Something here is driving chronal readings off the charts! Look around for time disturbances. Hi. Cailean and Gaurinn, right? Epigen HazMat. We’ll take it from here.”
Another one of the HazMats was sorting through the pile of dead alien bits that Cailean had been saving for later. For that offense, he bit into the man’s arm, but it tasted like rubber, and Cailean didn’t even know what rubber was, and it scared him. The zombie backed off and, inasmuch as he was still capable of making decisions, decided to let Gaurinn handle the making of these people to go away.
It wasn’t ever going to be enough.
The elevator operator had hit the top floor. There was nothing more that Brom could demand and receive, even if it meant the higher-ups firing everyone and getting eaten by aliens. And, frankly speaking, it was a pittance. A 10% bump of not-enough was never going to be enough. Increased safety protocols for a team trained to murder aliens were never going to be safe. And health insurance, in the end, wouldn’t be much help to the good men in the weaponized carcinogen lab.
He’d done the best he could. But something inside Brom wanted to throw it all away for a chance of getting what he really wanted—or, barring that, just to get out of this damn job. He wanted to slap Mr. Clemens across the face, to insult his family, to insist that he would settle for nothing less than the overthrow of capitalism altogether. He wanted to get fired, as though it would cause him some release from the pain of normal existence, which was nonsense of course. Thinking rationally, he’d take a lifetime of humdrum up-and-down movement over the decidedly horizontal unemployment line.
Brom overwrote the voice in his head begging him to end it all, walked out of Mr. Clemens’ office and addressed the Hazmat team. “We can have everything we could have asked for,” he said wearily, “More or less. But it’s conditional on your killing those aliens.”
He couldn’t see their reactions behind their helmets, but he expected it was much the same as his. Still, all of them together proceeded into the elevator, and Brom closed the door and pulled the lever downward.
Nothing happened. A voice blared over the intercom. ”Attention, elevator operator,” it said. ”The crew of Lucky VII is remotely taking control of the elevator for the time being. Please find a phone to state your case for why you want to descend.”
Brom suddenly felt embarrassed and impotent. “Well, this just takes the cake,” he said, more to himself than to the Hazmats. “Motherfuckers brought in scabs. You stay here. I’m going to sort this the hell out.
* * * * *
”Operator, Epigen.”
”Hello, this is Lucky VII. This is a courtesy call to say we’ll be handling Epigen’s communication remotely for the time being.”
This was all news to May. ”I’m sorry. You’re replacing me?”
”Don’t worry, your job is secure. In fact, reducing employee turnover is one of our primary goals here.” Click. Silence for a bit. Then another click. The voice this time may have been slightly different, May couldn’t tell. ”Actually, we have an important use for you yet. You’re familiar with the behavioral patterns of most of the employees here, no?”
May briefly considered the possibility that this was all some joke by the bosses trying to catch her eavesdropping, and weighed it against the likelihood that she was being paid to eavesdrop. “Yes I am,” she answered.
”Good. Our work has a certain... sociological component. We were wondering if you’d noticed any groups behaving oddly.”
Were they trying to sniff out the union? “No,” she responded. “Business as usual, except for the aliens.”
”Hmm. Listen in on our conversations. If anything seems out of the ordinary, we’d like to know right away. Lives are at stake.” Odd. Click.
May did her duty and listened as the new managers initiated a number of conversations at once, with the general goal of sniffing out a few particular employees and containing the alien infestation. Resolving that she didn’t know these people from Adam and had no real reason to let them know if anyone was acting “unusual,” whatever that meant (it was probably, she decided on some reflection, a euphemism for either “Communists” or “infected with alien parasites"), and focused in on a conversation with Brom.
”Hello, this is Lucky VII, how may I help you?”
Brom’s voice on the other end sounded a bit gruff. May hoped he was okay. “Yes, well, I’ve been informed that I need your say-so to operate my own elevator.”
”That is correct. We apologize for the temporary inconvenience. What do you need the elevator for?”
”I’ve got a Hazmat team that’s supposed to be killing the aliens down in Sector C. Our jobs are on the line.”
Brief silence over the line. ”Alright, the elevator’s yours, under one condition. I’ve been informed that two employees by the name of Gaurinn and Cailean are currently dispatched to do your team’s jobs for them. You are to ensure that they do not engage the aliens and that they are neither harmed nor fired. Kick some ass for the company, okay boys?” Click. Satisfied that things seemed to be going well, May sat in silence and let the drone of conversation wash over her. Apparently an employee had been found murdered in hallway C-II, well out of the alien zone. So there was that.
* * * * *
Gabe needed a break.
Luckily for him, that goal was finally within his sight. Gabe changed out of his blood-spattered clothes and into a spare janitor’s uniform and allowed cognitive dissonance to take him back to the cryptic last words the tech had spoken to him. ”Never forget, Gabe,” he’d said, intently watching Gabe’s hand turn into a straight razor, ”Every tool in the world was built with a specific purpose in mind. Though the razor can kill, it was made to shave. The razor knows this, and accepts that it is sometimes used to kill because it knows what it is. Do not despair that, in the end, you are just another tool. So long as you remember what you were made for, you will be well equipped to deal with whatever necessities are forced upon you. I’m ready now.” That was a funny thing to say. Well, not funny.
Cailean and Gaurinn, he remembered, had the orb. And he needed the orb so he could take a break. This all seemed very straightforward from here on out. On his way out he grabbed a mop so he would look busy.
* * * * *
The Isolation Chamber lacked the comfort of the Panic Room, the supplies of the Bomb Shelter, or the high-concept appeal of the Emergency Pocket Dimension, and therefore had the advantage that in the case of emergencies it was usually unoccupied. Elli sat down in the middle of the floor and tried to imagine something interesting she could do with her time. Even with the (fading now) assistance of the acid, it was hard work.
“Can I keep the typewriter?” she asked the science project. “It’s been growing on me.”
The furiously clacking typewriter was clamped between two of the science project’s metal bits. “I think,” came the voice out of the speaker, ”That I should probably hold on to this. But is there anything else you need?”
Elli shrugged. “I’ve always wanted a cat.”
* * * * *
”Who called this meeting again?” asked Mr. Deels.
Everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats before Mr. Itou stepped up. “I assume,” he said, “That we’re here to talk about either the alien invasion or the employees who have taken over all our communications. Does anyone here have any strong opinions as to how to resolve either of these situations?”
“I’ve got Hazmat on the aliens,” yawned Mr. Clemens. “That should resolve itself shortly. As to this other situation, rebellious employees are just a cancer in the corporate body, and how do we deal with cancer?”
“Cut around the tumor and remove it,” answered Mr. MacKenzie.
“And if you can’t, for whatever reason,” added Mr. Deels, “Expose it to radioactive materials until it quits of its own accord.”
“We’re agreed then,” resolved Mr. Itou. “We track down this ‘Lucky Seven’ and fire hi—“
The phone started ringing. The emergency phone. Mr. Clemens gestured for silence, picked it up and shouted, ”This had better be damned important!” It was. After half a minute of listening he put the phone back on the receiver and addressed the room. “That was Lucky VII. She... it... made a very strong case for its continued employment.”
“Elaborate,” demanded Mr. MacKenzie between sips of scotch.
Clemens took a deep breath. “One: somehow, this one employee accounts for 99.99994% of employee diversity, and firing it would legally constitute a hate crime. Two: apparently if we give Lucky the run of the place for twenty-four hours, it can cut down overhead by 76% and expose multiple conspiracies going on right under our noses.”
“Tempting,” mused Mr. Deels. “By conspiracies, they mean the Russians, I take it?”
“Actually,” said Mr. Clemens, “It said something about a break room. But that must have been a mistake, since we don’t have a break room.”
* * * * *
Fucking Gabe was walking down the hall towards them in a janitor’s uniform. Why did it always have to be this guy?
”Ah, hello, Mr. Ferrell! How goes the round?” Etiyr changed his mind. He was glad that Gabe was here because even Gabe’s general vapidity couldn’t be worse than AMP’s overly enthusiastic attempts at conversation. Gabe said:
”Hi. Sorry I can’t stop and chat. I need to find Cailean and then I’m taking a breakdown. Break. I meant break.”
Etiyr changed his mind again.
* * * * *
”Well, it looks like the cavalry’s arrived,” said Gaurinn.
The word cavalry stirred something deep in Cailean’s brain, and then it leaked out his nose and he licked it off his face. It tasted like feelings, so he spat it out.
The leader of the men in the rubber suits with the weird weapon-looking things stuck to their backs looked at nothing on particular on his wrist and cried out, “Something here is driving chronal readings off the charts! Look around for time disturbances. Hi. Cailean and Gaurinn, right? Epigen HazMat. We’ll take it from here.”
Another one of the HazMats was sorting through the pile of dead alien bits that Cailean had been saving for later. For that offense, he bit into the man’s arm, but it tasted like rubber, and Cailean didn’t even know what rubber was, and it scared him. The zombie backed off and, inasmuch as he was still capable of making decisions, decided to let Gaurinn handle the making of these people to go away.