Re: THIS PROGRAM HAS BEEN CANCELED [S!1][ROUND TWO: ETA CARINA]
05-17-2012, 03:45 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by BlastYoBoots.
"Let's move!"
"We can help him, hold on!"
"What?!"
"Wait, maybe I can lift him up without-"
If I'm not mistaken, his brain is spilling out of his head like a vandalized parking meter. Move, or we're leaving.
Ever ignorant of the nuances of reality, Freefall persisted in her attempts to find a way to lift the deceased Barry Barnes without further spilling the overturned bowl that was his open skull, reaching her arms in different angles around what she instinctively knew was - and thus, refused to actually touch - a stone dead corpse.
For Priced's sake, move! We're not picking up the tab if you get-
"Looks like we caught you..."
Her eyes finally turned to the static ones of Clint Gladwell, donning sunglasses beside a regiment of tommy gun wielding, genre-fused supercops.
"...red-handed."
At a gesture from the Lieutenant, a fully automatic storm of bullets cracked out of the firing line into a dense girl hiding behind blood-spattered hands. And a wizard, a painter, a transaction and a jellyfish alien got out of dodge.
Moments later, the firestorm's noise - the amplified crashing of falling nails - finally quieted.
Freefall glared up from behind her arms. "...Do you have any idea what your face is gonna look like after I-" *BZZZZZT*
She flinched back involuntarily at the crackling of a contact taser in Gladwell's hand. Oh, fuck.
"Heard you were scared of these little things. You shouldn't be so... shocked to see them, fugitive."
Some of the officers pulled out tasers, themselves. Others reloaded.
Oh, FUCK!
Freefall's readout was currently devoid of useful data, the red term Q-FAIL in its place.
"How's progress, finding her?"
"Oh, you know. Just lookin' for a needle in a multiverse." The Gadgeteer sighed, lazily pushing an enter key to launch another battery of fruitless searches.
"You sure it wasn't time travel?"
"Time's messy. Always showy, leaves residue sorta. Freefall was plucked clean, right off the street. Say, can't you and Maggie pull your strings at the Gremio de Magia? You won't hear me plug magic a lot, but their dimensional mages ca–"
"NO. No, no, no. The last thing we need around here is a bureaucratic mess of wizards getting their fat hands in our business."
"Amen to that, Ace-high."
...A few moments of uncomfortable silence. Holes in a group make silence more disturbing, even if the one who'd fill them wasn't much for casual conversation in the first place.
Then a big smirk crept across Gadge's face.
"Hey, we shouldn't have to worry about finding her at all."
"Hm? Why not?"
"'Cause if she's in real danger, she'll ~reach out with her heart~ and Maggie'll lock right on."
The two traded a look, then burst into laughter. Knowing Freefall? She'd rather slit her wrists.
Rounds of tasing and non-lethal waves of bullets in turn, though? Understandable. She'd given a black eye to an overly-invincible protagonist, after all; in the poorly-written, worshipping environment from which Gladwell hailed, that was clear justification for minutes and minutes of torture.
At some level - probably the one paying attention to that spare fleck of Barnes' brain on her suit - Freefall didn't really feel like she had grounds to disagree.
Then she was rescued in a daze to receive fresh news of her circumstances, and warped in to weakly, neatly collapse in a neon-lit Eta-Carina-brand alleyway puddle.
Freefall rolled onto her back, sputtering, and threw dizzy eyes up at her surroundings. The shadows of tall buildings, city noises, putrid alley water, being bathed in pink light (that bitch) when you're least in the mood for it... hell, it's almost like home.
She rested a bit more, sprawled out as the water soaked her hair and crept in through the myriad bulletholes in her otherwise waterproof suit. The remaining pain was tolerable; she'd been bruised worse. She just needed to wait out that tense, traumatic feeling that she was about to get tased again.
So, a comic book hero thinks she's hot shit, and gets thrown in too deep, she thinks. (psst!)
Then she gets smacked around from place to place, thinking she's useful, making a difference. She accomplishes jack.
Then - now get this - she kills a dude and proves she wasn't fucking worth the title in the first place. And then she pays (psssst!) for her stupidity by getting her worst weaponized fear jabbed into her a couple dozen times like birthday punches from an asshole who keeps losing count.
And then – her eyes began to (pssst! hey!) focus properly, noticing the too-tall towers and flying cars – a fucking bureaucratic police agency shuts everything down because she didn't even matter in the first place. Some hero, loser! You got upstaged by police!
(psssssssst!!! rachel!!)
She finally struggled upright, wiping a tear or two off her face with a knuckle covered in blood that wasn't hers. "Time to call in for pickup, I guess." She stumbled forward. It felt like the end, the end of a story or an arc or a career. The 'Game Over' epilogue on one of Gadge's more complicated video games.
(not that fucking loser, me!) (Would you just shut up?)
Freefall felt pretty tired.
(quit ignoring me)
(and ask yourself)
(what would tiffany do~?)
She walked further, apparently on one of the less bustling streets in the city. Odd aliens in odd shapes and odder fashions lumbered, strolled, and twisted by her – some Men in Black bullshit going on here – as she cast her eyes around for someplace suitable. The greasy lubricant that was money flowed like it was water here, she saw, evident in the architecture, the gilded staff uniforms outside high-class hotels and restaurants, the air of deceit and condescension in these aliens even as they shamelessly splashed intoxicating fluids into whatever the hell those orifices were. The city and its lying lights, all variations on violet. Revolting as upper Olive City. Wonderful.
Her practiced disdain for it all was more petty than she liked to believe. Nevertheless, it gave her an eye for how to avoid it. (atta girl! [img]images/smilies/icon_heartbeat.gif[/img]) She browsed through the shamefully erect buildings as she staggered forward, looking for something seedier, something that hadn't had enough oil lately, squeaky from lack of cash. Maybe something a little less pink, too.
And finally, there it was. A sign of jet-silver light, "The Feedback Loop", its crookedness from disrepair rather than edginess, occasionally flickering to a different set of symbols as its smudged sensors to detect the race and likely dialect of onlookers - sending them directed images - failed briefly and intermittently. The marquee rested on a surprisingly clean white supertower that was too dimly lit to properly showcase its intended brilliance. "Rooms available," it audibly intoned with a quiet, directed blast of female sound to her head.
Perfect. Still moneyed, sure - unbelievably so, and enough to likely earn her ratty appearance scorn - but here, at least, she won't receive the bitter brand of condescension reserved for those who think or know they're at the tip top echelon.
Not that she'd be able to come up with those words for the situation, if asked. She'd probably use the words 'stuck-up' and 'fuckers' a lot, instead. It was a more innate, unexpressed understanding.
(do it, do the thing)
The layered doors of The Feedback Loop purred open, Freefall regaining her stance and footing as she dripped and stormed down a carpeted, wood-lined, insultingly long hallway in the direction of the reception desk.
Three small, robotic eyes at the far end zoomed in on the girl, cross-referencing her with all known individuals and species in Eta Carina's citywide tourist databases. A thin, wirey ultralight-steel arm readied itself to slam the 'reject' button under its desk at her disheveled image and attire; just as it was about to hit it anyway out of distaste alone, a hit surfaced in the city's "Short-Notice Invitees" list.
Rachel Brooks, business moniker 'Freefall'. Entry into the city reserved on behalf of the BSA (the who??). One of a handful in a group of invitees, each credited with a perpetually-renewing night's stay (a what?!) in any hotel in the city, and a complimentary "Kids' Allowance" of a measly 350 credit bar tab.
Welp, apparently someone thinks this organic piece of excrement is vitally important. Might as well milk her dry.
Freefall yelled from halfway down the hall, approaching steadily. "Hey, circuits! I need some information."
The mechanized receptionist consulted the hotel's species knowledgebank, calibrating a soothing, sultry female voice designed to be aesthetic to the visiting creature's ears.
"Good evening! Welcome to The Feedback Loop, Eta Carina's premier upper end value resort, gambling establishment, and entertainment venue," it fibbed shamelessly. "We would be honored to accept your complimentary stay!"
"Compl- Look, I just want some travel info..."
"Our rooms are stocked with databases of sponsors, guaranteeing you directions to the most exciting spots in Eta Carina. Shall I book you a room near our slots? We boast nearly half as many slot machines as The Republica." To bleed your sizable tourist cash reserves...
"I don't have time for this, you bucket of bolts. I'm a he-"
The word 'hero' stuck painfully hard on her tongue. It didn't quite fit anymore.
"...-in a hurry, and would like to get to my home universe and away from all this gaudy, oversold bullshit."
"Oh, but so soon? I believe you underestimate how much Eta Carina has to offer. Why, just a few thousand credits will get you an hour in one of our seven luxurious revita-thermal gel hot tubs, for example. You look like you want to shed that tattered skin protector and–"
She finally reached the desk, slamming her hands hard on the expensive nano-grown artificial wood surface. "If I had any credits, I'd pay something who knows what it's doing to–"
"Is that so??"
Freefall pulled back a bit, blinking at the receptionist's beige, VHS-tape shaped head. The robot's voice had abruptly switched to a hostile, masculine Bronx accent.
"Look here, you dirty little snivelin' broad of a fleshbag. You think this issa charity establishment?! We don't give out minimally city-compensated rooms to just any clown-faced piece of meat who manages to gedda free pass on some fluke. You think that's how we're keepin' this place breakin' even?" The sticklike robot reared up on the enormous magnetic rolling-sphere below its hips, waggling one of three hinge-like fingers in her face from a chrome hand. "It's side charges. Massages, room service, drinks upon drinks. Luxury benefits à la carte, at luxury prices. No credits? In Eta Carina?! You're practically radioactive." It shifted upright, folding its arms in a way that seemed to almost literally interlock.
She slid her hands forward, glaring and resisting the urge to start crushing the desk. "How about you clean out whatever shitty compu-whatsits pass for ears on that cracker box that passes for a head and listen to my god damn question. I want a way out of here. I don't want a room, I don't want a sales pitch, and I don't want your metal lip."
"Why should I give the time of day to a good-for-nuthin' sack a cells who looks like a red-diode district reject?!"
"Me?! You look like Johnny Five had sex with an exercise ball."
"Could'ya do me a favor and turn your head away when ya 'tawlk? Any more of that putrid exhaust from your sustenance valve and I'll needa replace my olfactory sensors."
"Could you answer my question before I take your rear end out for some beach volleyball?"
"I'm sorry, dame, could you speak up? My sensitive mics were busy bein' overwhelmed by the noise of all your nasty biological functions. Perhaps you'd consider shittin' yourself, it'd make your intestinal tract a bit less distractin'."
(punch the bastard's head off~)
"Fine, I'll speak up. HOW THE FUCK DO I GET OUT OF HERE?!"
On cue, a floating network news screen leapt into the air, startling the receptionist as clipped through one of its elbows; it took an interested look.
"...Ah, there's your answer! You don't."
"Excuse me?!"
"Sub-entanglement fail. Haven't seen one a those in the while. You missed the last dimensional crossing by twenty-six seconds."
"So what exactly does that mean for me?"
"Nobody gets in or out of Eta Carina for days. Means unless you're secretly fuckin' loaded, you're stuck and need a room..."
The robot paused, then burst out into well-simulated laughter.
"HAhahahaha!! And there ain't no way you're findin' it here! Got any idea how many stranded tourists a budget joint like ours'll net? We just hit the jackpot, no need to humor stenchbags like you with minimum room comp. Now get the fuck oudda here. You're gettin' organic all over my desk."
The bot gestured to draw attention to Barnes' blood, smeared over the wood surface by her palms.
Freefall drew back... then lost her patience. She pulled back for a swing.
The robot was faster.
A quarter second later, she was twirling to the ground from a 200,000 volt backhand. She hadn't expected that from something with the physique of a parking meter.
"Seven cycles. Bouncer at the Exposed Wire." It rolled out from behind its desk, faux-cracking its sparking, electrified mechanical knuckles. "Dealt with one hell of a lot bigger than you. Uglier, too, almost."
She tried and failed to get up, exhausted, shaking, and hands slipping on incriminating plasma.
"........fuck...you...."
The receptionist faltered a bit.
"That's, uh... you gonna be able ta leave, fleshy?" It fidgeted and clinked its hands together. "Don't know my own strength when it comes to organics. Always leakin' fluid, makin' me nervous they're gonna explode, 'r somethin'... 'd take 'em ages to clean..."
Freefall rested on the ground, caught her breath.
After a minute, she rolled over and sat up. Stared at her hands a bit.
"...Got a bathroom?"
The robot – 'Tammy', his nametag declared – pointed down another hall, shook his head, muttered some disgust about biological orifices and waste products, and rolled back to his desk to thumb through high-res, 3D images of exposed circuitry.
Freefall stared into a mirror. A fountain of warm, fragrant, detergent-enhanced water flowed through her hands, washing blood away. Not drinkable, of course. The hotel couldn't have people guzzling from taps – especially the real liquid-guzzling species – when there was a fully stocked, ready-to-charge bar so close at hand to serve up comet-harvested melted icewater at 6000% markup.
(you know what'd make you feel better~)
I've got this under control.
(you're lying~. do the thing, do it)
Fuck you.
(you know you miss me rachel)
So what if I do?!
(you know i'd know what to do here)
You're not a super. You're not even fucking street-savvy. You'd be dead a hundred times!
But you know I'd know what the hell to do, even if it was wrong or batshit crazy. You envy that absolute fucking certainty I have. You punch when you're scared, when you can't come up with anything else to do. If I could throw a decent punch, I'd do it just to see what happened~
What's your point? Whoops, she almost said that one out loud. Talking to herself was not one of the comic book hero facets she aspired to emulate. Damn subconscious friend voices.
Nothing! Just, you know, you've got a mirror there...
No. No, it's corny, stupid...
Just do the thing.
Rachel turned off the water.
Put your hand on the glass.
She looked at her hand.
Then imagine me on the other side.
She put it on the glass.
And draw a circle around it, because even if I'm not there, I care about you, I lo– *CRASH*
Freefall's hand crushed the glass as her superego gave a right hook to her id, knocking it off balance and sending Tiffany's oddly comforting, extremely irritating voice away with it.
"I'm not your bitch."
...
That bit of... oddness taken care of – (maybe I should consider meds) – Freefall somehow felt a little more into the 'hero' swing of things. She sat on the counter in front of the other, intact mirror, using a pack of nano-sealant hidden in her belt to repair hole after hole in her suit, thinking and trying to reconcile the last comic book issue of life she'd experienced with its future arc.
And then a wizard showed up, another mirror got shattered, and she barged through a wall after the sound of a woman screaming.
She opened her eyes. A worried look forming, she let the pink sparkling shards of her levitation spell dissipate. Her feet alit gracefully on the ground, and began marching her purposefully out of her quarters.
The Eagles needed to organize. Whatever this was, it was serious. It wasn't enough to get a fix, but it felt like Freefall had nearly reached out with her heart.
She wasn't quite sure where that was leading, yet... for or against Arrester, or whatever the clockdroid was called. But however it was going to unfold, the next comic issue's focus was much, much clearer now.
Tommy Potter and the armor thing were key. This issue's macguffin.
She needed to find them. After that... well, she didn't know. She guessed she'd play it by ear.
After dealing with this little spectacle in the mens room, of course.
"Did Drippy here eat the jellyfish and throw up or something?!"
"MY VOMIT WOULD SMELL MORE CREATIVE THAN HIS!"
"I'm feeling better, but your yelling is giving me a headache, Tschichold. Do you want me to throw up again?"
Tschichold began screaming girlishly again, prompting the others to cover their ears in agony.
"Whoa, whoa, what's goin' on in he–"
Tammy rolled into the bathroom, the three cameras on the side of his thin, boxy head widening in shock at the painter's dripping, vomit-soaked appearance.
"Holy SHIT no, an organic exploded!!!"
"Let's move!"
"We can help him, hold on!"
"What?!"
"Wait, maybe I can lift him up without-"
If I'm not mistaken, his brain is spilling out of his head like a vandalized parking meter. Move, or we're leaving.
Ever ignorant of the nuances of reality, Freefall persisted in her attempts to find a way to lift the deceased Barry Barnes without further spilling the overturned bowl that was his open skull, reaching her arms in different angles around what she instinctively knew was - and thus, refused to actually touch - a stone dead corpse.
For Priced's sake, move! We're not picking up the tab if you get-
"Looks like we caught you..."
Her eyes finally turned to the static ones of Clint Gladwell, donning sunglasses beside a regiment of tommy gun wielding, genre-fused supercops.
"...red-handed."
At a gesture from the Lieutenant, a fully automatic storm of bullets cracked out of the firing line into a dense girl hiding behind blood-spattered hands. And a wizard, a painter, a transaction and a jellyfish alien got out of dodge.
Moments later, the firestorm's noise - the amplified crashing of falling nails - finally quieted.
Freefall glared up from behind her arms. "...Do you have any idea what your face is gonna look like after I-" *BZZZZZT*
She flinched back involuntarily at the crackling of a contact taser in Gladwell's hand. Oh, fuck.
"Heard you were scared of these little things. You shouldn't be so... shocked to see them, fugitive."
Some of the officers pulled out tasers, themselves. Others reloaded.
Oh, FUCK!
***
Four hands tapped impatiently on the surface of a console, bathed in dim light by towering monitors. The largest ones each bore a team member portrait, silhouette, and a slew of statistics and vitals.Freefall's readout was currently devoid of useful data, the red term Q-FAIL in its place.
"How's progress, finding her?"
"Oh, you know. Just lookin' for a needle in a multiverse." The Gadgeteer sighed, lazily pushing an enter key to launch another battery of fruitless searches.
"You sure it wasn't time travel?"
"Time's messy. Always showy, leaves residue sorta. Freefall was plucked clean, right off the street. Say, can't you and Maggie pull your strings at the Gremio de Magia? You won't hear me plug magic a lot, but their dimensional mages ca–"
"NO. No, no, no. The last thing we need around here is a bureaucratic mess of wizards getting their fat hands in our business."
"Amen to that, Ace-high."
...A few moments of uncomfortable silence. Holes in a group make silence more disturbing, even if the one who'd fill them wasn't much for casual conversation in the first place.
Then a big smirk crept across Gadge's face.
"Hey, we shouldn't have to worry about finding her at all."
"Hm? Why not?"
"'Cause if she's in real danger, she'll ~reach out with her heart~ and Maggie'll lock right on."
The two traded a look, then burst into laughter. Knowing Freefall? She'd rather slit her wrists.
***
Lucky for Freefall, the protagonist of an investigation show wasn't about to be shown onscreen killing someone who had no will to fight back.Rounds of tasing and non-lethal waves of bullets in turn, though? Understandable. She'd given a black eye to an overly-invincible protagonist, after all; in the poorly-written, worshipping environment from which Gladwell hailed, that was clear justification for minutes and minutes of torture.
At some level - probably the one paying attention to that spare fleck of Barnes' brain on her suit - Freefall didn't really feel like she had grounds to disagree.
Then she was rescued in a daze to receive fresh news of her circumstances, and warped in to weakly, neatly collapse in a neon-lit Eta-Carina-brand alleyway puddle.
Freefall rolled onto her back, sputtering, and threw dizzy eyes up at her surroundings. The shadows of tall buildings, city noises, putrid alley water, being bathed in pink light (that bitch) when you're least in the mood for it... hell, it's almost like home.
She rested a bit more, sprawled out as the water soaked her hair and crept in through the myriad bulletholes in her otherwise waterproof suit. The remaining pain was tolerable; she'd been bruised worse. She just needed to wait out that tense, traumatic feeling that she was about to get tased again.
So, a comic book hero thinks she's hot shit, and gets thrown in too deep, she thinks. (psst!)
Then she gets smacked around from place to place, thinking she's useful, making a difference. She accomplishes jack.
Then - now get this - she kills a dude and proves she wasn't fucking worth the title in the first place. And then she pays (psssst!) for her stupidity by getting her worst weaponized fear jabbed into her a couple dozen times like birthday punches from an asshole who keeps losing count.
And then – her eyes began to (pssst! hey!) focus properly, noticing the too-tall towers and flying cars – a fucking bureaucratic police agency shuts everything down because she didn't even matter in the first place. Some hero, loser! You got upstaged by police!
(psssssssst!!! rachel!!)
She finally struggled upright, wiping a tear or two off her face with a knuckle covered in blood that wasn't hers. "Time to call in for pickup, I guess." She stumbled forward. It felt like the end, the end of a story or an arc or a career. The 'Game Over' epilogue on one of Gadge's more complicated video games.
(not that fucking loser, me!) (Would you just shut up?)
Freefall felt pretty tired.
(quit ignoring me)
(and ask yourself)
(what would tiffany do~?)
She walked further, apparently on one of the less bustling streets in the city. Odd aliens in odd shapes and odder fashions lumbered, strolled, and twisted by her – some Men in Black bullshit going on here – as she cast her eyes around for someplace suitable. The greasy lubricant that was money flowed like it was water here, she saw, evident in the architecture, the gilded staff uniforms outside high-class hotels and restaurants, the air of deceit and condescension in these aliens even as they shamelessly splashed intoxicating fluids into whatever the hell those orifices were. The city and its lying lights, all variations on violet. Revolting as upper Olive City. Wonderful.
Her practiced disdain for it all was more petty than she liked to believe. Nevertheless, it gave her an eye for how to avoid it. (atta girl! [img]images/smilies/icon_heartbeat.gif[/img]) She browsed through the shamefully erect buildings as she staggered forward, looking for something seedier, something that hadn't had enough oil lately, squeaky from lack of cash. Maybe something a little less pink, too.
And finally, there it was. A sign of jet-silver light, "The Feedback Loop", its crookedness from disrepair rather than edginess, occasionally flickering to a different set of symbols as its smudged sensors to detect the race and likely dialect of onlookers - sending them directed images - failed briefly and intermittently. The marquee rested on a surprisingly clean white supertower that was too dimly lit to properly showcase its intended brilliance. "Rooms available," it audibly intoned with a quiet, directed blast of female sound to her head.
Perfect. Still moneyed, sure - unbelievably so, and enough to likely earn her ratty appearance scorn - but here, at least, she won't receive the bitter brand of condescension reserved for those who think or know they're at the tip top echelon.
Not that she'd be able to come up with those words for the situation, if asked. She'd probably use the words 'stuck-up' and 'fuckers' a lot, instead. It was a more innate, unexpressed understanding.
(do it, do the thing)
The layered doors of The Feedback Loop purred open, Freefall regaining her stance and footing as she dripped and stormed down a carpeted, wood-lined, insultingly long hallway in the direction of the reception desk.
Three small, robotic eyes at the far end zoomed in on the girl, cross-referencing her with all known individuals and species in Eta Carina's citywide tourist databases. A thin, wirey ultralight-steel arm readied itself to slam the 'reject' button under its desk at her disheveled image and attire; just as it was about to hit it anyway out of distaste alone, a hit surfaced in the city's "Short-Notice Invitees" list.
Rachel Brooks, business moniker 'Freefall'. Entry into the city reserved on behalf of the BSA (the who??). One of a handful in a group of invitees, each credited with a perpetually-renewing night's stay (a what?!) in any hotel in the city, and a complimentary "Kids' Allowance" of a measly 350 credit bar tab.
Welp, apparently someone thinks this organic piece of excrement is vitally important. Might as well milk her dry.
Freefall yelled from halfway down the hall, approaching steadily. "Hey, circuits! I need some information."
The mechanized receptionist consulted the hotel's species knowledgebank, calibrating a soothing, sultry female voice designed to be aesthetic to the visiting creature's ears.
"Good evening! Welcome to The Feedback Loop, Eta Carina's premier upper end value resort, gambling establishment, and entertainment venue," it fibbed shamelessly. "We would be honored to accept your complimentary stay!"
"Compl- Look, I just want some travel info..."
"Our rooms are stocked with databases of sponsors, guaranteeing you directions to the most exciting spots in Eta Carina. Shall I book you a room near our slots? We boast nearly half as many slot machines as The Republica." To bleed your sizable tourist cash reserves...
"I don't have time for this, you bucket of bolts. I'm a he-"
The word 'hero' stuck painfully hard on her tongue. It didn't quite fit anymore.
"...-in a hurry, and would like to get to my home universe and away from all this gaudy, oversold bullshit."
"Oh, but so soon? I believe you underestimate how much Eta Carina has to offer. Why, just a few thousand credits will get you an hour in one of our seven luxurious revita-thermal gel hot tubs, for example. You look like you want to shed that tattered skin protector and–"
She finally reached the desk, slamming her hands hard on the expensive nano-grown artificial wood surface. "If I had any credits, I'd pay something who knows what it's doing to–"
"Is that so??"
Freefall pulled back a bit, blinking at the receptionist's beige, VHS-tape shaped head. The robot's voice had abruptly switched to a hostile, masculine Bronx accent.
"Look here, you dirty little snivelin' broad of a fleshbag. You think this issa charity establishment?! We don't give out minimally city-compensated rooms to just any clown-faced piece of meat who manages to gedda free pass on some fluke. You think that's how we're keepin' this place breakin' even?" The sticklike robot reared up on the enormous magnetic rolling-sphere below its hips, waggling one of three hinge-like fingers in her face from a chrome hand. "It's side charges. Massages, room service, drinks upon drinks. Luxury benefits à la carte, at luxury prices. No credits? In Eta Carina?! You're practically radioactive." It shifted upright, folding its arms in a way that seemed to almost literally interlock.
She slid her hands forward, glaring and resisting the urge to start crushing the desk. "How about you clean out whatever shitty compu-whatsits pass for ears on that cracker box that passes for a head and listen to my god damn question. I want a way out of here. I don't want a room, I don't want a sales pitch, and I don't want your metal lip."
"Why should I give the time of day to a good-for-nuthin' sack a cells who looks like a red-diode district reject?!"
"Me?! You look like Johnny Five had sex with an exercise ball."
"Could'ya do me a favor and turn your head away when ya 'tawlk? Any more of that putrid exhaust from your sustenance valve and I'll needa replace my olfactory sensors."
"Could you answer my question before I take your rear end out for some beach volleyball?"
"I'm sorry, dame, could you speak up? My sensitive mics were busy bein' overwhelmed by the noise of all your nasty biological functions. Perhaps you'd consider shittin' yourself, it'd make your intestinal tract a bit less distractin'."
(punch the bastard's head off~)
"Fine, I'll speak up. HOW THE FUCK DO I GET OUT OF HERE?!"
On cue, a floating network news screen leapt into the air, startling the receptionist as clipped through one of its elbows; it took an interested look.
"...Ah, there's your answer! You don't."
"Excuse me?!"
"Sub-entanglement fail. Haven't seen one a those in the while. You missed the last dimensional crossing by twenty-six seconds."
"So what exactly does that mean for me?"
"Nobody gets in or out of Eta Carina for days. Means unless you're secretly fuckin' loaded, you're stuck and need a room..."
The robot paused, then burst out into well-simulated laughter.
"HAhahahaha!! And there ain't no way you're findin' it here! Got any idea how many stranded tourists a budget joint like ours'll net? We just hit the jackpot, no need to humor stenchbags like you with minimum room comp. Now get the fuck oudda here. You're gettin' organic all over my desk."
The bot gestured to draw attention to Barnes' blood, smeared over the wood surface by her palms.
Freefall drew back... then lost her patience. She pulled back for a swing.
The robot was faster.
A quarter second later, she was twirling to the ground from a 200,000 volt backhand. She hadn't expected that from something with the physique of a parking meter.
"Seven cycles. Bouncer at the Exposed Wire." It rolled out from behind its desk, faux-cracking its sparking, electrified mechanical knuckles. "Dealt with one hell of a lot bigger than you. Uglier, too, almost."
She tried and failed to get up, exhausted, shaking, and hands slipping on incriminating plasma.
"........fuck...you...."
The receptionist faltered a bit.
"That's, uh... you gonna be able ta leave, fleshy?" It fidgeted and clinked its hands together. "Don't know my own strength when it comes to organics. Always leakin' fluid, makin' me nervous they're gonna explode, 'r somethin'... 'd take 'em ages to clean..."
Freefall rested on the ground, caught her breath.
After a minute, she rolled over and sat up. Stared at her hands a bit.
"...Got a bathroom?"
The robot – 'Tammy', his nametag declared – pointed down another hall, shook his head, muttered some disgust about biological orifices and waste products, and rolled back to his desk to thumb through high-res, 3D images of exposed circuitry.
Freefall stared into a mirror. A fountain of warm, fragrant, detergent-enhanced water flowed through her hands, washing blood away. Not drinkable, of course. The hotel couldn't have people guzzling from taps – especially the real liquid-guzzling species – when there was a fully stocked, ready-to-charge bar so close at hand to serve up comet-harvested melted icewater at 6000% markup.
(you know what'd make you feel better~)
I've got this under control.
(you're lying~. do the thing, do it)
Fuck you.
(you know you miss me rachel)
So what if I do?!
(you know i'd know what to do here)
You're not a super. You're not even fucking street-savvy. You'd be dead a hundred times!
But you know I'd know what the hell to do, even if it was wrong or batshit crazy. You envy that absolute fucking certainty I have. You punch when you're scared, when you can't come up with anything else to do. If I could throw a decent punch, I'd do it just to see what happened~
What's your point? Whoops, she almost said that one out loud. Talking to herself was not one of the comic book hero facets she aspired to emulate. Damn subconscious friend voices.
Nothing! Just, you know, you've got a mirror there...
No. No, it's corny, stupid...
Just do the thing.
Rachel turned off the water.
Put your hand on the glass.
She looked at her hand.
Then imagine me on the other side.
She put it on the glass.
And draw a circle around it, because even if I'm not there, I care about you, I lo– *CRASH*
Freefall's hand crushed the glass as her superego gave a right hook to her id, knocking it off balance and sending Tiffany's oddly comforting, extremely irritating voice away with it.
"I'm not your bitch."
...
That bit of... oddness taken care of – (maybe I should consider meds) – Freefall somehow felt a little more into the 'hero' swing of things. She sat on the counter in front of the other, intact mirror, using a pack of nano-sealant hidden in her belt to repair hole after hole in her suit, thinking and trying to reconcile the last comic book issue of life she'd experienced with its future arc.
And then a wizard showed up, another mirror got shattered, and she barged through a wall after the sound of a woman screaming.
***
Magenta gave a small jolt from her midair meditation as the feeling hit her. No, not feeling... feelings.She opened her eyes. A worried look forming, she let the pink sparkling shards of her levitation spell dissipate. Her feet alit gracefully on the ground, and began marching her purposefully out of her quarters.
The Eagles needed to organize. Whatever this was, it was serious. It wasn't enough to get a fix, but it felt like Freefall had nearly reached out with her heart.
***
There were plenty of healthy distractions for Freefall, now. A sinister looking wizard contracting people against a suit of armor, for one.She wasn't quite sure where that was leading, yet... for or against Arrester, or whatever the clockdroid was called. But however it was going to unfold, the next comic issue's focus was much, much clearer now.
Tommy Potter and the armor thing were key. This issue's macguffin.
She needed to find them. After that... well, she didn't know. She guessed she'd play it by ear.
After dealing with this little spectacle in the mens room, of course.
"Did Drippy here eat the jellyfish and throw up or something?!"
"MY VOMIT WOULD SMELL MORE CREATIVE THAN HIS!"
"I'm feeling better, but your yelling is giving me a headache, Tschichold. Do you want me to throw up again?"
Tschichold began screaming girlishly again, prompting the others to cover their ears in agony.
"Whoa, whoa, what's goin' on in he–"
Tammy rolled into the bathroom, the three cameras on the side of his thin, boxy head widening in shock at the painter's dripping, vomit-soaked appearance.
"Holy SHIT no, an organic exploded!!!"