Re: Intense Struggle Season 2! (Round 4: Deathball Championship)
01-10-2012, 04:25 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Pinary.
Maurice deFont was glad when the crazy guy with the gun was out of the storage cupboard and out of the office. He really had only wanted some more paper; the latest sales figures were in, and sales among his target demographic (fans of the Terran Tales Deathball team) had jumped by another ten percent. That was exciting news, especially when sales on the whole were down by 1.5% in the last week. He wanted to share the news with as many people as he could as fast as he could (after all, that's what marketing was all about).
That didn't stop him from peering nervously around the corner into the copier's alcove before he went in, though.
A few minutes later, with a stack of charts and graphs in hand, he stopped by his coworker's cubicle. Peter Fenwick was in charge of marketing towards the Cutting Runners, and while he was always a bit twitchy, when Maurice dropped a chart on his desk, he nearly jumped out of his seat.
Maurice just groaned. "You tagged him, didn't you?", he asked his coworker. "Pete, man, you know that's against regulations."
"Well, now, see, that's, ah, not, well..."
"Come on, man, relax!" Maurice chucked the shorter man on the shoulder. "It's not like everyone doesn't do it from time to time."
Peter's eyes darted around furtively for a moment, then settled back on Maurice. Soon after, they drifted down to the stack of papers. Still a bit nervous, he asked, "What're those?"
Maurice just grabbed the top of the other man's head and turned it to face the copy he'd already placed on the desk. "Sales figures, man! My new batch of commercials worked wonders, check it out!"
Before the shorter man had a chance to look over them, half-heartedly congratulate Maurice on them, then go on about how his figures were so much worse and he'd be fired for sure, however, his desk phone rang. Instinctually, his hand snapped out and he grabbed the receiver. Someone had let it get to third ring just last week, and he just hadn't been cut out for the games.
"Hello?"
There was a pause for a few seconds while someone on the other end of the line said something that made Pete's eyes widen.
"It's for you," he said simply, his gaze turning up to Maurice.
The taller man took the handset and cautiously raised it to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Maurice, go to the downstairs cafe. Be there in the next ten minutes, or you'll be in the game before sun meets horizon." There was a click, then the line reverted to its typical background commentary on the current state of the game.
Pete's face, in response to the shocking change in Maurice's, was chalk-white. The taller man's still managed to be paler.
"I'll, uh... I'll talk to you later," Maurice said. "I think I'm going to head out for a cup of coffee. See you later."
Peter didn't think seeing him later was very likely, but he responded in kind all the same.
-
As Maurice made his way downstairs, Lloyd was quietly knocking his head against the wall of the Fifth Avenue Lunchery. The bookworm could think of dozens of people he'd been before that he'd rather have been now: an incompetent lab tech "accidentally" messing with results; a mischievous triangular prism screwing with a two-dimensional world and ruining a sphere's plans; hell, even being that damned half-mute elf was preferable to this.
Lloyd Conrad was the regional manager for A2 All-Natural Energy Drinks. He wore a suit-jacket and tie over his usual hawaiian shirt (something that was, for some inexplicable reason, actually in style in the positively insane world he found himself in), and his towel was folded neatly in a fairly-expensive-but-not-top-shelf briefcase by his side. The half of his personality that came from the local storyline had spent many years getting to where he was in life, and the worst part was, it wasn't because he liked distributing electrolyte-enhanced iced tea.
Lloyd Conrad had a plan.
He'd spent years and years working on the plan, slowly getting things in place, getting a small organization of people together to work towards his ultimate goal. Things were nearly ready, too, and soon, his plan- and yes, it was his plan, not the work of another that he was merely putting into motion- soon, his plan would be ready to enact.
He literally couldn't bring himself to mess it up. Half of him had spent more than half of his life planning to bring down the games, take down the whole Deathball organization in one fell swoop, and as much as the other half hated the idea, the will it took to create a plan was so much more powerful than the will required to bring one crashing down.
Lloyd was determined, and he was damned if he'd let Lloyd stand in his way.
Fortunately, the bell to the cafe jingled, and that meant it was time to go to work. Lloyd could quietly rebel against himself, or he could accept that at least he was at least going to be taking down something.
-
Maurice stepped into the deserted diner and blinked into the darkness. Normally, the restaurant would be bustling, but instead, it was deserted, all the blinds drawn and all the lights out. "Hello? Mr. Conrad? It's, uh... It's Maurice deFont." There was no response. After a few seconds, he added, "You called me do-"
"Yes, I know," Lloyd interrupted, his voice cutting out of the darkness. "I'll be brief."
A light came on over a table off to one side, the dim bulb barely lighting up enough to see the seats. In the middle of the table sat a briefcase.
"Mr. deFont, I have a task for you. If you carry it out, you get a raise, an office with a window and dedicated vents, and I'll put a recommendation to add a sales commission to your salary." There was a pause while he didn't have to say he'd throw him to the games if he refused.
"...Alright," Maurice assented, taking a hesitant few steps towards the table. "What do you want me to do?"
"It's simple," Lloyd responded. "A recruitment team randomly ran into Jerome C, our department's liaison to the International Deathball League. Standing company policy dictates that the person with the best weekly sales record is automatically promoted to fill vacancies in such scenarios, and I don't need to tell you who that is."
Despite not being able to see him, Maurice could feel his boss glancing pointedly at the sheets he'd nervously crumpled in his hands on the way downstairs.
"Take that briefcase with you to tonight's Welcoming Ceremony. In just two hours, they'll be introducing the day's recruits into the stadium, and I want you in the Corporate Box overlooking it all, along with the Chairman and two thirds of the Deathball Oversight Committee."
Maurice had been to the Welcoming Ceremony a few times before, as most people had, and he'd seen the box looming overhead. It hovered over the center of the stadium, watching everything from a plethora of cameras standing around. No one could actually see inside it from down below, as the glass was all tinted and reflective, but stories were constantly whirling about the sort of luxury people watching from within were treated to.
"Attached to that briefcase you'll find the official identity transmitter that marks you as the A2 representative. Recruitment squads won't touch you, and all public transit is free."
The light over the table went out as Maurice took up the case, perhaps a bit too eager considering he was being forced to take it.
"The lock on there's a Glenn-Reider 1550, so don't bother with trying to open it up early. It's set to open when the bell sounds at the end of the ceremony, so you don't have to worry about a thing."
The door swung open, apparently of its own accord (really, there was just fishing line tied to the inside handle).
"Good luck, Mr. deFont."
As Maurice rushed out, briefcase gripped tight in his hand, Lloyd let the door fall shut. Two hours, the bookworm thought to himself, one hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. Just two more hours, and this stupid plan thing's rolling on its own.
Maurice deFont was glad when the crazy guy with the gun was out of the storage cupboard and out of the office. He really had only wanted some more paper; the latest sales figures were in, and sales among his target demographic (fans of the Terran Tales Deathball team) had jumped by another ten percent. That was exciting news, especially when sales on the whole were down by 1.5% in the last week. He wanted to share the news with as many people as he could as fast as he could (after all, that's what marketing was all about).
That didn't stop him from peering nervously around the corner into the copier's alcove before he went in, though.
A few minutes later, with a stack of charts and graphs in hand, he stopped by his coworker's cubicle. Peter Fenwick was in charge of marketing towards the Cutting Runners, and while he was always a bit twitchy, when Maurice dropped a chart on his desk, he nearly jumped out of his seat.
Maurice just groaned. "You tagged him, didn't you?", he asked his coworker. "Pete, man, you know that's against regulations."
"Well, now, see, that's, ah, not, well..."
"Come on, man, relax!" Maurice chucked the shorter man on the shoulder. "It's not like everyone doesn't do it from time to time."
Peter's eyes darted around furtively for a moment, then settled back on Maurice. Soon after, they drifted down to the stack of papers. Still a bit nervous, he asked, "What're those?"
Maurice just grabbed the top of the other man's head and turned it to face the copy he'd already placed on the desk. "Sales figures, man! My new batch of commercials worked wonders, check it out!"
Before the shorter man had a chance to look over them, half-heartedly congratulate Maurice on them, then go on about how his figures were so much worse and he'd be fired for sure, however, his desk phone rang. Instinctually, his hand snapped out and he grabbed the receiver. Someone had let it get to third ring just last week, and he just hadn't been cut out for the games.
"Hello?"
There was a pause for a few seconds while someone on the other end of the line said something that made Pete's eyes widen.
"It's for you," he said simply, his gaze turning up to Maurice.
The taller man took the handset and cautiously raised it to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Maurice, go to the downstairs cafe. Be there in the next ten minutes, or you'll be in the game before sun meets horizon." There was a click, then the line reverted to its typical background commentary on the current state of the game.
Pete's face, in response to the shocking change in Maurice's, was chalk-white. The taller man's still managed to be paler.
"I'll, uh... I'll talk to you later," Maurice said. "I think I'm going to head out for a cup of coffee. See you later."
Peter didn't think seeing him later was very likely, but he responded in kind all the same.
-
As Maurice made his way downstairs, Lloyd was quietly knocking his head against the wall of the Fifth Avenue Lunchery. The bookworm could think of dozens of people he'd been before that he'd rather have been now: an incompetent lab tech "accidentally" messing with results; a mischievous triangular prism screwing with a two-dimensional world and ruining a sphere's plans; hell, even being that damned half-mute elf was preferable to this.
Lloyd Conrad was the regional manager for A2 All-Natural Energy Drinks. He wore a suit-jacket and tie over his usual hawaiian shirt (something that was, for some inexplicable reason, actually in style in the positively insane world he found himself in), and his towel was folded neatly in a fairly-expensive-but-not-top-shelf briefcase by his side. The half of his personality that came from the local storyline had spent many years getting to where he was in life, and the worst part was, it wasn't because he liked distributing electrolyte-enhanced iced tea.
Lloyd Conrad had a plan.
He'd spent years and years working on the plan, slowly getting things in place, getting a small organization of people together to work towards his ultimate goal. Things were nearly ready, too, and soon, his plan- and yes, it was his plan, not the work of another that he was merely putting into motion- soon, his plan would be ready to enact.
He literally couldn't bring himself to mess it up. Half of him had spent more than half of his life planning to bring down the games, take down the whole Deathball organization in one fell swoop, and as much as the other half hated the idea, the will it took to create a plan was so much more powerful than the will required to bring one crashing down.
Lloyd was determined, and he was damned if he'd let Lloyd stand in his way.
Fortunately, the bell to the cafe jingled, and that meant it was time to go to work. Lloyd could quietly rebel against himself, or he could accept that at least he was at least going to be taking down something.
-
Maurice stepped into the deserted diner and blinked into the darkness. Normally, the restaurant would be bustling, but instead, it was deserted, all the blinds drawn and all the lights out. "Hello? Mr. Conrad? It's, uh... It's Maurice deFont." There was no response. After a few seconds, he added, "You called me do-"
"Yes, I know," Lloyd interrupted, his voice cutting out of the darkness. "I'll be brief."
A light came on over a table off to one side, the dim bulb barely lighting up enough to see the seats. In the middle of the table sat a briefcase.
"Mr. deFont, I have a task for you. If you carry it out, you get a raise, an office with a window and dedicated vents, and I'll put a recommendation to add a sales commission to your salary." There was a pause while he didn't have to say he'd throw him to the games if he refused.
"...Alright," Maurice assented, taking a hesitant few steps towards the table. "What do you want me to do?"
"It's simple," Lloyd responded. "A recruitment team randomly ran into Jerome C, our department's liaison to the International Deathball League. Standing company policy dictates that the person with the best weekly sales record is automatically promoted to fill vacancies in such scenarios, and I don't need to tell you who that is."
Despite not being able to see him, Maurice could feel his boss glancing pointedly at the sheets he'd nervously crumpled in his hands on the way downstairs.
"Take that briefcase with you to tonight's Welcoming Ceremony. In just two hours, they'll be introducing the day's recruits into the stadium, and I want you in the Corporate Box overlooking it all, along with the Chairman and two thirds of the Deathball Oversight Committee."
Maurice had been to the Welcoming Ceremony a few times before, as most people had, and he'd seen the box looming overhead. It hovered over the center of the stadium, watching everything from a plethora of cameras standing around. No one could actually see inside it from down below, as the glass was all tinted and reflective, but stories were constantly whirling about the sort of luxury people watching from within were treated to.
"Attached to that briefcase you'll find the official identity transmitter that marks you as the A2 representative. Recruitment squads won't touch you, and all public transit is free."
The light over the table went out as Maurice took up the case, perhaps a bit too eager considering he was being forced to take it.
"The lock on there's a Glenn-Reider 1550, so don't bother with trying to open it up early. It's set to open when the bell sounds at the end of the ceremony, so you don't have to worry about a thing."
The door swung open, apparently of its own accord (really, there was just fishing line tied to the inside handle).
"Good luck, Mr. deFont."
As Maurice rushed out, briefcase gripped tight in his hand, Lloyd let the door fall shut. Two hours, the bookworm thought to himself, one hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. Just two more hours, and this stupid plan thing's rolling on its own.