Re: The Relentless Slaughter [Round 3: Tormentorland]
07-11-2012, 09:17 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by engineclock.
Junior Bathroom Attendant Atlaua Four calmly watched a man vomit enthusiastically into a sink and smiled.
It was a slow afternoon and there wasn’t much to do otherwise. The man, whose former name Atlaua did not know and would not have cared about, had yet to notice him. This was not as unusual or offensive as it might have been, since it was a generally accepted fact that no matter how interesting they otherwise might be no one will ever completely notice a bathroom attendant. They are sort of like decorative furniture, even in Atlaua’s case. In at any rate the attendant was enjoying the company, such as it was. It was rare for any guest to stay so long in one bathroom. He briefly considered that this was simply the man’s species’ natural habitat, but struck that idea as he slammed his head onto the sink and said, “Son of a bitch.”
Rolloland had a very vague policy on swearing. The number of languages spoken within its boundaries- even with the assistance of complementary endoneural translator chips- made it almost a statistical certainty that at some point an innocuous request for directions spoken in Eleélese would sound very much like a request for a highly illegal sex position in Uluumian and that the resulting casualties would make for very expensive legal proceedings. All Rolloland employees were therefore required to studiously monitor their own language and express a casually polite interest into the conversations of anyone else using expletives, mostly for the purpose of providing two targets for any potential offended customers and thus reducing the likelihood of a lawsuit by half.
So it was that Atlaua issued a polite hey-there-hello-sir-how’s-it-then to the man, who flinched and reflexively punched the mirror.
Bad-day-then? the attendant said cheerfully, brushing a few glittering shards off his nose with a pudgy foot. His gills flapped inquisitively.
Black blood welled from the man’s hand, pattering onto the otherwise spotless sink. He rolled his head backward, staring at Atlaua with fever-bright eyes. “The hell are you,” he mumbled. He seemed to be looking at something just slightly to the right of the attendant’s head.
A primitive world, this one, Atlaua thought placidly. He slunk up onto a sink and smiled toothlessly at the man. Atlaua-sir-junior-bathroom-attendant-sir-Abystroman, he said. He stuck out a six-fingered hand. Pleasure.
The man didn’t accept. He was just now taking in the languid bulk that was Atlaua stretched out under the paper towel dispensary. The attendant supposed that he might appear alarming to the sort of fifth-worlder this man clearly was, who didn’t recognize a law-abiding citizen when he saw one: an overgrown salamander, translucent-pale, with tiny red eyes that didn’t see so much as they picked up heat signatures and analyzed chemical compositions. Each of his feet was as big as the man’s head and the porcelain groaned under his weight as he leaned forward conspiratorially.
Drunk-sir? He encouraged.
“I wish,” said the man. He looked around the bathroom with reluctantly dawning comprehension. “Rolloland?”
Yes-sir-welcome.
“Horrible...”
Little-bit, said Atlaua happily. He was mostly just glad this conversation was headed somewhere productive. Did-you-come-with-a-party-are-you-lost?
The man gave up his tenuous grip on the sink and slumped against the pipes. “Yes. No,” he said, “Yes.” He held up his hands to the soothingly pinkish lights and stared at them. “There was a girl.”
I-see.
“She…” Something crossed the man’s face; then he spasmed and resumed emptying what was left in his stomach.
Atlaua wriggled closer and pawed at his shoulder comfortingly. Relationships-are-difficult.
“No,” groaned the man. He clawed weakly at the tiles. His claws screeched painfully; Atlaua’s gills flopped in displeasure. “She killed me.”
You-are-very-much-
“No, no, listen,” begged the man. He stumbled to his feet, towering over the attendant. “I was,” he said, “I was on a ship, and then… the Oracle, and then I was somewhere terrible and, and there was this girl, and she… I… I don’t know who I am,” he finished. He looked at the ceiling as if the answer would be written there, which it wasn’t, unless the answer was ATLAUA-WAS-HERE-PLEASE-DO-NOT-FIRE-ATLAUA.
Atlaua nodded. His thoughts had drifted to his next break.
“The Oracle. They left me there,” the man said. He sounded upset. “With the eyes, and the teeth... And then… I was someone else. Here.” He gave the mirror a plaintive look. “That’s not my face. My eyes are brown.”
The attendant nodded sagely. He was starting to understand now. It was rare, but the dimensional shuttles to Rolloland sometimes scrambled the brainwaves of less intelligent guests. There was an entire chapter dedicated to the phenomenon in the Bathroom Attendant/ Trauma Counselor’s Handbook, Fourth Ed. At this level of damage there was nothing he could do for the poor creature except a quick bullet to the frontal cortex or, on a much less merciful front, years of extensive therapy. It was sad, he mused. Rolloland really should have tightened the restrictions years ago.
Can-you-tell-me-your-name-sir, he said gently. Ambystromans don’t feel pity, but they do feel sympathetic hunger and Atlaua was willing to accept a compromise. Maybe-I-can-help.
The man made a sound that served equally well as a laugh or a sob. “I don’t remember.”
Definitely the bullet, thought the attendant. He performed the Ambystroman equivalent of a sigh and reached to take the man’s hand, which, in retrospect, was the single worst decision in the attendant’s life.
He felt a claw pierce his wrist, electric symphonies exploding behind his eyes with ponderous dignity as someone else’s body hit the floor. The smell of salt water and smoke rose up from the floor into his waiting cartilage. Someone else turned their head to the man and Atlaua saw that his eyes had widened in shock, but he was bursting with eyes, running down his chest and arms and hands in neon waves of sightless glittering horizons and Atlaua couldn’t tell which he was meant to look at, to see through, to use, and the man backed away in terror and left him there, melting into the sea.
Junior Bathroom Attendant Atlaua Four calmly watched a man vomit enthusiastically into a sink and smiled.
It was a slow afternoon and there wasn’t much to do otherwise. The man, whose former name Atlaua did not know and would not have cared about, had yet to notice him. This was not as unusual or offensive as it might have been, since it was a generally accepted fact that no matter how interesting they otherwise might be no one will ever completely notice a bathroom attendant. They are sort of like decorative furniture, even in Atlaua’s case. In at any rate the attendant was enjoying the company, such as it was. It was rare for any guest to stay so long in one bathroom. He briefly considered that this was simply the man’s species’ natural habitat, but struck that idea as he slammed his head onto the sink and said, “Son of a bitch.”
Rolloland had a very vague policy on swearing. The number of languages spoken within its boundaries- even with the assistance of complementary endoneural translator chips- made it almost a statistical certainty that at some point an innocuous request for directions spoken in Eleélese would sound very much like a request for a highly illegal sex position in Uluumian and that the resulting casualties would make for very expensive legal proceedings. All Rolloland employees were therefore required to studiously monitor their own language and express a casually polite interest into the conversations of anyone else using expletives, mostly for the purpose of providing two targets for any potential offended customers and thus reducing the likelihood of a lawsuit by half.
So it was that Atlaua issued a polite hey-there-hello-sir-how’s-it-then to the man, who flinched and reflexively punched the mirror.
Bad-day-then? the attendant said cheerfully, brushing a few glittering shards off his nose with a pudgy foot. His gills flapped inquisitively.
Black blood welled from the man’s hand, pattering onto the otherwise spotless sink. He rolled his head backward, staring at Atlaua with fever-bright eyes. “The hell are you,” he mumbled. He seemed to be looking at something just slightly to the right of the attendant’s head.
A primitive world, this one, Atlaua thought placidly. He slunk up onto a sink and smiled toothlessly at the man. Atlaua-sir-junior-bathroom-attendant-sir-Abystroman, he said. He stuck out a six-fingered hand. Pleasure.
The man didn’t accept. He was just now taking in the languid bulk that was Atlaua stretched out under the paper towel dispensary. The attendant supposed that he might appear alarming to the sort of fifth-worlder this man clearly was, who didn’t recognize a law-abiding citizen when he saw one: an overgrown salamander, translucent-pale, with tiny red eyes that didn’t see so much as they picked up heat signatures and analyzed chemical compositions. Each of his feet was as big as the man’s head and the porcelain groaned under his weight as he leaned forward conspiratorially.
Drunk-sir? He encouraged.
“I wish,” said the man. He looked around the bathroom with reluctantly dawning comprehension. “Rolloland?”
Yes-sir-welcome.
“Horrible...”
Little-bit, said Atlaua happily. He was mostly just glad this conversation was headed somewhere productive. Did-you-come-with-a-party-are-you-lost?
The man gave up his tenuous grip on the sink and slumped against the pipes. “Yes. No,” he said, “Yes.” He held up his hands to the soothingly pinkish lights and stared at them. “There was a girl.”
I-see.
“She…” Something crossed the man’s face; then he spasmed and resumed emptying what was left in his stomach.
Atlaua wriggled closer and pawed at his shoulder comfortingly. Relationships-are-difficult.
“No,” groaned the man. He clawed weakly at the tiles. His claws screeched painfully; Atlaua’s gills flopped in displeasure. “She killed me.”
You-are-very-much-
“No, no, listen,” begged the man. He stumbled to his feet, towering over the attendant. “I was,” he said, “I was on a ship, and then… the Oracle, and then I was somewhere terrible and, and there was this girl, and she… I… I don’t know who I am,” he finished. He looked at the ceiling as if the answer would be written there, which it wasn’t, unless the answer was ATLAUA-WAS-HERE-PLEASE-DO-NOT-FIRE-ATLAUA.
Atlaua nodded. His thoughts had drifted to his next break.
“The Oracle. They left me there,” the man said. He sounded upset. “With the eyes, and the teeth... And then… I was someone else. Here.” He gave the mirror a plaintive look. “That’s not my face. My eyes are brown.”
The attendant nodded sagely. He was starting to understand now. It was rare, but the dimensional shuttles to Rolloland sometimes scrambled the brainwaves of less intelligent guests. There was an entire chapter dedicated to the phenomenon in the Bathroom Attendant/ Trauma Counselor’s Handbook, Fourth Ed. At this level of damage there was nothing he could do for the poor creature except a quick bullet to the frontal cortex or, on a much less merciful front, years of extensive therapy. It was sad, he mused. Rolloland really should have tightened the restrictions years ago.
Can-you-tell-me-your-name-sir, he said gently. Ambystromans don’t feel pity, but they do feel sympathetic hunger and Atlaua was willing to accept a compromise. Maybe-I-can-help.
The man made a sound that served equally well as a laugh or a sob. “I don’t remember.”
Definitely the bullet, thought the attendant. He performed the Ambystroman equivalent of a sigh and reached to take the man’s hand, which, in retrospect, was the single worst decision in the attendant’s life.
He felt a claw pierce his wrist, electric symphonies exploding behind his eyes with ponderous dignity as someone else’s body hit the floor. The smell of salt water and smoke rose up from the floor into his waiting cartilage. Someone else turned their head to the man and Atlaua saw that his eyes had widened in shock, but he was bursting with eyes, running down his chest and arms and hands in neon waves of sightless glittering horizons and Atlaua couldn’t tell which he was meant to look at, to see through, to use, and the man backed away in terror and left him there, melting into the sea.