1.2
- Location
- boundless optimism
"This is a suboptimal course of action brought on by fetishistic ideations of power that will cut off routes of de-escalation should conflict arise."
You ignore SSIEVA in favor of hot-wiring the electronic lock on a door. With a spark, two twisted wires arc with white electricity, briefly blinding you. The door hisses open, sliding into the walls. You pick up the handgun on the floor and tuck the pliers you dug out a janitorial closet a hour or so ago. There wasn't a flashlight or anything, not even a glow stick. You had to fumble around in the dark until your eyes adjusted, and invariably, there would be some dimly lit corridor or bright computer screen that still had power that stabbed your eyes and then you had to readjust all over again. And then you'd hit your knee against another desk or trip over some trash.
The Toroid really needed a janitor, you thought. It was never going to be pretty except in a starkly industrial way, but after years of neglect it was ugly. The stink of sewage clings to the walls, and you're pretty sure after an uncomfortably moist stretch that you leaned against was covered in congealed vomit. Disgusting. "Am I going the right way?" you ask into thin air.
"Yes."
You nod, continuing down the labyrinthian corridors that were just a little too small. You feel hemmed in, trapped in the world's longest prison cell. And to make things worse, each step you take echoes on to infinity. The dripping condensation doesn't help either, and neither does the stale air. But so far, nothing has posed more danger than an uppity cockroach that landed on your face in a heart-stopping moment.
"The communications system is pretty good," you remark while prying open an elevator door. "I'd-ah! expect that that would be designated as low priority." You peer around in the darkness, before backing away and leaping to catch the rung of the service elevator, holding the gun in your mouth. You need a pocket.
"Only in some sectors. This, among others. I will be maintaining silence on the comms. Patch into two-two-dot-four-five if you find a radio." After that, it's just minutes of silence, all alone in the dark. The good thing is that without any light, you can't see how high you're up, can't imagine the quick and sudden splat. The other elevator door is also open, mercifully. You haul yourself onto the floor, gasping and panting. The shape of the shadows suggest an atrium, a great, looming hall at least ten meters tall. The circular room is lined with bannisters, and to your direct front, glowing soft blue in the dark- TOROID STATION CITADEL 4 CENTRAL HUB.
This is where you're supposed to be. "Alright," you mutter to yourself, "alright." Navigating by the angler-fish blue light, you make a circuit of the room, noting the door marked Hydroponics, Space Access, Medical, Residential, and Administration. You make three quarters of a full circle before a plaque with the Braille words for SECURITY pricks your fingertips. The inside has a small waiting booth. The dim shapes of several chairs on the right, and the plastic sound that plexiglass makes when you rap a hand against it. You duck under the gate on the far end, going beyond the plexiglass barrier, running a hand across the long desk and them immediately yanking it away and scraping off ten years of rotting paper on the desk's edge.
At least the mold is happy.
Click
You freeze.
That was the sound of a gun's hammer being cocked.
"Who's out there?" a voice demands, cutting through the darkness. Your heart jumps to your throat, every muscle and bone locking into place. "I heard you. If you're not going to answer, I'm coming outside to check."
Shit shit shit. "Don't shoot," you said, opening the door, moving slowly and carefully. "I'm just here to fix the station." Lining one wall are empty fixtures, the source of the voice pointing something short and stubby at you. There is no room to dodge.
The figure lets the gun sag a bit. "You sound like… a Sonmi, yeah, a Nine. I thought all the 9's died the first year. Which one are you?"
"9-8."
"Impossible," the figure coughs. They look female, short, stocky and bulky. "I know there's only seven 9's on the station."
"SSIEVA told me that I was 9-8." You cautiously lower yourself to sit down on the ground. "I was activated a few hours ago. Who're you?"
"Hanzel," she says, placing the gun she's holding on the ground. "I'm uh, independant. I worked with SSIEVA a couple of times. Ended badly. So, uh, if you could do me a solid and don't mention me to SSIEVA that'd be great, thanks."
"What's it like?"
"Hm?" Hanzel looks up at you, the dark shape of her head jerking upwards.
"What's it like in the Toroid?"
Hanzel blows air out of her cheeks, obviously thinking her words over. "Rough," she eventually decides. "Everything's dirty, nobody's wiping the floors, you're lucky if you're eating fresh fruit or vegetable matter at all, mostly everybody eats reclaimed biomatter. You take one wrong step and you're dead. Sometimes it's the micro-debris that punches through the hull-" for effect, she slams a fist against a palm "-and boom, like that, your friend's gray matter is splattered all over the walls. Sometimes it's radiation sickness." Her voice grows more and more bitter. "At least with the gangs you have a reason, even if it's some petty shit like not kissing the boss's ass."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You didn't throw the asteroids. I'm just being bitter." Keratin rasps over skin. "Did you see anyone else while you were coming up?"
"No. Why?"
"The uh, gang, the whatchamacallits, agh, I forgot their name… Anyway, point is, I pissed them off, lost them in the corridors, hiding here." She shrugs. "Oh, well. If you didn't, you didn't. One last question: what are you doing here?"
"I was hoping I could find a gun."
"Oh, Mr. Second Amendment here. Anyway, there's only one gun here and I'm holding onto it, thank you very much."
Talk...
[ ]- Convince Hanzel to give you her gun.
[ ]- Trade her your handgun in exchange for whatever she's carrying.
[ ]- Thank her and leave. Take some ammunition before you do.
Moving on…
[ ]- Repair the Power Plant
[ ]- Repair the Oxygen filters
[ ]- Check the Atrium
[ ]- Medical
[ ]- Hydrophics
[ ]- Residential
[ ]- Administration
You ignore SSIEVA in favor of hot-wiring the electronic lock on a door. With a spark, two twisted wires arc with white electricity, briefly blinding you. The door hisses open, sliding into the walls. You pick up the handgun on the floor and tuck the pliers you dug out a janitorial closet a hour or so ago. There wasn't a flashlight or anything, not even a glow stick. You had to fumble around in the dark until your eyes adjusted, and invariably, there would be some dimly lit corridor or bright computer screen that still had power that stabbed your eyes and then you had to readjust all over again. And then you'd hit your knee against another desk or trip over some trash.
The Toroid really needed a janitor, you thought. It was never going to be pretty except in a starkly industrial way, but after years of neglect it was ugly. The stink of sewage clings to the walls, and you're pretty sure after an uncomfortably moist stretch that you leaned against was covered in congealed vomit. Disgusting. "Am I going the right way?" you ask into thin air.
"Yes."
You nod, continuing down the labyrinthian corridors that were just a little too small. You feel hemmed in, trapped in the world's longest prison cell. And to make things worse, each step you take echoes on to infinity. The dripping condensation doesn't help either, and neither does the stale air. But so far, nothing has posed more danger than an uppity cockroach that landed on your face in a heart-stopping moment.
"The communications system is pretty good," you remark while prying open an elevator door. "I'd-ah! expect that that would be designated as low priority." You peer around in the darkness, before backing away and leaping to catch the rung of the service elevator, holding the gun in your mouth. You need a pocket.
"Only in some sectors. This, among others. I will be maintaining silence on the comms. Patch into two-two-dot-four-five if you find a radio." After that, it's just minutes of silence, all alone in the dark. The good thing is that without any light, you can't see how high you're up, can't imagine the quick and sudden splat. The other elevator door is also open, mercifully. You haul yourself onto the floor, gasping and panting. The shape of the shadows suggest an atrium, a great, looming hall at least ten meters tall. The circular room is lined with bannisters, and to your direct front, glowing soft blue in the dark- TOROID STATION CITADEL 4 CENTRAL HUB.
This is where you're supposed to be. "Alright," you mutter to yourself, "alright." Navigating by the angler-fish blue light, you make a circuit of the room, noting the door marked Hydroponics, Space Access, Medical, Residential, and Administration. You make three quarters of a full circle before a plaque with the Braille words for SECURITY pricks your fingertips. The inside has a small waiting booth. The dim shapes of several chairs on the right, and the plastic sound that plexiglass makes when you rap a hand against it. You duck under the gate on the far end, going beyond the plexiglass barrier, running a hand across the long desk and them immediately yanking it away and scraping off ten years of rotting paper on the desk's edge.
At least the mold is happy.
Click
You freeze.
That was the sound of a gun's hammer being cocked.
"Who's out there?" a voice demands, cutting through the darkness. Your heart jumps to your throat, every muscle and bone locking into place. "I heard you. If you're not going to answer, I'm coming outside to check."
Shit shit shit. "Don't shoot," you said, opening the door, moving slowly and carefully. "I'm just here to fix the station." Lining one wall are empty fixtures, the source of the voice pointing something short and stubby at you. There is no room to dodge.
The figure lets the gun sag a bit. "You sound like… a Sonmi, yeah, a Nine. I thought all the 9's died the first year. Which one are you?"
"9-8."
"Impossible," the figure coughs. They look female, short, stocky and bulky. "I know there's only seven 9's on the station."
"SSIEVA told me that I was 9-8." You cautiously lower yourself to sit down on the ground. "I was activated a few hours ago. Who're you?"
"Hanzel," she says, placing the gun she's holding on the ground. "I'm uh, independant. I worked with SSIEVA a couple of times. Ended badly. So, uh, if you could do me a solid and don't mention me to SSIEVA that'd be great, thanks."
"What's it like?"
"Hm?" Hanzel looks up at you, the dark shape of her head jerking upwards.
"What's it like in the Toroid?"
Hanzel blows air out of her cheeks, obviously thinking her words over. "Rough," she eventually decides. "Everything's dirty, nobody's wiping the floors, you're lucky if you're eating fresh fruit or vegetable matter at all, mostly everybody eats reclaimed biomatter. You take one wrong step and you're dead. Sometimes it's the micro-debris that punches through the hull-" for effect, she slams a fist against a palm "-and boom, like that, your friend's gray matter is splattered all over the walls. Sometimes it's radiation sickness." Her voice grows more and more bitter. "At least with the gangs you have a reason, even if it's some petty shit like not kissing the boss's ass."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You didn't throw the asteroids. I'm just being bitter." Keratin rasps over skin. "Did you see anyone else while you were coming up?"
"No. Why?"
"The uh, gang, the whatchamacallits, agh, I forgot their name… Anyway, point is, I pissed them off, lost them in the corridors, hiding here." She shrugs. "Oh, well. If you didn't, you didn't. One last question: what are you doing here?"
"I was hoping I could find a gun."
"Oh, Mr. Second Amendment here. Anyway, there's only one gun here and I'm holding onto it, thank you very much."
Talk...
[ ]- Convince Hanzel to give you her gun.
[ ]- Trade her your handgun in exchange for whatever she's carrying.
[ ]- Thank her and leave. Take some ammunition before you do.
Moving on…
[ ]- Repair the Power Plant
[ ]- Repair the Oxygen filters
[ ]- Check the Atrium
[ ]- Medical
[ ]- Hydrophics
[ ]- Residential
[ ]- Administration
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