Blood is a special substance
They gonna pray for that man
~ Talking Heads ‘Swamp’ 1983
They gonna pray for that man
~ Talking Heads ‘Swamp’ 1983
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| Allan Kausch |
Back out in the hall. Empty with the presence of someone just left.
You circle upwards toward the main body of the house, weapon up, back to the wall, checking up and downward for the just-in-case, you have no opinion, you’re a machine, your shoes make no sound on the marble stairs.
Outside Krystal’s bedroom, dark footprints on the white carpet, lead out and away, fading as they go to disappear into the corridor that leads to the room where the AI lives.
You almost don’t bother entering Krystal’s room, and when you do you immediately wish you hadn’t.
Other that an incongruously unstained patch of her sequinned outfit nothing that remains is recognisably Krystal; her face smashed in; probably by the blunt end of that staff.
It looks like Krystal was done first which means you are being led right now.
A nag in the back of your mind says you should get the fuck out and come back with a bigger team.
But there’s no telling how the others will treat you now you are effectively without employer.
How many slights; real or imagined by the offended party; will come back to haunt you now that you have no protection from above?
Best to continue on the last known order of business: maintain and protect the status quo.
Down the corridor where the footprints led, the AI has also been dismembered, its screen smashed and its organic core removed from the container and flung across the room, leaving a smear of oily fluid across the wooden floor.
Thus far you have seen nothing that says professional, these are acts of deep anger, acts perpetrated with dark intent. There’s really no need to make such a mess of your victims; it’s disrespectful.
Looks like the status quo has been thrown off a cliff.
The slightest of sound; a joint click; bone exertion.
Too close
You turn and are struck by lightning.
You circle upwards toward the main body of the house, weapon up, back to the wall, checking up and downward for the just-in-case, you have no opinion, you’re a machine, your shoes make no sound on the marble stairs.
Outside Krystal’s bedroom, dark footprints on the white carpet, lead out and away, fading as they go to disappear into the corridor that leads to the room where the AI lives.
You almost don’t bother entering Krystal’s room, and when you do you immediately wish you hadn’t.
Other that an incongruously unstained patch of her sequinned outfit nothing that remains is recognisably Krystal; her face smashed in; probably by the blunt end of that staff.
It looks like Krystal was done first which means you are being led right now.
A nag in the back of your mind says you should get the fuck out and come back with a bigger team.
But there’s no telling how the others will treat you now you are effectively without employer.
How many slights; real or imagined by the offended party; will come back to haunt you now that you have no protection from above?
Best to continue on the last known order of business: maintain and protect the status quo.
Down the corridor where the footprints led, the AI has also been dismembered, its screen smashed and its organic core removed from the container and flung across the room, leaving a smear of oily fluid across the wooden floor.
Thus far you have seen nothing that says professional, these are acts of deep anger, acts perpetrated with dark intent. There’s really no need to make such a mess of your victims; it’s disrespectful.
Looks like the status quo has been thrown off a cliff.
The slightest of sound; a joint click; bone exertion.
Too close
You turn and are struck by lightning.
| Talking Heads | ||
| Swamp | ||
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