Capellan
Explorer
1 : The Boys Are Back In Town
The 70-storey headquarters of GPE International loomed over the Las Vegas skyline. Though topped with neon lights over twenty feet high, the building itself was like a black monolith. Every surface was constructed of one-way glass, dark and featureless.
Johnson's office was on the 67th floor. Above him were only power systems, computers, satellite relays, and the massive GPE sign. More than seven hundred feet below him were the General's chambers: the place that GPE Employees only half-jokingly called 'The Crypt'.
He stared at the five people in his office and silently wished he could crunch down a couple of painkillers. God, he hated dealing with 'talent'.
"Why were we summoned, Mr Johnson?" The Mormon, Smith, asked. He wore a powder-blue suit with a white carnation. "I had to depart my wedding reception in order to attend this meeting." He raised his hand, showing the five rings that gleamed on his finger.
"The General's decided to give you five another chance." Johnson announced. "Sales of the laser disc of your last mission are still strong, four months after release. Despite your earlier ... misdemeanours ... it makes economic sense to give you another assignment."
"The King smiles on our endeavours." The one named Floyd agreed, through a mouthful of bacon double-cheeseburger. Smears of grease made multi-coloured smears on his rhinestone bodysuit.
The boy in the Elektra Lives Again t-shirt scratched himself through his jeans, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
"An assignment? Now? I'd love to go, only I've got this flu coming on. I wouldn't want to infect anyone -"
"Participation is not optional." Johnson folded his hands and glared at all five of them. "You're all one step from being thrown out of the company. Failure to follow instructions in this instance will lead to your termination."
"So like, if we do this -" the mini-skirted blonde snapped her gum, "we'll be on, like, TV and stuff?"
"Yes." Johnson resisted the urge to bang his head on the desk, "You'll be on TV. And on magazine covers, lunch boxes, comic books, all the usual merchandise."
Fabio flexed his muscles.
"What all is the job?" Floyd belched and took a long slurp of Cherry Cola.
"We've found directions to a previously unknown complex. The specifics are a little vague, but it's situated within a mountain named Khundrukar. Since we don't have the exact co-ordinates, we'll gate you in at the nearest town: a place called Brindinsford. From there, you'll have to make your own way to the complex, find your way in, and find out if there's anything worth filming in there. If there is, you can consider yourself in a fully-sanctioned match. Usual bonus rates will apply for any creatures killed in the match area - anywhere in the complex."
"What about the villagers?" the blonde crossed her legs with complete disregard for the shortness of her skirt.
"They aren't in a game zone. You won't be paid for killing them."
"But we can if we want to?"
Johnson sighed,
"Try to remember that until you locate the complex and we get a gate fix on it, you will have to rely on the locals for supplies."
"When do we depart?" Smith asked.
"Tomorrow morning at nine." Johnson tossed five plastic tags onto the desk, "Gate Room 49. Don't be late."
* * *
"They're going?"
"Yes, sir." Johnson resisted the urge to shift nervously under the old man's gaze.
"Then we're all set."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't take that route with me, Johnson. Unlike those youngsters, I can tell when I'm bein' lied to. You don't think them boys can do it?"
"I'm sure they can handle the complex, sir. It's just ..."
"Spit it out, son!"
"Well ... they're not very bright, sir."
"Don't take 'em too lightly, Johnson." The General hacked out a dry laugh, "They got a low cunning, these boys. Kinda like the Reds. They'll do what we need 'em too, or my name ain't George S. Patton."
* * *
"Like, what's the matter now?" Beverley Hills-Hilton flounced to a stop in a whirl of expensive perfume and microscopic clothing.
"Simon's stopped again." Floyd sat down on the narrow mountain track, resting his back against the stone cliff-face. He pulled a jar of peanut butter out of his vest and dug two fingers inside. Thrusting them into his mouth, he talked through the sticky brown sandwich spread, "Smith's talkin' to him."
"The skanky old bigamist?" Bev wrinkled her nose, "Like anyone'd listen to him." Somehow sure-footed in her six-inch heels, she walked back toward the arguing pair.
"This is the third time you've stopped since we started up the mountain, Mr Ninja." Smith leaned over Simon. The boy had changed into a Public Enemy t-shirt.
"Homes, I keep tellin' you Ninja ain't my name, it's my title." Simon made strange signs with his hands, then - as if realising they were wrong - changed them. "Just call me "Super-Ninja."
"What's the problem?" Bev snapped her gum.
"It's my asthma." Simon brandished an inhaler like it was a weapon, "This mountain's steep, homes. I gotta stop and rest."
"Yeah? This oughta perk you up." Bev yanked up her shirt.
Simon goggled.
Immediately, she grabbed the inhaler and threw it off the mountain.
"Woah! What are you doing? I could die without that!"
"You could die if we threw your pimply little butt after it, too." Bev gave him her brightest smile, "Couldn't we, Bigamy-Boy?" She turned toward Smith, and sighed. "Oh for god's sake, take your hands away from your eyes. I've got my goodies covered again."
"You are a sinful woman." The Mormon told her severely.
"Right, like you never saw a pair, Mr Four-Wives-Wasn't-Enough. Who do you think you are, Derek Flint?" Bev turned her attention back to Simon, "Look, if we get to the top of the path without you stopping again, I'll give you another look at my rack. Deal?"
Lust warred briefly with laziness. In a 16-year old boy, there could be only one result.
"Deal."
The 70-storey headquarters of GPE International loomed over the Las Vegas skyline. Though topped with neon lights over twenty feet high, the building itself was like a black monolith. Every surface was constructed of one-way glass, dark and featureless.
Johnson's office was on the 67th floor. Above him were only power systems, computers, satellite relays, and the massive GPE sign. More than seven hundred feet below him were the General's chambers: the place that GPE Employees only half-jokingly called 'The Crypt'.
He stared at the five people in his office and silently wished he could crunch down a couple of painkillers. God, he hated dealing with 'talent'.
"Why were we summoned, Mr Johnson?" The Mormon, Smith, asked. He wore a powder-blue suit with a white carnation. "I had to depart my wedding reception in order to attend this meeting." He raised his hand, showing the five rings that gleamed on his finger.
"The General's decided to give you five another chance." Johnson announced. "Sales of the laser disc of your last mission are still strong, four months after release. Despite your earlier ... misdemeanours ... it makes economic sense to give you another assignment."
"The King smiles on our endeavours." The one named Floyd agreed, through a mouthful of bacon double-cheeseburger. Smears of grease made multi-coloured smears on his rhinestone bodysuit.
The boy in the Elektra Lives Again t-shirt scratched himself through his jeans, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
"An assignment? Now? I'd love to go, only I've got this flu coming on. I wouldn't want to infect anyone -"
"Participation is not optional." Johnson folded his hands and glared at all five of them. "You're all one step from being thrown out of the company. Failure to follow instructions in this instance will lead to your termination."
"So like, if we do this -" the mini-skirted blonde snapped her gum, "we'll be on, like, TV and stuff?"
"Yes." Johnson resisted the urge to bang his head on the desk, "You'll be on TV. And on magazine covers, lunch boxes, comic books, all the usual merchandise."
Fabio flexed his muscles.
"What all is the job?" Floyd belched and took a long slurp of Cherry Cola.
"We've found directions to a previously unknown complex. The specifics are a little vague, but it's situated within a mountain named Khundrukar. Since we don't have the exact co-ordinates, we'll gate you in at the nearest town: a place called Brindinsford. From there, you'll have to make your own way to the complex, find your way in, and find out if there's anything worth filming in there. If there is, you can consider yourself in a fully-sanctioned match. Usual bonus rates will apply for any creatures killed in the match area - anywhere in the complex."
"What about the villagers?" the blonde crossed her legs with complete disregard for the shortness of her skirt.
"They aren't in a game zone. You won't be paid for killing them."
"But we can if we want to?"
Johnson sighed,
"Try to remember that until you locate the complex and we get a gate fix on it, you will have to rely on the locals for supplies."
"When do we depart?" Smith asked.
"Tomorrow morning at nine." Johnson tossed five plastic tags onto the desk, "Gate Room 49. Don't be late."
* * *
"They're going?"
"Yes, sir." Johnson resisted the urge to shift nervously under the old man's gaze.
"Then we're all set."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't take that route with me, Johnson. Unlike those youngsters, I can tell when I'm bein' lied to. You don't think them boys can do it?"
"I'm sure they can handle the complex, sir. It's just ..."
"Spit it out, son!"
"Well ... they're not very bright, sir."
"Don't take 'em too lightly, Johnson." The General hacked out a dry laugh, "They got a low cunning, these boys. Kinda like the Reds. They'll do what we need 'em too, or my name ain't George S. Patton."
* * *
"Like, what's the matter now?" Beverley Hills-Hilton flounced to a stop in a whirl of expensive perfume and microscopic clothing.
"Simon's stopped again." Floyd sat down on the narrow mountain track, resting his back against the stone cliff-face. He pulled a jar of peanut butter out of his vest and dug two fingers inside. Thrusting them into his mouth, he talked through the sticky brown sandwich spread, "Smith's talkin' to him."
"The skanky old bigamist?" Bev wrinkled her nose, "Like anyone'd listen to him." Somehow sure-footed in her six-inch heels, she walked back toward the arguing pair.
"This is the third time you've stopped since we started up the mountain, Mr Ninja." Smith leaned over Simon. The boy had changed into a Public Enemy t-shirt.
"Homes, I keep tellin' you Ninja ain't my name, it's my title." Simon made strange signs with his hands, then - as if realising they were wrong - changed them. "Just call me "Super-Ninja."
"What's the problem?" Bev snapped her gum.
"It's my asthma." Simon brandished an inhaler like it was a weapon, "This mountain's steep, homes. I gotta stop and rest."
"Yeah? This oughta perk you up." Bev yanked up her shirt.
Simon goggled.
Immediately, she grabbed the inhaler and threw it off the mountain.
"Woah! What are you doing? I could die without that!"
"You could die if we threw your pimply little butt after it, too." Bev gave him her brightest smile, "Couldn't we, Bigamy-Boy?" She turned toward Smith, and sighed. "Oh for god's sake, take your hands away from your eyes. I've got my goodies covered again."
"You are a sinful woman." The Mormon told her severely.
"Right, like you never saw a pair, Mr Four-Wives-Wasn't-Enough. Who do you think you are, Derek Flint?" Bev turned her attention back to Simon, "Look, if we get to the top of the path without you stopping again, I'll give you another look at my rack. Deal?"
Lust warred briefly with laziness. In a 16-year old boy, there could be only one result.
"Deal."
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![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
