07-12-2018, 09:34 AM
The two Primes, still filthy and bruised from the battle in Bilgewater, gawked at the unfamiliar surroundings. A dozen pairs of eyes bored into Whirda, whose legs trembled with exhaustion, knees threatening to buckle at any moment. Blood trickled freely from the gash Cell’s tail had left in her thigh, already marring the pristine tiles of the boardroom floor. They slid easily into the open seats, Whirda sighing audibly as the tension eased from her injured leg, accompanied by a fresh stream of blood.
If the mess, or the brine-, sweat-, and smoke-laden stench of their triumphant mascots bothered anyone in the room, they didn’t show it. Wide grins met them from every angle. Slowly, the man with the lapel pin rose and began to clap, and the rest of the obsequious executives rose without hesitation to join him.
Embarrassed, Whirda glowered through the round of applause, accepting the unwanted praise stoically. When the last resounding echoes faded, she asked, “Where are we?” The room had no windows. Whirda found herself growing frustrated, whether because of her inability to get her bearings in the increasingly bizarre Dante’s Abyss or her profound need for rest she couldn’t be sure.
“Ratings are up 18%!” the man with the lapel pin gushed, his enthusiasm overriding any sense of basic courtesy—even giving them his name. “And sales by 12%. You two ladies ought to be very proud of yourselves.”
“Oh, we are,” Yuuka chimed in, sensing Whirda’s mounting anger and grabbing the reins. “Nothing makes us happier than PepsiCo’s success. Right?” She accentuated that last word with a nudge in Whirda’s ribs.
“Right.”
“Excellent,” the man said again.
Yuuka flashed a warm smile. “Given you’ve seen so much success,” she began tentatively, “maybe we should discuss our cut?”
The man initiated a second quickly corroborated chorus of laughter. “Your cut? Your cut is notoriety, dear Yuuka. By the time we’re done with you, everyone in the Omniverse will know your name.”
“That’s all well and good,” Yuuka said with a scowl. “But I have a clown to put through college. Coruscant University isn’t cheap.”
In a flash—in typical psychopathic executive fashion, Yuuka recognized—the man’s expression shifted from jovial to severe. “The time for negotiation is long past. Need I remind you that you signed a contract?” From an unremarkable manila envelope on the conference table he produced a sheaf of papers, bearing the Youkai’s unmistakable signature.
“No need,” Whirda interjected.
But Yuuka was already standing. “I don’t have time for this. Keep your money. I have a tournament to win.” Tugging irritably at the cinched waist of her charred Pepsi jumpsuit, she brushed past the stunned congregation and, while she still had no idea where she was or how to get back to the Syntech facility, exited the room.
If the mess, or the brine-, sweat-, and smoke-laden stench of their triumphant mascots bothered anyone in the room, they didn’t show it. Wide grins met them from every angle. Slowly, the man with the lapel pin rose and began to clap, and the rest of the obsequious executives rose without hesitation to join him.
Embarrassed, Whirda glowered through the round of applause, accepting the unwanted praise stoically. When the last resounding echoes faded, she asked, “Where are we?” The room had no windows. Whirda found herself growing frustrated, whether because of her inability to get her bearings in the increasingly bizarre Dante’s Abyss or her profound need for rest she couldn’t be sure.
“Ratings are up 18%!” the man with the lapel pin gushed, his enthusiasm overriding any sense of basic courtesy—even giving them his name. “And sales by 12%. You two ladies ought to be very proud of yourselves.”
“Oh, we are,” Yuuka chimed in, sensing Whirda’s mounting anger and grabbing the reins. “Nothing makes us happier than PepsiCo’s success. Right?” She accentuated that last word with a nudge in Whirda’s ribs.
“Right.”
“Excellent,” the man said again.
Yuuka flashed a warm smile. “Given you’ve seen so much success,” she began tentatively, “maybe we should discuss our cut?”
The man initiated a second quickly corroborated chorus of laughter. “Your cut? Your cut is notoriety, dear Yuuka. By the time we’re done with you, everyone in the Omniverse will know your name.”
“That’s all well and good,” Yuuka said with a scowl. “But I have a clown to put through college. Coruscant University isn’t cheap.”
In a flash—in typical psychopathic executive fashion, Yuuka recognized—the man’s expression shifted from jovial to severe. “The time for negotiation is long past. Need I remind you that you signed a contract?” From an unremarkable manila envelope on the conference table he produced a sheaf of papers, bearing the Youkai’s unmistakable signature.
“No need,” Whirda interjected.
But Yuuka was already standing. “I don’t have time for this. Keep your money. I have a tournament to win.” Tugging irritably at the cinched waist of her charred Pepsi jumpsuit, she brushed past the stunned congregation and, while she still had no idea where she was or how to get back to the Syntech facility, exited the room.
![[Image: drink-pepsi-cola.jpg]](https://lph5i1b6c053kq7us26bdk75-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/drink-pepsi-cola.jpg)