06-21-2017, 01:17 PM
He licked his tongue along the surface of his parched lips, sucking every last bit of moisture from the arid skin. Concentrated pulses of pain pounded the sides of his head that no amount of teeth clenching or eye shutting could ward off. Despite the suffocating heat inside of his RIG, he didn’t sweat. Rather, he had been content with activating the air conditioning unit inside of his suit, which had been blasting tropical-smelling mist into his face for the majority of his travels. As he pressed the button to turn it back on, however, his heart sank.
“Error: Moisturizer fuel depleted. Please refuel at the nearest RIG station.”
It seemed his journey was going to have to be cut short. Sighing, he searched for a place he could visit to hydrate himself.
That place turned out to be an ice cream parlor. The windows at the front had been cratered, and it was the hole left behind that caught Clark’s attention and caused him to go inside. Dust floated around the inside of the shop, but it was ineffective in masking the distinguishing features of the store. Red stools stood connected to the checker-patterned floor as a row alongside a silver counter-top packed with tall, empty glasses, napkins, a tip jar with a broken top, and a cash register laying on its side. A large machine with a dozen colored buttons on the front and a large scooper on the side sat behind the bar, rust plaguing the edges. Snow white tables and chairs laid strewn all over the parlor, having been knocked down by what Isaac could only assume to be a panicked mob given the general disarray as well as the singular, fist-sized rock settled in the center of the floor. A purple jukebox sat along the back wall of the parlor, the records it had held discarded onto the floor alongside several pieces of glass.
Isaac stared, transfixed. Most everything beforehand had implied something had happened, but there was never any obvious damage. Abandoned cars, discolored billboards, and misspelled graffiti propaganda had been the worst he had seen. But this store looked like it had been the victim of an outright riot.
He looked over to the counter, moving the thoughts to the back of his mind. He walked behind it and towards the machine. A quick press of one of the buttons left only a small droplet of liquid to fall out, but that trace was all he needed.
He pulled the machine out, small sparks of electricity arcing from the plugs as they were freed from their plug-ins. He slid the plug into a tiny socket on the back of his neck. Immediately, he felt a rush of cold, strawberry-smelling air shoot up into his face. A hologram materialized on his torso indicating that the moisturizer had been refilled.
“Thank goodness for modern technology,” he said as he removed the plug.
His knapsack vibrated. Curious, he removed the tablet and the spherical waterskin. Drinking from the canteen, he read the latest development on the competition.
“The Zone C8 Item Drop has been obtained!”
He blinked.
...What?
He gawked at the hologram that formed into visibility, removing the white highlight that showed an available item drop from the C8 zone. The rest of the available zones soon followed, leaving a green map before he turned it off.
...Well this was a massive waste of my time.
He sighed. He knew he should have gone to the one in Zone E.
He felt like he should have been angry, vengeful even, but he just couldn’t muster up the energy to do so. He had entered the competition wanting to prove himself to any potential employees out in the Omniverse, but after getting his leg jacked up and his only ally leaving him, he had given that up a long time ago. Perhaps out of some stroke of luck, he’d reach the end and survive the whole ordeal, but even that was a crapshoot to end all crapshoots.
Taking another sip from his canteen, he exited the parlor and walked towards where he believed the safehouse was. He might as well just sit there and try to think of his next move. Maybe read the letter if he had time.
“Error: Moisturizer fuel depleted. Please refuel at the nearest RIG station.”
It seemed his journey was going to have to be cut short. Sighing, he searched for a place he could visit to hydrate himself.
That place turned out to be an ice cream parlor. The windows at the front had been cratered, and it was the hole left behind that caught Clark’s attention and caused him to go inside. Dust floated around the inside of the shop, but it was ineffective in masking the distinguishing features of the store. Red stools stood connected to the checker-patterned floor as a row alongside a silver counter-top packed with tall, empty glasses, napkins, a tip jar with a broken top, and a cash register laying on its side. A large machine with a dozen colored buttons on the front and a large scooper on the side sat behind the bar, rust plaguing the edges. Snow white tables and chairs laid strewn all over the parlor, having been knocked down by what Isaac could only assume to be a panicked mob given the general disarray as well as the singular, fist-sized rock settled in the center of the floor. A purple jukebox sat along the back wall of the parlor, the records it had held discarded onto the floor alongside several pieces of glass.
Isaac stared, transfixed. Most everything beforehand had implied something had happened, but there was never any obvious damage. Abandoned cars, discolored billboards, and misspelled graffiti propaganda had been the worst he had seen. But this store looked like it had been the victim of an outright riot.
He looked over to the counter, moving the thoughts to the back of his mind. He walked behind it and towards the machine. A quick press of one of the buttons left only a small droplet of liquid to fall out, but that trace was all he needed.
He pulled the machine out, small sparks of electricity arcing from the plugs as they were freed from their plug-ins. He slid the plug into a tiny socket on the back of his neck. Immediately, he felt a rush of cold, strawberry-smelling air shoot up into his face. A hologram materialized on his torso indicating that the moisturizer had been refilled.
“Thank goodness for modern technology,” he said as he removed the plug.
His knapsack vibrated. Curious, he removed the tablet and the spherical waterskin. Drinking from the canteen, he read the latest development on the competition.
“The Zone C8 Item Drop has been obtained!”
He blinked.
...What?
He gawked at the hologram that formed into visibility, removing the white highlight that showed an available item drop from the C8 zone. The rest of the available zones soon followed, leaving a green map before he turned it off.
...Well this was a massive waste of my time.
He sighed. He knew he should have gone to the one in Zone E.
He felt like he should have been angry, vengeful even, but he just couldn’t muster up the energy to do so. He had entered the competition wanting to prove himself to any potential employees out in the Omniverse, but after getting his leg jacked up and his only ally leaving him, he had given that up a long time ago. Perhaps out of some stroke of luck, he’d reach the end and survive the whole ordeal, but even that was a crapshoot to end all crapshoots.
Taking another sip from his canteen, he exited the parlor and walked towards where he believed the safehouse was. He might as well just sit there and try to think of his next move. Maybe read the letter if he had time.
Quote:Team Space Man (Isaac) --- Moving from C21 to Safehouse C.
C&C Thread
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New to OV? Need a question answered? Want a C&C of your work? Send a PM to me!
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