07-14-2017, 07:53 AM
Tamsin had left a while ago, and Karl Jak found himself in a meeting with the members of the board. While people had been talking, the man in the purple suit had been staring out the window, lost in his thoughts.
The maid – a relic of his own home world – had left the producer with a sour taste in his mouth. It had taken him a degree of control to ask her more about what she knew. Would she know what the world had become after the war?
Unfortunately, Karl had kept his questions to himself, and just as he had guessed, the maid had gone to a realm of (nearly) no return.
“Well, that’s the last of them,” one of the board members, a man in his forties named Jefferson, remarked. “What are your thoughts on this year’s event, Karl?”
Karl glanced up from the exquisite mahogany meeting table to look at the man. Oh, yes, Jefferson Daniels. Used to live in that terrible flat down on 34th Street. Blown apart by a twelve-megaton energy bomb. Nothing left but the ashes and regret.
“Karl?” Jefferson asked again. As one of the senior members of the board, he was part of a small group of people that called the producer by his first name. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Karl Jak muttered before leaning back in his chair and adjusting himself so he sat comfortably with his lumbar region fully supported. “Just lost a little bit up here,” the producer replied, gesturing to his perfectly coifed head of hair and the gray organ that lay inside his skull.
A slightly older man to the right of Karl spoke up to try and break the silence after her supervisor fell silent again. “It ended a little early, did it not?” Karl nodded his head but didn’t reply, prompting more words from the tense, middle-aged father of three who had been burned alive when the Stallions tore through his neighborhood on the outskirts of Central City. “You think we should have tweaked the drop rate? We should know why now that they’re going to bunch up and avoid each other. Intimidation wins these things a lot of the time.”
“You’re not mistaken, Markus.” Karl, his eyes blinking as he shook away the image of the man’s charred corpse, leaned across the table. “And that play at the end? That adorable little blue child, with her friends willing to stall the death squads?”
Jefferson Daniels smiled. “The audiences really loved when we aired those little recap videos of the final battles. We put it to some sappy music, and they ate it up.”
A quirky-looking woman in her mid-thirties giggled. “You see the graphics that the art department put into it? It was great!”
“The department did a great job, Mrs. Harwley.” Karl looked to the woman’s left, at the head of the art department. The woman called Miss Emerald merely smiled with her wide eyes and nodded her head. She wasn’t one for words, even when her apartment complex collapsed with her sleeping inside of it.
“I have some stock figures we should look at,” the voice was the lead from Accounting. Adam Kuze knew numbers very well—one of the best accountants before the war that claimed his life. “Or would you prefer to wait until later?” Adam had glanced around to see the glazed-over faces that his interjection had generated. “…I’ll tell Jan to leave the spreadsheets.”
Karl snickered as he turned and pointed a finger across the boardroom table to Mr. Smith, who tilted his head in anticipation of the question. “Have you finished getting the final numbers for viewership and subscriptions?”
“Uh,” Mr. Smith grabbed for his cellphone and held it up. “I have my team working on down on Six.” Mr. Smith’s team of Mr. Ness, Mr. Saig, Ms. Ana, Mr. Balado, and Mr. Clarkson were a hardworking group that spent a lot of time on the Dataverse analyzing trends, tracking likes, subscriptions, and digital purchases of Syntech media. They had been some of Karl’s favorite workers back in his own world, and they had been part of the group of secondaries he had created to help run this verse.
The executive producer shook his head. “We can wait, I suppose. It might be best to get the cost and the revenue side-by-side.”
“But, Karl,” Markus inquired, his eyes narrowing. “It went well, didn’t it?”
Karl, who paused for a moment, nodded his head. “Yea, it did. Some of it was frustrating… we’ll have to do a better job maximizing the action and trying to limit the amount of downtime. I got some ideas that I’ll include in next week’s email mailer.” Karl paused to think before he proposed a question to his team. “You think the guy up there enjoys the theatrics?”
“Omni?” Mr. Smith asks, prompting a nod from Karl. “I mean, I’m sure he does. Why else would we be here?”
“Our benefactor,” Karl said with a smile as he toasted an imaginary martini to ‘the man upstairs.’ Not a moment later, a knock on the door pulled the attention to the room to a young man in a bartender’s outfit. As if waiting for the queue, he held a tray of assorted beverages for the board meeting.
A name tag on his shirt read ‘L. Sanderson.’ “Your margarita, Sir.”
“Gracias,” Karl said with a wink as he took the small glass from the bartender. Tipping it back, the producer managed to get just a few drops in before his eyes shot open and he found himself spewing the drink on the table. A beat later, he set the glass down and turned to glare at the novice bartender. “That’s way too much fucking salt for me, Larry.”
The maid – a relic of his own home world – had left the producer with a sour taste in his mouth. It had taken him a degree of control to ask her more about what she knew. Would she know what the world had become after the war?
Unfortunately, Karl had kept his questions to himself, and just as he had guessed, the maid had gone to a realm of (nearly) no return.
“Well, that’s the last of them,” one of the board members, a man in his forties named Jefferson, remarked. “What are your thoughts on this year’s event, Karl?”
Karl glanced up from the exquisite mahogany meeting table to look at the man. Oh, yes, Jefferson Daniels. Used to live in that terrible flat down on 34th Street. Blown apart by a twelve-megaton energy bomb. Nothing left but the ashes and regret.
“Karl?” Jefferson asked again. As one of the senior members of the board, he was part of a small group of people that called the producer by his first name. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Karl Jak muttered before leaning back in his chair and adjusting himself so he sat comfortably with his lumbar region fully supported. “Just lost a little bit up here,” the producer replied, gesturing to his perfectly coifed head of hair and the gray organ that lay inside his skull.
A slightly older man to the right of Karl spoke up to try and break the silence after her supervisor fell silent again. “It ended a little early, did it not?” Karl nodded his head but didn’t reply, prompting more words from the tense, middle-aged father of three who had been burned alive when the Stallions tore through his neighborhood on the outskirts of Central City. “You think we should have tweaked the drop rate? We should know why now that they’re going to bunch up and avoid each other. Intimidation wins these things a lot of the time.”
“You’re not mistaken, Markus.” Karl, his eyes blinking as he shook away the image of the man’s charred corpse, leaned across the table. “And that play at the end? That adorable little blue child, with her friends willing to stall the death squads?”
Jefferson Daniels smiled. “The audiences really loved when we aired those little recap videos of the final battles. We put it to some sappy music, and they ate it up.”
A quirky-looking woman in her mid-thirties giggled. “You see the graphics that the art department put into it? It was great!”
“The department did a great job, Mrs. Harwley.” Karl looked to the woman’s left, at the head of the art department. The woman called Miss Emerald merely smiled with her wide eyes and nodded her head. She wasn’t one for words, even when her apartment complex collapsed with her sleeping inside of it.
“I have some stock figures we should look at,” the voice was the lead from Accounting. Adam Kuze knew numbers very well—one of the best accountants before the war that claimed his life. “Or would you prefer to wait until later?” Adam had glanced around to see the glazed-over faces that his interjection had generated. “…I’ll tell Jan to leave the spreadsheets.”
Karl snickered as he turned and pointed a finger across the boardroom table to Mr. Smith, who tilted his head in anticipation of the question. “Have you finished getting the final numbers for viewership and subscriptions?”
“Uh,” Mr. Smith grabbed for his cellphone and held it up. “I have my team working on down on Six.” Mr. Smith’s team of Mr. Ness, Mr. Saig, Ms. Ana, Mr. Balado, and Mr. Clarkson were a hardworking group that spent a lot of time on the Dataverse analyzing trends, tracking likes, subscriptions, and digital purchases of Syntech media. They had been some of Karl’s favorite workers back in his own world, and they had been part of the group of secondaries he had created to help run this verse.
The executive producer shook his head. “We can wait, I suppose. It might be best to get the cost and the revenue side-by-side.”
“But, Karl,” Markus inquired, his eyes narrowing. “It went well, didn’t it?”
Karl, who paused for a moment, nodded his head. “Yea, it did. Some of it was frustrating… we’ll have to do a better job maximizing the action and trying to limit the amount of downtime. I got some ideas that I’ll include in next week’s email mailer.” Karl paused to think before he proposed a question to his team. “You think the guy up there enjoys the theatrics?”
“Omni?” Mr. Smith asks, prompting a nod from Karl. “I mean, I’m sure he does. Why else would we be here?”
“Our benefactor,” Karl said with a smile as he toasted an imaginary martini to ‘the man upstairs.’ Not a moment later, a knock on the door pulled the attention to the room to a young man in a bartender’s outfit. As if waiting for the queue, he held a tray of assorted beverages for the board meeting.
A name tag on his shirt read ‘L. Sanderson.’ “Your margarita, Sir.”
“Gracias,” Karl said with a wink as he took the small glass from the bartender. Tipping it back, the producer managed to get just a few drops in before his eyes shot open and he found himself spewing the drink on the table. A beat later, he set the glass down and turned to glare at the novice bartender. “That’s way too much fucking salt for me, Larry.”
![[Image: KarlSig.jpg]](http://omniverse-rpg.com/images/KarlSig.jpg)