Script:
It lasted a lifetime. I couldn't remember when it started and I didn't see when it would end. I remembered movement, a throaty roar, being strapped to a hard surface, then a needle and the pain took over. Reality was warped. I was close to a candle but the flame kept bursting to the size of an inferno. I was trapped in an oven, sweat dripped from my pores like wax. I was fire. I burned, I blistered and seared, then I was freezing, desperate for heat, feeling as if I would die. There was no middle ground, just endless, limitless pain. AUP Fluxion 14 was developed as a collaborative project between the medical and military divisions of Scion. It produced a crippling effect called Phantasmagoria, dubbed Brain Plague by embittered voyants, a vivid series of hallucinations caused by distortions to the human dreamscape. I fought my way through vision after vision, crying out when the pain grew too intense to bear in silence. If there is a definition for hell, this was it. It was hell. My hair stuck to my tears as I retched, trying in vain to force the poison from my body. All I wanted was for everything to end, whether it was sleep, unconsciousness or death. Something had to take me from this nightmare. There now, treasure, we don't want you to die just yet. We've already lost three today. Cold fingers stroked my forehead. I arched my back, pulled away. If they didn't want me to die, then why do this to me? Dead flowers skittered past my eyes. The room twisted into a helix, round and round, until I had no idea which way was up. I bit a pillow to stop the screams. I tasted blood and knew I'd bitten something else. My lip. My tongue. My cheek. Who knew? Flux didn't just leave your system. No matter how many times you vomited or passed urine, it kept on circulating, born by your blood, reproduced by your own cells, until you could force the antidote into your veins. I tried to plead, but I couldn't get a note out. The pain washed over me in wave, after wave, after wave, until I was sure I would die. A new voice registered. Enough. We need this one alive. Get the antidote, or I will see to it that you take twice the dose that she did. The antidote. I might yet live. I tried to see past the rippled veil of visions, but I couldn't make out anything but the candle. It was taking too long. Where was my antidote? It didn't seem to matter. I wanted sleep. The longest sleep of all. Let me go, I said. Let me out.
Script:
I go up and down that ladder like a monkey. There's a real technique to it. You roll the ladder into place, lock its wheels, then bend your knees and leap directly to the third or fourth rung. You pull with your arms to keep your momentum going, and in a moment, you're already five feet in the air. As you're climbing, you look straight ahead, not up or down. You keep your eyes focused about a foot in front of your face, and you let the books zoom by in a blur of colourful spines. You count the rungs in your head, and finally, when you're at the right level, reaching for the book you've come up to retrieve, why, of course, you lean. As a professional capability, this might not be as marketable as web design, but it's probably more fun, and at this point, I'll take anything I can get. I only wish I had to use my new skill more often. Mr Penumbra's 24-hour bookstore does not operate around the clock due to an overwhelming number of customers. In fact, there are hardly any, and sometimes I feel more like a night watchman than a clerk. Penumbra sells used books, and they are in such uniformly excellent condition that they might as well be new. He buys them during the day. You can only sell to the man with his name on the windows, and he must be a tough customer. He doesn't seem to pay much attention to the bestseller lists. His inventory is eclectic. There's no evidence of pattern or purpose other than, I suppose, his own personal taste. So, no teenage wizards or vampire police here. That's a shame, because this is exactly the kind of shop that makes you want to buy a book about a teenage wizard. This is the kind of shop that makes you want to be a teenage wizard. I've told my friends about Penumbra's, and a few of them have stopped in to ogle the shelves and watch me climb into the dusty heights. I'll usually cajole them into buying something. A Steinbeck novel, a thick Tolkien tome. All of those authors evidently of interest to Penumbra, because he stocks the complete works of each. At the minimum, I'll send my friends packing with a postcard. There's a pile of them on the front desk. They show the front of the shop in pen and ink. A fine line designed so old and uncool that it's become cool again, and Penumbra sells them for a pound each. But a quid every few hours doesn't pay my wages. I can't figure out what does pay my wages. I can't figure out what keeps this bookshop and business at all. There's a customer I've seen twice now, a woman who I'm fairly certain works next door at Booty's. I am fairly certain about this because both times her eyes were ringed panda-like with mascara and she smelled like smoke. She has a bright smile and dusty blonde-brown hair. I can't tell how old she is. She could be a tough 23 or a remarkable 31. And I don't know her name, but I do know she likes biographies.
Script:
I hate potholes, I hate desert highways too, about as much as I hate wearing high heels. My Winnebago jolted over a bad pothole before I could swerve around it. I scrambled to keep the wheel straight and grabbed for my water bottle before it toppled and spilled across my laptop keyboard. Too late. I tried to mop the water up with my mat before it seeped through to the motherboard. Captain howled from the back. Yeah, I hate Nevada too, I said. There's one thing that sucks about these nighttime desert stretches of highway, no lights and no cars. You don't see anything until it's right there in front of your barreling Winnebago. I checked my watch, 8.50 PM, the Byzantine thief was due online in 40 minutes. Damn it, where the hell was that truck stop? I peered at the road for the telltale green sign. I couldn't have missed the exit yet, could I? Serve me right for trusting directions from a waitress wearing fishnets and a pair of bunny ears. If there's one thing I've learned in my line of work over the last two years, it's to look up the chain of command for advice, not down. Hey, Captain, I've got 40 minutes to find that truck stop and get supplies. Pull off to the side of the road and log on or keep looking. The blanket rustled and Captain stuck his seal point head out. He sniffed the air before disappearing into the back. I heard metal clank and water splash as he upended his food and water bowls. I took that for keep going, I'm hungry. I chewed my lower lip as I peered through the windshield down the highway. Where the hell was that turnoff? Would it kill anyone to have more lights out here, I said. Captain meowed. I should have taken the gig in Puerto Rico instead, can't get lost on an island. My laptop beeped twice. I took my eyes off the road for a second to check the message. One of my teammates, Carpe Diem, was already online. You're a late thief, get your ass online. God damn it, I completely forgot I was supposed to meet Carpe ten minutes early so we could swap gear. Double shit, this was the second time this month I'd blanked on a pre-game meeting. Remind me to start writing my appointments on sticky notes, I said. Captain hopped up onto my front seat and chirped before curling up in a ball on my keyboard. I rolled my eyes. Thanks, I appreciate your enthusiasm. You know your sanity is in question when you find yourself in a two-way conversation with a cat. Yet another reason my social life is restricted to an online game. Well, that and my paranoia. But I can't talk to sane people about that anyways. They just lock me up with a lot of meds and I know I'm not crazy. So it's not likely to do me any good. If anything, my weekends and world quest anchor me to reality. For a few hours, I can curl up with a beer and forget I live in a Winnebago running from, well, let's just say my line of work doesn't allow for sincere in-person social interactions.
