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Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 11-06-07, 07:35 PM (EST) "The Mole: Season #5: Episode #1: A Dark Room" LAST EDITED ON 11-08-07 AT 11:24 AM (EST) ----------------------------------------------------------------- Sometimes, in the beginning, there will be a dark room. It happens over and over, a theme that endlessly replays across both stories and lives, moving under its own power. Gather them in the darkness, where there are no witnesses (at least, none that they know of), left to do whatever they can think of in a place where no one could possibly know who had acted... ...and wait. But sometimes, it's too early. They don't know each other yet. They don't have cause to act. The grudges, the petty hatreds, the emotions aren't there yet. And in those times, they will simply stand and wait for the light to arrive. And when that happens... then eventually, there will be another dark room. In time, after everyone knows exactly how they feel about each other. When they believe no one can see them, when they think there are no witnesses -- -- something will happen then. In time... ----------------------------------------------------------------- now ----------------------------------------------------------------- Twelve clicks. A dozen sets of hinges creak open (they were rigged to creak), just as many footsteps move forward -- and stop. This place has no more light than the one they just left. None of the new arrivals can see anything, and all they can hear is each other. There isn't even much of that: breathing, a little fast from nerves here, forced down to an unnatural level of calm there (and that's being audibly faked), steady control somewhere else (with that last coming without anything approaching effort). Listen to the sound of a dozen people standing in the dark, not knowing what to do next -- -- and you might miss the thirteenth, who gives a very small signal, perfectly visible through the night-vision lenses -- -- the lights come on all at once, high overhead, and we can see the twelve now, gazing down from above. They are mostly standing just in front of their doors -- one, the silver-haired Californian, had taken a few steps closer to the interior, one's been caught feeling her way along the curving wall, and a third is still moving. The doors are set an average of twelve feet apart on the semicircle, and we're watching from the balcony, using the gaze of another for a few moments. Start on the far left: it's as good a place as any, and that's where we'll find the silver-haired man, actively rubbing his eyes: after the relative dimness of the tunnels and several minutes in the dark, he's finding it very bright in here. Contacts can make some wearers very light-sensitive, and he's one of the lucky few: the arrival of television-worthy interior lighting has completely stopped his progress. When he finally looks up (for a value of 'finally' that works out to a few seconds: time is always measured here), he glances to his right and finds a broad-shouldered man surveying him. His neighbor is of medium height and somewhat above-average width -- all from side to side: front to back wouldn't dream of showing extra weight. Early fifties, graying hair (faint traces of light brown remain) worn in a style that reflects the Marine buzzcut, at least for ease of maintenance. He seems to have acquired a light coating of grey from the air in the same way some people can't step in front of a lightbulb without starting to tan: there's a faint touch of slate to his skin, and it's amplified by the deeper grey of his jacket and tie. This one is standing -- well, not at attention, but not exactly at ease, either. In fact, he's very visibly tense, this one. He wants to know what happens next, he's from a place where he's normally able to demand it, and he's not the least bit comfortable with no longer being in total control. The next one is having too much fun to care about that kind of detail just yet. Late sixties, our watcher knows, but how many people will ever reach that age and retain this kind of vitality? Hair still auburn, curly and flouncing with artful intent as she looks around, her smile just a little bit wry added to a lot of joyous. Lines on her face, sure (and she's attractive yet, slowly working her way down the slippery slope from knockout), but she could easily pass for fifty or a little less, and a fifty that still has curves to the body (medium height, trim lines on the limbs, hips made to swing), skin that's retained some of its youth exposed by her short-sleeve t-shirt, not to mention the scooped neck that doesn't quite get to her cleavage, but it's considering the possibilities with every movement. Unusual eyes here: that very rare medium violet which the gene pool throws out every so often on a whim -- but even more rare is the dance and twinkle they've retained. Her off-white t-shirt bears the legend GYLF, and the man on her right may be considering the option. This one -- well, there's something in his eyes, all right, but you might not want to get too close to it for fear of slipping in the oil. A little too polished, to the point where you might wonder just what's supposed to skid off. Black hair that's seen far too much care from its owner, olive skin which may have been polished recently, plus teeth that definitely were and that's after the show took care of things. Attractive? Yes, definitely -- if you're just looking at what's being presented: a Grecian man in his early forties who unknowingly gives off the aura of a teenager at the peak of his hormones. There's something just a little bit off here, isn't there? He wants to dress like a model, and he's got at least a few of the lines to drape the pieces over -- but he's trying far too hard... We can't stay too long with that one, though -- not with the next in line to consider. It's hard not to look at this arrival, who is -- well, let's skip 'fair' and go right to 'blatant': this is the single tallest woman our watcher has ever seen. The first thought here might be a normal teenager, plus twenty-five percent in all directions, and that's about as good a shorthand as we're going to get, even if it's off by six thus-far invisible calendar years. She doesn't have the stretched-out look that the very tall sometimes display or the outsized hands, feet, and head that would mark acromegly: everything has been scaled up in proportion. (There's just a lot to mentally scale back down before realizing that.) Figure her for -- well, give her a bit for those black sneakers, and we can safely put her at a barefoot six-ten and having had to duck before she got through the old door, slowly looking around (but not up yet, and not to her right) as she blinks behind round lenses. A dark honey-blonde here, hair currently worn long in a straight fall, with the kind of eyes that tend to change shade depending on how the light hits them: right now, they're showing up hazel. Light brown slacks and a soft beige blouse, a casual outfit that's probably the most expensive clothing in the room just by virtue of actually fitting. Take her just as she is and you might find her pretty, but getting past the first bit... That may be the problem her neighbor is having. Arabic male (Iraqi descent, the watcher knows), who also looks quite a bit younger than his true age. His dark eyes have been caught staring (but only by the cameras, at least for now). A bit over a foot shorter than the woman he's continuing to give a startled examination to through unblinking eyes. Slim in the limbs and narrow through the body -- he doesn't look strong, this one, but he does look fast: there's a wiry quality to the forearms his shirt has exposed -- and there's his first attempt to get himself back under control: a sudden, sharp blink. It doesn't seem to be helping. Next to him we have -- well, what do we have here? If the last one was the tallest woman personally witnessed, this one is the second thinnest -- no, only second, because there was the more recent Courtney and after that Courtney, second place is all that's left to strive for. This arrival's skin is magnificent, one of the most beautiful chocolate shades you could ever hope to see, but its owner has decided that lovely hue wasn't enough and spiked it up a little. Literally. A piercing here, another there -- not on her face, oddly enough: there's a visible one on the shoulder her torn blouse has left bare, and another peeking out on the right side of her neck. No symmetry in the placements: they seem to have been installed on a series of whims, and that one pushing at the small untorn portion of her jeans is never going to appear in public without a bikini's help. (One other, somewhat more censor-prone one is visible in very sharp relief.) She has a slight inward pull to her shoulders, her posture leans forward, her lips are curled just a bit inwards themselves, thinned out by anger, and the lean muscles of her arms are tensed... This is a rat in a corner, surveying a world full of enemies and deciding which to bite first. (The green/pink/mauve hair, worn in short spikes, may be some sort of defense mechanism. Maybe she's telling the predators her corpse will taste bad. And, given the piercings, will deliver a portmortem bite of its own.) We should probably move on from there in a hurry, and this next one has already decided to look away. This is a very small woman: five feet, a little less, mid-forties, and decidedly white: the light blonde hair she's sported in the swish-cut seems as if it's the only color she could manage. There's something about her that's been -- well -- washed out: a computer-alerted picture that's had the brightness turned up too high. Not defeated-looking by any means: there's a fundamental toughness to her posture, hard work visible in the palms of her hands. But this is a woman on the upslope, someone who recently realized she was working from a position of surrender and responded to it by immediately declaring war -- but she's gotten one battle, one step, and there's a long way to go. The lines of her face are decidedly hard as she braces for the conflict to come: small chin set, tiny nostrils flared. Her most daring statement may be her ears: triple-pierced with small silver hoops working up the flange -- something our rat hasn't bothered with, perhaps because it's just too conventional. She's wearing light blue Business Casual: it's not another day at the office, but this was what she found in the closet. Possibly it's all she has in the closet. Oh, and look at this! For any other show, this would be an instant point of worry and possibly a reason to see if there's a backup available, but for the place we are now, it's actually bordering on funny (and possibly suspicious, if you want to think that way this early on). We have a handsome black man -- very handsome, if not in the most standard way: he is to men what someone once described Sophia Loren as being to women: a glorious accident (eyes a little large, nose with just a touch too much projection, lips slightly too thin and ears that jut out a bit, features that should never work together and somehow do) -- with the build of an decathlete, a perfectly shaved head to go with his perfectly shaved face, and beautiful hands gripping the padded handles of his crutches. That's right: this one has shown up with a broken leg (the right), or perhaps he's just claiming to have a broken leg as part of his strategy, or he might have just come out of a dressing room somewhere: people will start to make their own calls shortly. He's not moving all that well on the crutches, and you can tell because he's the only one who really kept moving when the lights went on. Sure, he's looking at the others -- in fact, he just visually reached the grey man -- but he's staying in unsteady motion so he can keep changing his vantage point. Switch ours, and we wind up with -- a two-legged bulldog. Yes, that's accurate: a man so ugly that he's managed to move all the way around the circle and become appealing. German-Russian, maybe, but that's looking under what's happened to the original factory equipment. Figure at a double-minimum, his nose has been broken three times and set twice. His legs seem a little short (he's a six-footer, but a lot of that is torso), his neck is thick, one ear is delicately cauliflowered and his heavy-chinned jaw is currently experiencing a light pull to magnetic north. Another one who's bald by choice, but either he's very bad at it or his nose isn't the only thing that's been broken (and on closer inspection, add his upper left arm to that mix): there's some odd scars visible from this angle. He's grinning, which at least shows that his teeth are completely intact, although that has an unstoppable 'for now' aura to it. Another physically fit one -- very visible under the tight white t-shirt and classic jeans -- but with the air of having reaching physical fitness by personally punishing any body part that decided to get mouthy, and you sort of have to hope his pale blue eyes never wind up offending him: he just might pluck them out. There's another glorious accident or six here, but it's of an entirely different kind. He's being evaluated by his neighbor, a late-twenties brunette who would normally be considered a little on the tall side -- call her five-ten with just about no hips, but a waist that manages to provide a bit of curve above them and breasts that give a few more subtle hints higher up. Reds, maroons, and light browns in her clothing: a fair amount of expense in the design. Light signs of plastic surgery on her face: her nose has definitely been recontoured, and the chin has seen some work -- but the dark green eyes which are giving the bulldog the once-over (verging on twice) are all hers. She's the only one in a skirt, showing off legs that are definitely her best feature, and the open-top shoes are meant as a second-place display (but weren't the best choice for the tunnels). Hair worn in a style which solidly states she spent half an hour working on her look in order to make it seem like she only glanced in the mirror after getting up and then went right out the door. Full, somewhat pouty lips, which are pursed slightly as she officially gets up to thrice. And finally, we come to the one who was feeling her way along the wall: Japanese ancestry, perhaps five-four, a slightly unhealthy tone to her skin which speaks of too many hours out of the sun, and this one took the flashlight with her: turned off, but held in her left hand just in case she felt the need to get a little help or clobber someone, whichever came first. Thick black hair worn in the nonstyle which says she didn't even bother with a glance in the mirror before she went out the door, and the hornrims may have just been the first piece spotted in the case: why waste time on that kind of choice? Features that await some level of fine polish with an owner who couldn't care less: there are much more important things to do -- -- like looking around. And now they're all looking around... We have to give them a few seconds here, time to move their gaze away from their closest neighbors. Time to form first impressions (and the one the watcher knows is a rabbi is giving a curious/worried look at the one in the cast), time to come up with initial ideas (the rat has moved to the young giantess and doesn't like what she sees), time to wonder (as the grandmother finds the bulldog and spends some time openly considering his wounds)... ...before they hear the voice. "Twelve strangers..." the voice says, the first words anyone's said since the lights came up. It gets their attention. A dozen people look around the room (old woods, lights set into the walls in the same small cages of the tunnels, more overhead and brighter, high ceiling -- -- staircases. Two of them, describing gliding curves along cast-iron rails, moving up to a old balcony, where the speaker is watching them from above -- -- the recognition is instant. The rat pulls back (just a little, then leans forward all the more), the animator blinks back surprise under the brim of his baseball cap, the rabbi's jaw drops slightly, the grey man pulls in a sharp breath between his teeth, the fashionable brunette smiles as the bulldog starts to laugh and the fact-checker weighs the latest piece of data... "Twelve strangers," she repeats, letting their eyes go over her without immediate acknowledgement. Short, perhaps five-two, in her mid-twenties. Caucasian, sharp-nosed and grey-eyed, with the later set a little deeper than average. Dark brown hair verging on black, shoulder-cut to rest on the fabric of a casual outfit that's mostly composed from shades of black: ebony, midnight, and coal shifting across the contours of a distinctly top-heavy figure, with bits of white in place to give accent and break up the zones. Posture set into an almost relaxed level of total alertness. Her voice is very lightly toned, and she's just barely wearing an expression of casual interest, one that suggests she's trying it on for size and can give it up any time she likes. "Gathered from all over the United States, working together to build a pot that could ultimately reach --" and a smooth pause here, learned from the master "-- as much as two million dollars." Three seconds of total silence from below, with all twelve still staring -- but then the words start to penetrate -- and as soon as she sees them sinking in, the moment before the reactions become visible -- she continues, and the light tone has vanished. Neutral, unbiased, untouched by any emotion. "But one of them is a saboteur, a traitor..." They are watching her. Most of them are watching to see which one she looks at with those words. (A few are waiting for something else, and the grey man's breathing is just a little bit hard.) She gives them no hints. "The one who wins," she softly goes on, the tiny touch of tone temporarily invited back into her voice, "will be the one who answers the question..." And deliberately trails off, now looking them over again, left to right in a single sweeping turn, then back to center. "My name is Alex Cole," she unnecessarily tells them. "I'm your host." And with the smallest, quickest of smiles, something so abrupt as to barely leave evidence of having been there, "We're back." Another second of silence, two, three -- -- and then the sound begins. It rises quickly, joined in by nearly everyone (because the rat doesn't see the need), and it might be very familiar. It's the sound of recognition, of having found your way out from a group to stand so very nearly alone at the end. The music of knowing that from tens of thousands, you were chosen, you stand here now while so many others fell aside, when millions may watch and wish they could be where you are... In this, the last moment between the start of the game and the time it begins to work its way into them, eleven of the twelve stand and cheer for themselves, for having made it this far, for being the ones to see this resurrection day from the inside, for just being -- -- and the rabbi suddenly laughs, deep and merry. A good, strong voice, with projection to it that the sound systems will forever be trying to match. "Thank God you're not playing!" he exclaims. "Now the rest of us have a chance!" And their host quietly watches from above as the first group laugh spreads, skipping its way over two this time... And if they were thinking, they might see her presence as a lesson -- no, as a warning. That while they are here, the game will be their lives -- their reality -- and the things which happen to them can echo forever... ...but they're not thinking about that. Not yet. She gives them their time, and when she sees the gazes once again beginning to seek the balcony, she moves to the left-hand staircase and starts to make her way down. -----------------------------------------------------------------   Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Subject     Author     Message Date     ID    RE: The Mole: Season #5: Episode ... Colonel Zoidberg 11-07-07 1  RE: The Mole: Season #5: Episode ... geg6 11-07-07 2    RE: The Mole: Season #5: Episode ... kingfish 11-09-07 4  A Dark Room: Part II Estee 11-09-07 3    RE: A Dark Room: Part II Belle Book 03-18-10 19  A Dark Room: Part III Estee 11-16-07 5    RE: A Dark Room: Part III vince3 11-17-07 6        RE: A Dark Room: Part III kingfish 11-26-07 7            RE: A Dark Room: Part III vince3 11-26-07 8                RE: A Dark Room: Part III kingfish 11-27-07 9  RE: The Mole: Season #5: Episode ... Estee 02-05-08 10    RE: The Mole: Season #5: Episode ... Jims02 02-06-08 11  A Dark Room: Part V Estee 02-14-08 12    RE: A Dark Room: Part V Belle Book 02-14-09 17  A Dark Room: Part VI Estee 02-20-08 13  A Dark Room: Part VII Estee 02-23-08 14  A Dark Room: Conclusion Estee 02-23-08 15    RE: A Dark Room: Conclusion Belle Book 02-14-09 18  RE: The Mole: Season #5: Episode ... Belle Book 02-14-09 16

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Colonel Zoidberg 3370 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Car Show Celebrity" 11-07-07, 09:27 AM (EST) 1. "RE: The Mole: Season #5: Episode #1: A Dark Room" LAST EDITED ON 11-07-07 AT 09:28 AM (EST) Looks like it's shaping up to be a fun season. I'm getting reflections of some SI characters in these Mole contestants. Patricia has to be a relative of Robin. I'm pinning the German-Russian guy (forgot his name) as an ugly cousin of Gardener's. The tall lady? Perhaps a relative of Angela's. The second guy...Elmore, maybe? Alex will make an awesome host...and not just because i thought you would pick her (swish, two points for Zoidberg, good call, ooh ooh ooh ooh **someone throws a shoe at Zoidberg**) I wonder how soon Estee reveals how Alex did on TAR... Also, did you know that, if you type the font color as "red+, this is the color that comes up? Weird...   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

geg6 14941 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 11-07-07, 02:00 PM (EST) 2. "RE: The Mole: Season #5: Episode #1: A Dark Room" I actually cackled when I saw this was up. And then again when I saw it was Alex. In fact, I've hardly stopped letting out a cackle for the last fifteen minutes. This is what you've turned me into. Damn you, Estee, damn you. "How does it become a man to behave toward this American government to-day? I answer that he cannot without disgrace be associated with it." - Henry David Thoreau   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

kingfish 12060 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 11-09-07, 03:09 PM (EST) 4. "RE: The Mole: Season #5: Episode #1: A Dark Room" LAST EDITED ON 11-09-07 AT 03:12 PM (EST) Me too. Very imaginative, caught everyone (me at least) leaning, I suspect. (ED. except Ziody, but he's from the future so he already knows what will happen). Again, well begun.   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 11-09-07, 01:51 PM (EST) 3. "A Dark Room: Part II" They've accepted her quickly, haven't they? -- at least for the moment. Some of them might not be as happy about this as others, but at least they've all recognized that this is their mistress of ceremonies -- and as such, our twelve wait quietly, giving her the next move. After all, nothing really gets under way until the host says so, they need some degree of direction, and -- -- well -- -- they do have a post-editing idea of who they're dealing with. The genre has found many things since its lifespan kicked into full gear: geniuses, psychotics, true love, false romances, friendships to last forever and hatreds that stretch across generations, idiots, morons, the completely clueless along with the totally out of it, and stupidity of all stripes -- but to date, it's only located one real predator... Not listening might be a really bad idea. "You are currently forty feet below London, standing in what most historical records call the Roundhouse," Alex tells twelve fully attentive faces as she starts down the stairs. "It's had a number of names over the years, and no one knows what the original one was." She pauses, about a third of the way down. "As best as anyone can figure out, it was constructed in secret within the remains of an old hollow starting sometime in the 1860s -- a lot of London is built on top of older bits of London -- put together by members of a secret society dedicated to restoring full power to the monarchy. The tunnels that lead here are suspected to start from the homes and businesses of the founding members." Silence greets this statement. They're still listening -- all of them are, including our rat. It's not so much that there may be a quiz later: it's more that they know they're getting one and aren't sure what's going to be on it. "That didn't last long," Alex continues. "The society lasted long enough to get the place built -- and then fell apart. But people tend to drift from one conspiracy to another: a builder passed into another group, let them know this place was here -- and it kept trading hands through the decades, slowly transitioning into an old-fashioned -- and not quite as secret -- gentleman's club by the late 1930s. By that time, most of the upper class knew it was here -- getting in as a member was considered to be a high honor, even if getting into the tunnel system was an annoyance. And when World War II came around, one of the highest-ranking members volunteered the site for government use. It was meant to be the headquarters for a joint American-British intelligence network: sheltered underground, some protection from the bombs, and most of the world didn't know it existed. Hard to compromise." She looks them over again. "Except from within." The grey man takes a slow breath. "Someone in the combined group sold the location of the building and tunnel entrances to the Germans." More softly, "No one died, because the rest of the group realized they had been sold out, and managed to prepare for visitors that weren't as unexpected as the traitor would have liked. But the building was abandoned -- and it stayed that way, up until the moment we came." Another survey of the group, right to left this time. "Want to know what the price of that betrayal was?" A few slow nods. "One dream." And now her eyes move from person to person as she speaks, spending a few seconds on each one. "Everyone here has a personal dream, something beyond the big ones of world peace, disease cures -- something they've always wanted to achieve, something they believe they might be able to achieve -- but it's also something they've never been able to manage on their own." Expressions slowly changing among the twelve: they're remembering a seemingly-innocent question on the application... "Decades ago, the one who betrayed the Roundhouse gave up two nations in exchange for a house in Brighton plus a guaranteed position in the postwar government -- but the house was the selling factor. All those people were betrayed for the price of one ocean view." A carefully measured pause. "Yesterday, one of you was offered a dream -- and the coin they paid for it in was the hopes of ten others. One person here sold out all of you, and in return, was given their wish..." We might need a bit of slow-motion here as we range across the contestants again, watching their faces. It starts as a nearly-universal 'okay...' with just a touch of 'so?' thrown in, plus a little satisfaction of a background curiosity. All right -- the traitor has to get some sort of salary, yes? They can't win the pot and there has to be some kind of fee given out for their services: now we know what it is. It's only a game, right? Only a -- -- and then things start to shift all over the board. Take the collective thoughts of eleven (plus the faked of a twelfth) and you might get a chorus like this: What kind of dream? I remember what I put down on my form and someone else could give it to me without that much effort: why didn't I get my dream? Who is this person, who's not only trying to keep me from winning the game, but denied me my wish in the process? Watch the transition: a little fascination here starts verging into frustration. Over there, the start of a light jealousy, and -- well, we already had anger here, but now it's a little more focused. Keep an eye on the implications and especially the bits of pettiness starting to sink in... Someone got their dream and I didn't. The host watches this happen, and once the first audible signs of a seed well and truly planted begin to drift up from the twelve, she cuts off the growing mutter and goes on. "You all came here with a dream of winning this game. One person among you has given up that wish in exchange for another -- and in order to get the older one, all they have to do is stop ten of you. One person here will see through it all in the end, isolate and identify -- but the rest of you will have their hopes -- executed." Just a little more softly, "Winning up to two million dollars can buy a lot of dreams, can't it? But not every dream..." Look at the fashionable brunette: tense, isn't she? Our rat is growing more unhappy by the second, while the one on crutches is looking inward, perhaps examining the wish he won't be getting -- or maybe it's the one he already sold out for. The gray man's tension hasn't gotten any lighter, and the animator is visibly forcing his breathing to be slow. There's a lot of that going around: witness the grandmother quickly steadying her hands, our rabbi willing his eyes not to close, those of the pale blonde flashing fierce... Don't react, don't show just how much resentment could come if we didn't have a coating of civilization to hold it back... But it's there nonetheless, and society's armor is weak. There's no telling just how long it's going to hold. A few more seconds to let them think about it -- and then Alex finishes descending the stairs. She gestures at the twelve: follow me. And they do. Follow them all now as they walk through the Roundhouse, passing old doors and older sigils, carved into the dusty wood in such a way to declare this is a place for secrets, and just what they might have been was lost. The giantess runs her right hand over one of those sigils as she passes, letting the strange curving pattern etch itself against her skin before moving on. This gets the attention of a few, starting with the one who's still carrying that flashlight: she duplicates the action, although it's much more of a reach for her. You never know where the clues are, right? You never know if there's any clues at all. A little musty here, and now we have camera operators ahead and trailing: the angles may have been prerigged in the first area, but we're on the move now and that means people are coming with us, softly herding, getting people used to following their instructions. Stay in shot, move closer together here, give us a little room there... Our Greek nearly winds up ricocheting off the little pale blonde, and her expression tells us she thinks it might have been intentional. And now we're going through a doorway (the giantess has to duck again), and we're in what must have been the central meeting room for this secret society. Look up at the ceiling: look at the designs painted there. Do they make any sense at all? Curves and angles winding among stars and planets, equations written along the connecting trails, strange symbols familiar to no one's eyes, and more of those on the multiple doors leading in, thirteen total there... The dome overhead is too high: it must be just a few feet below street level, so close to operating in the open, still so hidden despite that. A faint weight of years here, air not quite as fresh as the entrance zone, the hint of ancient smoke overlapping every scent. No chairs. No lamps, and the lights are well-concealed. Nothing here except a high table, and no one could mistake this for anything but new: a mostly-metal circle edged with dark wood, ten feet across the diameter and nearly three feet high, with glowing green panels arranged along the edge. A dozen of those, and one changes to red as they watch -- then goes green again, the red leaping elsewhere, staying for only a few seconds in that new place before moving on. The camera operators place our twelve around the circle, making sure they're standing in the right spots. There's a place left for our host, but she chooses to stand behind the group -- then starts slowly walking around the perimeter, speaking as she goes. Some of the players look at her as she passes. Others use the time to examine each other. Two -- the Greek and the flashlight-holder -- are following the red light's dance. But they all listen. This is too important to miss. "This is how the game works," Alex tells them, and now they all watch her as she passes. "You are working together to complete mission assignments: at least one in every cycle. Every mission completed will add money to the pot, which has a maximum value of two million dollars. If a mission is failed, its value won't be added -- and something may be taken away. It's also possible to add things other than money to the pot -- and to lose them." This pause is brief: it's not as if that information needs much time to sink in. "By finding your way here, you've completed your first mission, and that has a value: two thousand dollars per person." A few small, weak smiles greet this: twenty-four thousand already collected is far better than starting at zero -- but they're still nervous, even if some would rather die than show it. "One person in the group is working against you," our host continues. "This is the Mole. At the end of each cycle, you will be given a quiz regarding the Mole's activities during that period. In most circumstances --" and the 'most' doesn't slide past anyone "-- you won't know how you scored. The person with the lowest number of correct answers is out of the game -- executed by the Mole." Some nods around the table: they know, and some remember. "In the event of a tie, the person who took more time to complete the quiz is gone." A slow hiss of escaped breath from the rat. The red glow continues to dance around the table. It's in front of the bulldog now, then the giantess, darts across to the grandmother... "At any given time, an Exemption may appear in the game," Alex goes on, walking a little more slowly now, pausing briefly behind the rabbi. (The red glow moves to him, goes to the grey man.) "They could be offered to individuals. They might be put up for grabs among a small group. Or it's possible that all of you could be equally eligible to receive it, and it's a matter of who can win the thing. But the effect is always the same: if you get it, then your quiz score for that cycle alone cannot remove you from the game. However --" and this pause is used as a weapon "-- an Exemption is only good until the exact moment you need it. If you have the lowest score, the Exemption will save you -- but you'll know it. And from that moment on, you can never hold an Exemption again. You are walking dead -- unprotected and unable to gain safety through any means but your own insight." Another stop, this time between the crutches and the brunette, looking between them to the rest of the table. "Everyone understands that." Some very tight nods serve as answer. They need a little time to think about this, and the host gives it to them: Alex nods back, then moves to her place at the table, between grandmother (who briefly has the red glow again) and bulldog. "Small details," she tells them, "a few of which may never make the air," and now there's a bit more tone again. "The game is always on, but the game isn't always active. As long as you're here, you'll be traveling -- and that means you should have a chance to enjoy the places you're in: you may never be here again." (The grandmother nods at this point, just a little, and others listen to faint echoes.) "Whenever it's possible, we'll try to give you all some time to step out and explore. Just keep in mind that you could be called back at any moment -- and even those wanderings could turn into part of the game. You'll have a small budget for stepping out -- enough to enjoy a local meal with, or pick up a small souvenir. Or you could just keep it if you feel you'll need extra cash for something." Nods all around, with the grey man seeming to openly consider what he might need extra cash for. "For the most part, we'll be quartering you in hotels," our host goes on, and note that careful attention from the twelve at the words 'most part'. "There is a curfew: unless you're on an assignment, you've got to be in your rooms by midnight. Penalties for breaking curfew -- vary. You don't want to find out what they are." (The rat looks like she's thinking about discovering them one by one through personal experience. The red light is with her now, and it gives her hair a strange underlit aura.) "We won't be starving you. If there's any game where you can stop worrying about where your next meal is coming from, it's this one. Get ready for a grand tour -- and try not to gain too much weight." This gets a grin from the rabbi, deep personal offense from the rat. "Some mission assignments will come with equipment," Alex continues. "Sometimes you'll have to find it along the way. When you're getting items, they'll be presented at the start. But there's one piece of equipment that will always stay with you." And now they're waiting. The journals are coming: the notebooks which will allow them to record their observations, deductions, and best guesses. "On my signal, place your hand on your panels." The red light is moving faster now, seeming to follow a silent rhythm (and the rabbi swallows, perhaps imagining a familiar backbeat building in an editing room, sometime in the months to come). Every panel has gone red at least once. They're going red now, then green, repeating, flashing, the cycle accelerating. Twelve hands move over twelve glowing panels. Some of those hands are shaking -- -- "Now." A dozen palms make contact. Every light goes green. And twelve pieces of metal slide back, revealing a dozen shallow holes -- with a softly glowing green light rising from them... Our flashlight-thief gasps, and it's a sound of recognition. Everyone else is just staring at what's emerged (although you can be sure a few of them noted that gasp). What they're looking at is a brightly-lit, slightly-curved rectangular screen with more strange symbols around the border (none of which match the ceiling). It is, at most, about a third of an inch thick -- but we have different sizes in the other dimensions: the smallest is four inches across (in front of our pale blonde), the largest closer to eight (which has just presented itself to the giantess' regard). The screen is attached to a band of silver fabric, somehow looking as if it would be cool to the touch. They are very definitely not journals. The screens go dim for a moment, then glow pale grey. "These are your personal data communicators," Alex lets them know. "Your PDCs are experimental units: you are, as of this moment, twelve of the only thirteen people on the planet outside of their development lab to possess one -- and you'll keep them for as long as you're still in the game. They will give you a place to record notes at any time. They have other functions, too -- but for the most part, you'll have to discover those on your own." There's some funny expressions here, most of which seem to be saying We're being given a piece of equipment we don't know how to use? Even our thief has picked up the dubious look. The host visibly doesn't care. "Each of you," and the phantom backbeat is getting stronger, "one at a time, take your PDC, put it on the forearm of your off-hand, and say your full name." The silence stretches out -- -- and then the first movement comes from the man on crutches, carefully balancing himself so he can reach out for the glowing screen. He just barely manages to snag it without tipping, then works it on. It makes a perfect fit against the muscles of his left forearm, and the band is cool against his skin, contrasting a light warmth from the screen. "Mark Nemecek," he declares -- -- and the screen flashes three times, making him jump back slightly, nearly overbalancing the other way. Green-red-green -- and then back to grey. "It'll respond to your voice from now on," Alex tells Mark. "To record notes, press the little thumbprint symbol in the upper right corner. Press it again to stop." Another small panel slides open to the right of Mark's first one, and a tiny earpiece and microphone rise from the shadows. He carefully collects them and puts them on. And from there, it moves faster. "Felicia Anderson," our fashionable brunette tells us, and listen to that voice! Sultry and low, richly toned and capable of supporting an orchestra all by itself: you can just about see the curls of smoke coming off each word. Her PDC flashes green-red-green as it responses to those precise syllables. "David Kellerman," the grey man decides (and gets the rabbi's attention in the process), putting on his PDC a little more slowly. Another perfect fit. He gives it a look that speaks more of deep curiosity than suspicion. His has flashed the same way as the first two did -- eventually, in the same way all twelve will. "Mihoshi Iwaaki," comes from the flashlight thief (who's just pocketed it), and there's just a tiny touch of a Texas twang here, but there's even more of a hurry. She can't put this thing on fast enough, and she's already starting to play around with the buttons -- which means she's the first to trigger a soft series of distress beeps as she tries to use functions that haven't been enabled. "Charity Bonadventure," says the giantess in a strong-but-soft tone, and she's very surprised when hers turns out to be a perfect fit as well. The announcement of her name gets a little reaction from David, and another from the lightly-oiled Grecian. That one just has to be next. "Christopher Winokur," he proudly states, and starts playing around with his PDC. It makes him the first to locate the Off function. (Locating the On seems to be a lot harder.) "George Zubro," the bulldog adds. He's regarding his PDC with more than a little suspicion, and he's nowhere near the point of hitting any symbols yet. (It's a gruff voice, all right, but not severely so.) He watches Christopher working the shutdown unit with increasing (and concealed) desperation: as good a way as any to find where both buttons are. "Patricia Veeck," is verified by the grandmother, who rhymes the last name with 'wreck'. (The animator looks at her for a moment, openly curious -- but no, it's the wrong time to ask.) This voice is more than a little wry, and she seems to be deeply amused by the whole thing. "Sadr Devaltev," comes from the Iraqi, and look at the reactions here. It's not the pronouncement (well, maybe a little) or the pronunciation (not at all -- sah-dear, if you're curious, and mee-ho-she for the other foreign tongue), it's the accent: he might as well be declaring that frankly, my dears, he doesn't give a damn. He's also playing with the PDC, and thus becomes the second person to locate the Off command. On still isn't coming. "Jacob Cohen," our silver-haired rabbi (with that last as yet unknown by at least ten of them) openly tells the group, looking around and smiling a little as if making a series of very rapid personal introductions. He's a little more hesitant to start manipulating controls. "Verni Wren," the little blonde boldly states, and this one is veer-knee, but with a certain flatness to the accent: the northern middle of not-quite-nowhere in her speech. She puts on her PDC as if it's done her a great personal offense. And finally, "Toxia --" Alex's head shake is hard enough to cut off the words. "Your real name." It's an order. "The unit's been pre-programmed: nothing else will activate it." A long pause -- and then "Erin Hamilton" comes out as a hiss from our rat. Fortunately, the band doesn't go over any piercings. Alex nods, then slowly pushes back her right sleeve, revealing the last of the PDC units. "With this, I can monitor you to some degree, I can send last-minute instructions in the field, and I can call out rule violations from afar." Is that another flashpoint of a smile? No, it must have just been an impression of one... "Generally, I won't. You'll be given what you need to know -- or what I'll let you know -- in person, and I'll be on-site a lot of the time. Hosts who only appear on screens don't work," and Mark is the first to grin, followed by a quick giggle from Patricia. "But it will link us -- and the entire group -- together if it needs to." Mihoshi's very interested in this. And then Alex looks at them each in turn -- followed by focusing directly across the table (where David happens to be standing), grey eyes regarding a grey-tinted face, she says "Merge Greece and Belgium to find a god of mystery, one killed at the hands of his creator long years ago. The last relic of his person is held by the flightless bird. You have three hours to present it to me." David, thus addressed, blinks hard. "The -- what?" He sounds uncertain. And then he looks unhappy about having sounded uncertain. "A god of...?" Alex points at her PDC. David instinctively glances at his own. The words are there -- and so is a time display, currently showing a frozen three hours. As he reads them again, Alex smoothly extracts an envelope from beneath the table and casually tosses it to Verni. "Mission supplies," she tells them. "Go." And the clock starts counting down. Mark is something less than happy. "Wait -- where the hell are we going?" Alex tosses off a very slight shrug. "Not my problem." George stares at her. "Do we have to come back here afterwards?" Another shrug. "Also not my problem." Patricia now. "Do we have to leave this building?" The physical response should be expected by now: the vocal one has gone back to being toneless. "Do you think you should?" The twelve expend seconds in looking at each other -- Jacob and Mihoshi take one last scan of the room, just in case -- and then all of their PDCs say, in a soft chorus of light female voices, "One minute expired." Eleven contestants -- and one Mole -- immediately head for the door. It takes an extra forty seconds to agree on the one they'd come in by. -----------------------------------------------------------------   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Belle Book 1925 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Herbal Healing Drugs Endorser" 03-18-10, 07:59 PM (EST) 19. "RE: A Dark Room: Part II" I wonder who betrayed the Roundhouse to the Germans. Whoever did it is pretty greedy -- the only reason I'd betray my country is if my family was held hostage! A house with an ocean view isn't enough for me.   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 11-16-07, 04:02 PM (EST) 5. "A Dark Room: Part III" And we watch them go down the hallway (and did they get the right one? Mihoshi insisted...), with the discussions (and potential arguments) already beginning. "A god of mystery?" David may be very slightly stuck on this detail. "Are we supposed to be looking for something from Sherlock Holmes?" His voice has an oddly formal tone to it, even in the middle of a question. "Deerstalker cap," George openly muses. "That weird half-cloak he's wearing in some of the movies..." A flash of a grin. "Hey -- maybe it's cocaine?" Sadr groans, and even that sound has a Southern ring to it. "Buy three ounces somewhere in the backstreets of London and return them to our host. No. What's in the envelope?" This strikes the group as a good question, and they pause to watch Verni work it open the rest of the way. She's been easing the flap back as if she plans on reusing the envelope later, and the adhesive still refuses to give without tearing the paper in small places. She glances inside. "It looks like credit cards..." Dumping one out into her hand now, and it does look something like a credit card -- at least, it's got a magnetic stripe on the back. But the plastic is thinner, with no embossed numbers echoing to the back. Turning it over reveals the word Underground, white on a red strip. Patricia looks at the card, but just barely: she has a distinctly distracted expression going right now. Thinking about something. "That's what they call their subway, isn't it?" asks Felicia. "So we've got to leave the building." "We're underground," Mark reminds them. "Maybe one of the tunnels comes out near a station? Did anyone go in that way?" This gets Christopher talking. "I did -- right next to an entrance. If we work back from my door on --" And now we have Erin on the board, stamping her feet to check for weak points. "Maybe one of these doors goes right to a tunnel or a station," she insists. "We should look around the building -- see if we can hear trains. Besides, those passes could be a false lead -- she wants us to waste time running around this stupid city, when whatever we're looking for is right here. Or maybe --" she's building up steam now "-- it's here, but we have to deliver it to the bitch somewhere else..." Jacob blinks. "I don't think we can afford to lose time exploring the entire building unless we're certain we have to look here -- not with only three hours to use." It's a very reasonable tone, for the absolutely nothing it's about to be worth. Erin immediately rounds on him (nearly impacting a camera operator in the process), fists automatically clenching as she spins. (Jacob takes a very small, involuntary step back.) "This is a --" and there's the first eventual bleep of the game "-- mystery. What makes you --" followed by the second "-- think there aren't going to be red herrings?" It looks like David is trying to restore order. It also looks like he's used to making the attempt. "We have to make out a list of the possibilities and decide how much time we'll require to explore them. As we don't know how large this building --" Erin doesn't seem to be accustomed to letting other people finish sentences. "We're losing time right now, hoser --" "It's Hercule Poirot." Everyone stops. Everyone turns to look at Patricia, in small part because no one was expecting this, and in considerably larger part because it came out as 'Erkyl Pwaro' and most of the group has no idea what or who she meant. (There's a light comprehension starting to dawn on David's face, and you might catch a glimpse of something similar from Verni.) Patricia shrugs, a light smile dancing about the corners of her lips. "Sorry -- the English spelling is h-e-r-c-u-l-e. Which is close enough to 'Hercules' to work with -- a Greek god -- and the character is originally from Belgium. He's one of Agatha Christie's creations. A detective who appeared in a barrow-load of her stories -- that's close enough to 'god of mystery' for me." Erin now has a new target. "And you just happen to know this," she snarls. Another shrug, this one considerably more casual -- as is the tone of the words, if not the message they're conveying. "There's this amazing new invention you might not have heard of: I think the kids are calling it 'a book'..." Which brings Erin to a near-growl. "Which you've read -- and it just happens to solve the very first 'mission assignment' we get -- Mole." Charity's turn to blink hard, Mark sighs, Sadr looks like he wants to cover his eyes, and most of the group is wondering where this is supposed to be going -- or at the very least, just what the route taken to get here was. Patricia, however, is simply amused by it all. Still mostly casual, "I know the answer to something that'll help us get money into the pot -- so I'm the Mole?" The last with a teasing lilt. "We can't lose every game!" Erin shoots back, and now the index finger on her left hand is making little jabbing motions, as if it's considering a move for Patricia's sternum. "The show has to give away some damn money to the winner! Get us on the board early, take the lead in the first game and make yourself look good..." "Stop!" And that is The Voice Of Authority, which means we're back to David again: no raise in volume, but a sharpening to the note that takes some of the dust off the walls. "I remember the character -- he's been in a few movies." Patricia and Verni both nod. "I just don't remember what would be considered a relic for him." Verni frowns. "He had a moustache, right?" Christopher just has to get a word in here. "That's probably not detachable for returning to Her Most Scariness..." A sly grin accompanies the last few words: sure, you may be a little nervous, but not me! (Would he lie to you?) David ignores that. "A moustache, yes... and --" frowning now, thinking hard "-- some type of hat -- it may have been a bowler... It's Patricia, correct?" This nod comes with a smile. "Can you think of anything else?" Erin may be offended by people starting to follow Patricia's lead. Or that they're ignoring her suggestions. Possibly it's the implication of their host as being something to be afraid of. There's just so many options on the board, and they all lead to the same place. "Which doesn't mean it isn't in this damn building -- and it doesn't mean Patty isn't the Mole!" Sadr, on the other hand, may be thinking the lady doth protest too much, although it would take an incredible amount of sheer Southern gentleman to keep the word 'Lady' in the mix. "Okay -- let's go with your logic. Patricia's the Mole and she wants us to beat this first task and get some money in the pot. It still means she knows the right answer. So vote Patricia the rest of the way and enjoy your cash -- but we still have to go find this relic." Which puts Erin's attentions onto Sadr -- but Verni's back to digging in the envelope. "Something else in here..." This refocuses the attention of the group in a hurry: they watch as she pulls out a folded piece of paper, then unfurls it with the print facing her. "'Subject was male, 5'4", and a extremely fussy dresser. A bounty of fifty thousand dollars is being offered for the return of any authenticated portion of his person." Jacob groans. "We start by gravedigging..." Mihoshi's starting to sound insistent here. "We have to do something. The clock isn't moving any slower." And finally, Charity speaks up. (Maybe she hasn't wanted to call attention to herself. Possibly she was waiting for a break.) "I think we should go with Patricia's answer -- but we don't know what 'flightless bird' means." This frown is just a little bit pretty, even if it seems to be unawares: concentrating hard. "Was that character in the one about the falcon statue?" Mark laughs. "No -- two completely different authors. I know that much. But they could be pulling off a crossover here." "They already did," Erin mutters under her breath. She's not the least bit happy about it, either. (Surprise.) Charity's still on the most recent question. "Ostriches," and she's clearly trying to make a list. "Kiwis?" "Already had the damn Kiwi, too," Erin hisses. "Come on -- what do birds have to do with some stupid fictional character?" "Detective," Patricia supplements, and it's quite possible she's doing it just to annoy Erin. She may not be all that fond of 'Patty', either. "Penguin," Charity adds, still off on her own tangent -- then blinks. "Isn't there a book publisher...?" And that gets David's full attention. "Yes, there is -- I've ordered multiple copies of children’s' books from them." Very controlled here. "They control a lot of Dahl's work, and even with the shipping, they still offer a fair discount... Do they have a bookstore in the city?" "They did." Patricia again. "A big one." No one's making any attempt to hide the stares now, but all they get is another shrug. "I've visited London, but the last time was decades ago. I don't know if it's still here." "It's something to go on," George decides. "Patricia, Verni, Dave --" which gets him a fast, hard Look "-- David, try to remember whatever you've seen about the character. Chris --" and another Look -- "Christopher, we should get to your door --" "-- which means we're not exploring the building!" (Did you guess Erin?) "It might be here, and we're just delivering it to our damn host at the bookstore!" "The clue said the relic was held by the bird," Charity reminds them. "I think it has to be at the bookstore." A brief, uncertain pause. "Or maybe it's an office building..." Mark groans. "Time, people..." They've used up a few minutes on this. "We should do something," Jacob says. "Haste makes waste, but staying still makes nothing." This leads to another argument (not about the saying, which seems to apply), and eventually the group starts to move out -- although they do try doors as they pass them, at least in tiny part to see if it calms Erin down at all. It doesn't, and neither does discovering that several of the doors are locked -- and the ones which aren't open onto empty rooms -- some of which have bullet holes in the walls. No one hears any trains close by, and none of the strange sigils seem to translate into railway tracks: not surprising, as Felicia eventually points out, given that the building pretty much has to predate the subway system. In time, they reach their arrival point (which at least shows they got the right hallway), identify Christopher's door -- and get another argument, because Mihoshi insists she remembers her route back out, remembers it perfectly, and what if they lose time because Christopher goes off track? Given how widespread the city's subway system has to be, shouldn't they choose the fastest route out and look for a station nearby? It only took her an hour or so to get through her tunnels, and if Christopher gets lost... This, naturally, is the point at which Christopher reveals it took him about forty minutes to make it through (he was the third to arrive, in case you're curious), and it doesn't make Mihoshi all that happy. It also doesn't make Christopher look all that credible, because most of the others remember longer routes, with Sadr personally declaring he was down there long enough to raise mushrooms on his shoes. But Christopher is insisting he had a fast route and the station entrance nearby, the clock still isn't running any more slowly -- and because they need some kind of option, even if they distrust every one that could possibly come up, they go into his tunnel. Christopher's passage is on the cramped side: two people can still move side-by-side, but one of them has to be turned sideways. It's very dim in here: the beam from Mihoshi's stolen flashlight, the glow from the PDC screens, and some tiny LED lights on the cameras themselves. Christopher takes the lead (plus Mihoshi's flashlight -- the others were gone from their tables: they checked) and starts working his way back to the starting point, taking frequent glances at the others to make sure they're staying together, with even more frequent ones at the cameras to make sure they're getting his good side. Watch some of the others now as they move along, slowed down to the speed of their temporary leader, who isn't tracking his path at a run: he wants to make sure he remembers the route, or maybe he just likes the image he's providing for the eventual episode. Patricia is walking with David, and they're softly comparing notes. It's been years since Patricia read the books (and only a couple of them: she found the character bombastistic and egotistical: not her style at all) and just about as long since David got glimpses of the movies and a PBS special or two. No one seems to remember very much about the character at all. But they're lightly chatting, trying to compare notes. Verni's staying isolated from the discussion, watching them. She's said she'll listen in and think quietly: she's better at having her memory jogged that way. She's said that. Mark's doing his best to keep up with the pace, but he doesn't seem to be used to the crutches yet, and the tunnel doesn't always provide a flat surface to rest them on. Plus he's being distracted: his PDC just started vibrating. (Meanwhile, towards the back of the line, Sadr just got his turned back on.) Mark glances at the thing: the glow is brighter now, almost bright enough to use as a very short-range flashlight -- and it's showing twelve symbols: a line of six, a smaller one of five below it, and one off to the left of the group. The one that has his full attention right now is in the middle of the bottom row. The others are being shown in black and white, but this one's in full color: two golden snakes wrapped around a green staff. As Mark stares at the symbol, one of the snakes wriggles, and the other turns its head towards him in a silent hiss. Mark pulls back slightly, momentarily forgetting he's wearing the thing. "Snakes..." he mutters, which gets Felicia's attention. The PDC is still vibrating. Carefully, he maneuvers his hands off the crutch handles, reluctantly touches the symbol to see if it'll make the vibration stop. (He's careful to make contact well away from the snake heads.) It produces a familiar-sounding tone, and he adds a "What?" to the last remark. There's a pause -- and then "Sorry," Charity's voice says in his earpiece. She's at the back of the group, and she's been in mild trouble since they went into the tunnels. Average height has increased over the years, and the tunnels were built to be small and unnoticeable: as a result, she's been moving in a hunched half-crouch for the entire trip, trying to keep from giving the ceiling mold some eventual fresh air and a whole new perspective on the world. It's made all the harder by not really being able to see where she's going. "I was trying to figure out some of the symbols." Mark's eyes widen -- and then he grins. "So they're phones too, huh?" He's keeping his voice low now: maybe this needs to be a secret for a little while, maybe it doesn't. "What did you hit?" "Lower left first," Charity tells him. (Mark glances at that area -- but there's no symbol there at the moment.) "I got twelve new symbols, and I just tried hitting one of them. It went to color and -- animated a little. Then you came on." "What symbol?" Mark asks, now staring at the curling, twisting snakes. "It's -- kind of an exploding clipboard," she says. "One of those movie things where the top slams down on a hinge?" Slightly embarrassed, "I don't know the formal name. But it keeps blowing up, over and over." Mark knows the formal name, but he's not saying it. So it looks like there's a symbol for each of them, and they gave him one that kind of fit his profession. Which brings up the question of just what the hell it is that Charity does. 'Some sort of weird preacher from the reptile-handling sects' isn't off the possibility list just yet. "Try hitting it again," Mark suggests. "See if that breaks the call." "Okay," Charity agrees -- and then there's another tone, followed by silence. "Cool," Mark decides, looking at the PDC with new respect -- and a little worry. The symbols are still there. He can see a fan, a cross, a star, and the one off to the side is -- -- but they're gone. Back to the basic screen, which at least lets him see the lower left symbol Charity mentioned: it's a short piece of chain. Weird enough for at least two jazz clubs plus a blues hotspot, but if that's what they went with... Mark resumes his gradual limp along the tunnel. "Doom-dun," he softly sings to himself, "doom-dun. Doom-dun, doom-dun, doom-dun, doom-dun... something strange a-happenin'..." -----------------------------------------------------------------   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

vince3 15726 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 11-17-07, 05:57 PM (EST) 6. "RE: A Dark Room: Part III" LAST EDITED ON 11-17-07 AT 05:59 PM (EST) Since Mark couldn't see his own Exploding Clapboard, but he saw Charity's Hippocratic Cross, I'm curious what the one off to the side is. If it represents Alex, it's probably something like a jaguar, or a torch, or some kind of predatorial symbol....... or maybe the red fingerprint? ETA: and a chain for the "Phone" option? What.we.have.here.is.....a.failure.to.communicate!   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

kingfish 12060 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 11-26-07, 09:57 AM (EST) 7. "RE: A Dark Room: Part III" If the twelve symbols represent the twelve contestants, and the snake/staff represents Charity, and the clipboard represents Mark, and the symbol off to the side represents the Mole, then, the Mole can't be Mark or Charity. But that would be too easy. Becasue all Mark or Charity has to do is call the other symbols, and narrow down who the mole is.   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

vince3 15726 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 11-26-07, 01:48 PM (EST) 8. "RE: A Dark Room: Part III" I'm thinking they're not seeing their own symbol in the grouping of 11, and the mole's in that grouping of 11. I think the one that briefly caught Mark's eye is whatever they designated for Alex, which probably is a Jaguar or something like that.........   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

kingfish 12060 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 11-27-07, 09:23 AM (EST) 9. "RE: A Dark Room: Part III" Right. Eleven symbols for the others, and the off to the side symbol for Alex, and/or the powers that be. I like the idea of the fingerprint as the other symbol. But that's no help with the Mole locating. Still, Mark and/or Charity ought to be moved by curiosity to touch the odd symbol, just to see. BTW, how did Mark get his injury? Nevermind, I'll read his profile again. Having an injury that limits movement would be a handy thing for a Mole. It would allow him to screw up without drawing "Moley" attention.   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 02-05-08, 03:33 PM (EST) 10. "RE: The Mole: Season #5: Episode #1: A Dark Room" LAST EDITED ON 02-16-08 AT 03:15 PM (EST) Let's check in with Christopher for a moment, shall we? How does he look? Well, he's staying remarkably clean and dry in the tunnel, but that's because he's making a real effort. Does he look confident in his (temporary) leadership? Absolutely! Does he look handsome? Always! And does he look lost? Not in the least! Which is really too bad, because he is lost -- but hey, at least he doesn't look it! He's leading the way with absolute confidence and quite possibly no idea where he's going! Unless he's doing this on purpose -- in which case, he still has absolute confidence and no idea where he's going, but at least he'd have a reason! Not that the others aren't starting to wonder. "Forty minutes, huh?" George calls out from his position in the middle of the pack. "'cause I've got it at about fifty-five right now." Christopher's hardly going to get caught in a mistake that easily, now is he? "I guess I wasn't looking at my watch as often as I thought," he laughs it off. "Don't worry. We're close -- I can feel the vibrations from the trains." He can't. And neither can anyone else. "What vibrations?" Patricia asks. "The floor's been steady the whole time, and I'm not that far back." Forty feet would presumably be enough to feel something. This laugh is even steadier than the first. "It's subtle -- maybe it doesn't come up too well through heels." "I'm wearing sneakers," Patricia points out. Her voice has a distinct -- and very sultry -- wink in it. "Never got down to my feet?" Felicia may be a little bit worried about being outdone in the 'sultry' department. "I can't feel anything back here either..." It doesn't quite come out as a proposal. And Sadr gets right to the point: places a hand on the dirt-covered wall. "Nothing." Christopher has to cover up in a hurry here, but that's something he might have a bit of experience in. "So I've got some rattling pipes on my side -- we're on track." "That's the only track we're anywhere near," Erin decides, "and I don't think we're going to see any others before our damn time runs out..." Patricia isn't overly distressed by this just yet. "Maybe Christopher's the Mole -- no, wait: I'm the Mole. I keep forgetting." Which gets her a glare from Erin, although only the cameras visually pick it up in the near-dark. (Everyone else just feels it.) David's come to a very firm conclusion. "We're lost." A long moment of silence, more than enough to let some deep worries sink into the squelching mud at the bottom of the tunnel. Mihoshi's turn. "If the tunnels were built by the people who made the Roundhouse, then every tunnel eventually has to lead to an exit." The sound of cool logic. "Their subway system is pretty spread out, right? Even if we're lost, we shouldn't be in too much trouble. We have to come out somewhere. It's not as if anyone would have put dead ends and traps down here just in case the wrong person got into the tunnels." Pauses. With just a hint of nervousness, "Well, they might have, but the traps wouldn't be working after this much time." And another pause. "Probably..." Christopher's going to stop this before it gets much further along. "We're fine -- it's just a few more turns. Slower going with a group, that's all -- besides, the camera people are squeezing us. " Which gets him a dirty look from no less than three of them, none of which he picks up on with two of them in range. And he keeps on going, with the procession continuing to follow along -- mostly because Mihoshi's reasoning seems sound: every tunnel has to end somewhere. (The rest of her logic train has some of them very carefully inspecting for potential deadfalls.) And perhaps someone was right here, because three more turns bring them to a familiar pattern: the other side of the shape they all pressed to give them entrance in the first place. Christopher treats himself to a huge grin as he gets the others to step back enough for the wall to swing, grandiosely triggers the counterweights -- -- which gives them all access to a dust-filled room, particles dancing in the faint sunlight that's forced itself in through a tiny glass rectangle at the ceiling level. There are books here, leather-bound and large enough to be coffee tables all by themselves, kept on oversized shelves which seem to bend inwards under the weight of their contents. An ancient musty scent fills the room, and Verni instinctively covers her nose and mouth with her sleeve, almost in time to prevent the coughing. Jacob just groans. "My starting point," he announces, hurrying past both Christopher and The Geography Of The World In Twenty-Four Volumes, which seems to be providing most of the smell. "I hope there's a subway somewhere around here, because I don't think we've got enough time left to backtrack." Just over a hundred minutes remain. Christopher blinks -- but that's all he's willing to go with that isn't total confidence. "Hey, so they stuck some of us in the same places to start with --" "Save it," Verni snaps through the fabric. "Jacob, can we get out of here? My lungs can't take this." Jacob nods and takes the lead, the others following him to the shadowed staircase -- most of them pausing just long enough to glare at a motionless Christopher. In particular, Erin makes a very visible show of stopping, pressing the Notes button, and saying (with a surprisingly measured, lecture-class voice) "Christopher, after electing himself as first mission leader, killed extra time and brought us out at the wrong site --" and stops. She stares at her screen for a moment, then rotates her arm before anyone else can get a glimpse at just what stopped her. Up and out they go, leaving the storage area of the ancient tenement, through filthy hallways, and out onto a tiny side street so old as to still have its cobblestones layered into the road. No cars are allowed here: the passageway is too narrow to permit them. (Engines can be heard nearby -- but at the same time, they are very far away.) Sunlight just barely reaches them, stray shafts through a grey sky stumbling into the crooked alley. Old graffiti covers a nearby wall, speaks of nightmares still-echoing. Charity softly reads it off. "Five died, one killed, zero know, millions fear..." David nods, just once. "We're in Whitechapel." This gets Erin's attention. "And no damn time to visit the Factories..." Which gets her some odd looks, but she doesn't acknowledge them. "Come on -- we've got to find the stupid subway!" And with that, she races out ahead of the pack, one camera operator just barely staying on her heels, her path flowing across the strange riverbed, running past a door that has a basketball painted on it for no apparent reason -- -- a street sign: Whitechapel Road. Cars. Old buildings, not well-kept. Some light foot traffic, but not much of it, and none of it overly startled by the arrival of this colorful visitor in their midst, perhaps due to those Factories. It's still fairly early in the morning, and it's early summer: the two put together should get Londoners moving before the heat and humidity truly close in -- but there still just aren't many residents around. Still, any number is enough to work with, and Erin immediately corners and races up to the first-one, a working-class Bangladeshi on his suddenly-interrupted way to work. "Hey! Where's the damn subway?" No subtlety, this one. The man blinks down at her -- Erin's not all that tall -- and then carefully works his way up and down her form, stopping to consider the piercings, openly dismissing the strange screen. "You're American!" he declares in a fairly excited tone (and perfect British accent). "Yeah," Erin says. "About the subway --" His voice drops. "I hate Americans," he sneers, and roughly shoves past her -- then clutches at the shoving shoulder, which just took a spike through the fabric. A spin finds Erin recovering from the jolt, getting her bearings back fast, her fists are already closing, and his may be about to do the same -- -- but then he sees the camera operator. And, more to the point, the camera. The man blinks -- then turns again, starts to run, but Erin is in pursuit -- -- for about two seconds: David steps in front of her. "We do not," he says, "have time to expend on a police station visit." Erin's face instantly contorts into its standard snarl. She leans past David's wide shoulders, just enough to yell "Later for you, poser!" -- followed by a long look at David. "You work in a school," she tells him, and David's eyebrows involuntarily shift upwards. "I'm betting you're in charge of it. It's written all over your damn posture: talks down to kids for cash. I'm not a kid and you're not telling me what to do." "I'm trying to complete this mission," David calmly replies. "That one didn't want to tell you where a station was. We move on to the next. Unless you don't want the money in the pot?" Silence -- and then Erin jerks her head to the right, towards the next approaching pedestrian. "We'll do this later," she tells David. "Your turn." David nods, approaches the curious oncomer -- female this time, and also surprised by all the arriving people and trailing cameras -- has a few quiet words with her, and returns to the freshly-reunited group. "Five blocks up, two over," he tells them. "Whitechapel Street Market." And heads that way, not looking to see if the others are following or not. We'll watch them as they move through the streets of this old district, taking the moment to look at the area that our visitors don't fully have. It's a working-class area, Whitechapel, but these days, that means it's closer to poverty than it's been in decades. The class divides are visible in the vehicles that pass by, sometimes stand out in single buildings within the blocks: a tiled art gallery seems to both invite and reject. Signs announce upcoming construction: high-class architecture designed to improve the neighborhood while pushing the current residents out. There's a light scent of fresh fish on the air: a market is taking a delivery. The natives stop as this strange group passes them, stare here and there, mostly at the high beacon trailing to magnetic south: Charity is clearly going to be the subject of gazes wherever she goes. A few people who share something close to Erin's protective camouflage notice her, and she picks out one in turn, breaks from the group long enough to confirm that David's directions are correct. Christopher stays near the back of the pack, perhaps not wanting to be questioned about his own twists and turns just yet. (He's also using the position to survey female contestants and camera operators. All of them.) Some of the locals notice the cameras, try to get in front of the lenses for abruptly-struck poses and grotesquely-pulled faces. None of them get very far before they're stopped. And here we have a shopping area, little stores, family businesses without a corporate name in sight, little carts lining the sidewalks selling used books and old clothing -- along with a red-bordered white circle hung high above the sidewalk: Underground. The procession hurries in. Patricia consults a police officer (with George standing close by to verify what she's hearing) and gets the information they need: the bookstore still exists, it can be reached through the rail system -- they'll come out on the same block -- but they need to hurry: the most direct route they can take will leave them with just about twenty minutes on the clock, and that's assuming they can clear the station itself in a hurry, plus every train has to show up on time. (The officer, who seems very happy to be filmed, isn't a Christie fan and has nothing else to contribute.) She and George rush back to the others, tell them the trains they need to use, and Verni reaches into the envelope again, starts distributing the passes -- -- all ten of them. The attention of the group immediately focuses on Verni. "I didn't drop any!" she responds to the accusing gazes. "I made sure this thing stayed closed in the tunnels! But I never counted them either! Maybe they just stuck us two short to spread suspicion -- want to think about that for a second?" "Ten passes for twelve people?" Mark questions. "Why would they screw us over this early?" "I'd love to have your bosses," Verni mutters -- then, with more volume, "It doesn't matter." Which isn't stopping the rest of the group from planning to make notes about Verni. "We'll just buy two more. Who's got money?" "No one," Felicia sighs. "They confiscated my emergency supply when they did the luggage inspection. I'm betting they got everybody." Winces and nods from the others. "Maybe our camera people can --" and wrong: they lose all interest in the group at that exact point in the sentence. "-- right... Okay, they can't be that expensive. If we start asking around, we should be able to cover two people in a few minutes." "Which we don't have," Jacob groans. "We're allowed to split the group to accomplish tasks, yes? Two people can just stay back and ask for money, then take the next train -- the officer said they leave ten minutes apart. That should be enough time." "Your idea," Christopher concedes with a grin -- "so you do it." Jacob's smile may be just a touch forced. "I think the ladies will have less trouble than the men." Which gets a laugh from Christopher. "You, maybe -- I can work up that much cash in seconds, no problem." "Got it," Mark proclaims. "Which means you're staying." Christopher's expression doesn't crash when he sees the group nod, but you might get the impression that it really wants to. "Who else? David, Patricia, you've got to stay with the group --" because of their weak character knowledge, which means Verni of the too-few passes does too, and Mark's hard wince shows he just realized that "-- still need one more..." "I'll do it," Felicia wearily volunteers. "Between the two of us, we should have it inside the ten minutes. You guys keep going -- we'll catch up." And now we have ten contestants swiping cards to move through the gates, getting on the very clean train, not quite taking up an entire car but coming close with all the production people in tow, so much curiosity in the other passengers -- one of whom finally asks Verni if this is some kind of race. She tells them it is, but without a capital letter attached. They ride the subway system, changing trains where needed, and several of them take the time to further explore their PDCs: there's a lot of notes being taken on this ride. (Impressions have to be recorded as soon after the event as possible -- and no one's really comfortable enough for open conversations yet.) A few ask fellow passengers about the fictional detective, but no one seems to be getting much luck in finding a devoted readership (although someone does ask Mihoshi if she has any plans for the evening). Others continue to review what they know about the character, although David takes a momentary time-out from that to see if he can use his PDC to record what they've come up with. "Possible bowler hat," he says into his microphone. "Mustache. If the store has a coffee shop that carries Belgian chocolates, that's not out of the question. A fussy dresser -- look for expensive articles of clothing..." Jacob, at the far end of the car, glances up from his screen. "Does anyone else have blue lines appearing under certain words in their notes?" Sadr nods. "I think it's hypertexting." Erin shoots him a furious look. "Sure, tell the damn world..." Charity moves over to Jacob: George, Sadr, and Patricia follow her. "It's hypertexting all by itself?" Jacob gives them a vaguely embarrassed look even as he moves his arm to hide whatever he'd just input. "I barely understand what the word means," he admits. "But when I give it one of your names, it underlines it." Erin tosses off a shrug that suggests there would be pity for the older generation if anyone cared enough. Or at all. "And touch the name, everything you've said about them shows up on its own page," she adds (and now she's just showing off). "It'll probably divide up by missions, too." Mihoshi looks up from her own screen, where she's been happily following the progress of her notes for twenty minutes without saying anything. "It will," she tells them with absolute confidence and more than a little adoration. "This thing has power." "Which is why I don't like it," George darkly declares. "It's got too much power, and it's all held over us." Curious looks. "It was one thing when they had the journals. The journals were solid. The only thing you had to worry about with them was losing it or having someone tear a page out. This way, our notes are vulnerable. Power loss, computer error -- there's a thousand ways we could wind up losing data, and just about none of them have us getting it back. She said they were experimental units. Who knows what could go wrong?" "They're not going to explode," Mihoshi firmly insists. "'Experimental' just means the marketing department hasn't worked out a campaign yet." George shakes his head. "Trust yours if you want to -- but as far as I'm concerned, the instant I put all my faith in this thing is the second it comes around and bites me in the ass. As soon as we get that walking-around money, I'm buying myself a notebook." This statement doesn't shake Mihoshi's devotion to the PDC, but it does put the other eight people in the train car on at least Low Alert: they don't know enough about their equipment. And for that matter, Mihoshi's confidence (put together with the earlier recognition) is a little odd. Then again, so is Christopher getting lost (and does anyone believe they left the Mole back at the station). So is Verni coming up with just ten passes (and is the Mole riding with them now, quietly listening to this conversation). You always have suspects, you always have reasons for suspecting them -- but right now, there's too many, and some of them might be doing it on purpose, trying to lure answers to themselves and take opponents out... There's only one Mole -- but there can be up to eleven people who want to look like it. The game is underway, and no one can tell how many layers deep it already goes. Even more than the sudden distrust of their PDCs, that's the factor currently sinking in. By absolute definition, you would think that eleven of the group could be trusted -- but the reality of their new world is something less. The remainder of the ride passes in relative silence. -- and out as the final station is reached, thundering up towards street level at the best speed they can manage through the increasing crowd and unfamiliar turns (Patricia's behind, but not by as much as some might think), and now they're really getting looks: more people around now, shocked by the sudden presence of cameras in their midst, Americans invading the soil with something less than weaponry and something much less than silence, calling out to each other, trying to coordinate the great escape from their second underground system of the day -- -- and there's the bookstore. Or rather, there's the building, and the bookstore very visibly takes up five floors of it, brightly-lit shelves visible through large windows. Above that, the name on the building clearly indicates that the higher floors hold the Penguin offices, and Charity softly groans as she realizes the secondary search zone is calling for their attention. "If it's up there --" "We'll split up if we have to!" Mark decides. "Just in case it isn't in the bookstore..." His voice is unsteady: trying to get up the escalators in a hurry was not an experience which felt like being kind to him, and keeping up with the others on crutches isn't working very well either. "Just start fanning out and taking floors!" George calls back. "Two to each --" "-- remember, find the mystery department" Patricia cuts in. "That's our best bet -- we can try some group speed-reading for extra clues! And look for discarded clothing, like David said -- anything really expensive! The 'fussy dresser' part!" David glances at his PDC: after their first-graders-on-their-first-field-trip attempt to leave the station, fourteen very quickly expiring minutes remain. "Agreed -- let's get in there." They race up to the multiple doors of the entrance, and a small child standing next to her mother sadly says "That's closed," (earning a reproving look from her parent) just as Sadr pulls at a handle -- -- and the door opens, letting Sadr in past a very surprised guardian. A display of new books directly ahead. Cash registers to the left. Little impulse purchases nearby. No people. Just endless volumes, five floors of them to go, and -- this jumps out at Mihoshi first -- no directory, but there is a circle on the carpet where something was recently removed. Now they have to split up -- and, without a word to each other, do: ten people heading in ten directions: moving for elevators, shelves, escalators, and displays... ----------------------------------------------------------------- Here's Mark, unsteadily lurching between the shelves on the first floor, checking the new releases. It could be anywhere, right? Maybe there's even a trail of clues to follow: pick up something here, follow whatever that said to somewhere else, this is fifty g-marks for the pot and less than fourteen minutes to get it in there, that means there probably wouldn't be more than fourteen stops. Mark's got to check everywhere he can get to, which is a field that's a lot more limited than it was before this game started. But maybe the last relic is a new book, something that was never published -- -- and his eyes go wide. There is a new book, right in front of him, a bright green cover with a red thumbprint on it, and it says Corbin Bernsen's Guide To Clues. He swings himself to it, grabs it off the shelf, gives it a one-handed flip open to a random point inside Chapter One -- -- where he reads the following: 'Candlesticks. Candlesticks. Candlesticks. Candlesticks.' Repeated on forty-five lines of text. This doesn't seem to be providing much help, so he gives the pages a toss to Chapter Two and gets 'Shoes. Shoes. Shoes. Shoes.' Which really isn't helping him, so he closes the book, considers throwing it away, and moves on, now on a slightly vague lookout for candlesticks, just in case... ----------------------------------------------------------------- Charity's on the third floor right now (she took the escalators or rather, used them as a launch point), and she's going through a similar range of emotions: her publication, stuck deep in the self-help section, was Manuel's Mole Catching Technique Revealed: Traitor Finding Made Easy!, and all she got on the first page was a single sentence: 'Go home first and let everyone explain things to you on TV.' Which is definitely a workable tactic: it's just not one most people are going to feel like following. For temporary lack of other options, she brings up the phone screen again and hits the cross hard. A few seconds later, the tone sounds, and she asks "Any luck?" There's a faint note of surprise in David's voice: apparently no one's told him about this function yet. "No. The mystery section isn't in my area. There was an utterly unhelpful reference text about red pepper consumption around the world that insisted you have to step on them repeatedly to bring out the true flavor, but that's all I've found. How do I call the others?" Charity fills him in on the process. "Can we get more than two people at a time in a call?" And this note suggests he really would have liked to have the answer to this question before they started. Charity doesn't know and says so, concluding with a small sigh and "We've got to share information more..." Dryly, "I plan on considering coalition offers as they become available. Keep looking. And try to find our hostess -- we hardly have time for a return to our point of origin. If she isn't somewhere in this building, then we are very horribly wrong..." ----------------------------------------------------------------- Patricia's following a slightly sideways plan: American bookstores typically keep horror, science fiction, fantasy, and mysteries in a fairly tight knot, so she's looking for any of the four groups and hoping that if it's a non-helpful one, the category she's searching for will be nearby. And she's trying very hard not to get distracted -- which is Mihoshi's current problem: Patricia just found her, and the hornrims are aimed in the general direction of a page filled with a lot of color and not much text. "What are you doing?" Patricia reasonably asks, because unless that's a graphic novel adaptation, it's probably not going to be helpful, and she does not remember Hercule Poirot wearing that kind of cape. Mihoshi looks up, not particularly embarrassed. "This won't be available in the States for at least six months --" "And we've got eight minutes," Patricia reminds her. "We've got to keep moving." A little too calm. "I am moving and I know how to multitask," Mihoshi protests with a little more fervor and in fact, she was walking with the volume, eyes moving from side to side over the top of the page. "Besides, Borders keeps the graphic novels near the mysteries -- maybe these people do too." Which may be a little too close to Patricia's own logic for comfort. "Fine -- let's check over there..." And 'over there' turns out to be wrong. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Where's George right now? Down among the children's books, looking at a bright yellow cover featuring his namesake visiting a zoo. He makes a move as if to open it -- maybe there's something personally addressed to him in there, you never know, right? -- but passes on the opportunity. There has to be something around here somewhere that'll help. The punk had a point (several, actually, mostly concealed): they can't blow every mission assignment unless they personally screw up, and the first group one almost has to go into the win column. So the Mole has to be working for them here, and if that's George, he's looking hard, and if it isn't, he's still looking hard. But kid stuff isn't going to help them here, which is why he went past the green cover of Erik Von Detten And The Graveyard Of Bad Math without a second glance. He's in the wrong place: he has to find the right one. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Jacob just came up the escalator: he's the third person to the fifth floor, having already come up empty in his section. Verni, right on his heels, is the fourth -- but she falls back as she stops to say "If it's not a find, hang up!" into her microphone before disconnecting on a very surprised Sadr. Since Charity's call to David, news on how to use the phone function has been spreading through the group at top speed -- but it's carried a posse of interruptions hunting down their scant remaining minutes. People keep calling each other to check on the no-progress: it's not helping anyone. Mark's working his way across from the elevators, passing through the fantasy section. He's still carrying his book. "Anything?" "No," Jacob says, some frustration in his voice. "I don't think we're organized enough to conduct a full search." Mark nods. "We've got to plan our attack more for next time." "If we get a next time," Verni interjects, her temper audibly getting shorter by the second. "It's got to be somewhere, and we've got five minutes left --" looking around wildly "-- five minutes --" stops. "Look!" They look. There's a little plume of steam rising up from the center of the fifth floor. Mark moves to his PDC, calling it in just in case it's something important. Jacob runs for the steam -- -- which is coming from a large mug of what's probably tea, completely full and resting on a huge coaster, which in turn rests on the circular shelf of a small reading lamp. Alex is sitting in the plush chair on its left, peacefully reading through a large book, feet propped up on an Ottoman, black leather shoes reflecting the light. She's in the same clothing she wore in the Roundhouse, the shades of ebony given oddly sharp definition by the extra illumination from the lamp. A quick glance up at Jacob, a check of his empty hands -- and then she goes back to her book: Mission UnAccomplished: Spy Failures That Changed History. Jacob softly groans, then gets out of the immediate area, hurrying back to the others. "I found our host," he tells them. "At least we have a place to bring it back to..." Mark looks up at this, then passes the information along: he's starting to become very quick on the PDC. "The cross is David..." he mutters, hits it, and relays. "He's on his way up." "With nothing," Verni groans. "We don't have anything. All of these books are jokes!" "Maybe Alex is sitting near the mysteries," Jacob proposes. "It's the last place we haven't looked..." -- and Erin runs up. "The last place you haven't looked," she pants, more than a little out of breath. "We're going bottom to top: fallacy of the climbing villains..." Which gets her an absolute stare from Mark. "I've been in the mysteries for the last five minutes: all I got was this." She holds up another one of the green-covered books: The Bribs Series #9: Trust Is A Fragile Thing. "There isn't even a single Christie book!" David chooses that moment to arrive, hurrying over from the escalators, Sadr on his heels. Neither man is even remotely winded. "There isn't?", and David's definitely taking that bit of information into serious question, along with placing another piece into lockdown custody: Erin was up here for that long and said nothing to anyone about it? Erin angrily shakes her head. "One big hole in the Cs. That's it. Waste time checking if you want to." "Three minutes," Mark, the apparent official timekeeper, reminds them. "We don't have time." Back to alerting the others as to Alex's location, just in case something comes up at the last second, which they are just about down to. "If we can't research it through the books..." Verni moans. "Maybe we've got it already?" Jacob proposes. "If we were given the information we needed for the assignment -- Verni, are you sure you pulled out everything in the envelope?" Verni's not happy about this question. "I read everything, I removed everything." A solid statement that does nothing to dispel all the doubt surrounding the answer. "We've checked the bookstore!" Erin yells. "We've been through this thing! We've looked everywhere, we know we're in the right part of the building because the damn retread is here, we don't have time for the offices, we don't have anywhere left to look! We've been over everything except --" and dead stop as her jaw very slightly drops. More softly, "Everything except..." and gone, running for the plume of steam, for the mug that still hasn't been touched, racing past a surprised Charity who just gets out of the way in time... Alex casually looks up as Erin approaches, checks her empty hands, goes back to the book. Erin dives for the Ottoman, bends down, yanks at the shoes, they come free easily, thrusts them out towards Alex -- "These," she hisses, "are men's shoes." Alex looks up again, tilts her head slightly to the left as she regards them, completely nonplussed by the sudden removal of her too-large footwear, watches as the others come running up. "Sometimes," their host says, "it really is in the last place you look." A slight pause. "Mission accomplished." -----------------------------------------------------------------   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Jims02 6971 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 02-06-08, 00:26 AM (EST) 11. "RE: The Mole: Season #5: Episode #1: A Dark Room" It's Poirot's patent leather shoes! Thanks for keeping this going, Estee. I was looking forward to it.   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 02-14-08, 10:59 AM (EST) 12. "A Dark Room: Part V" LAST EDITED ON 02-20-08 AT 09:48 AM (EST) Is this where the commercials will be put, while time passes for our cast? It takes considerably more than a few minutes for Felicia and Christopher to arrive: the Underground contains more than enough raw miles of track to become thoroughly lost in, and they've managed it with stations to spare -- although there seems to be an ongoing argument about just whose fault it truly was. After that little break in the action (just under eighty minutes), everyone's brought to the hotel they'll be using as a group and given some time to wash up, change their clothes, get their notes organized, and further explore their PDCs, which includes use of the recharging station they each find next to their beds. As yet, all of this confined activity is being done with very little in the way of witnesses: the camera operators do not follow people into their bathrooms (as long the PDC is left behind) and much to everyone's surprise, they have no roommates -- for the moment. Twelve contestants, twelve fairly expensive suites -- but they are all on the same floor, and George makes a show of checking the thickness on his walls, trying to see if he can hear any notes being taken on the other side. He can't. Time passes: there will be occasions when that's the most accurate thing to say. We don't have any conferences to eavesdrop on, because our players have been told to stay separated until after the next group meeting -- once that takes place, they'll be free to gather however they like, barring curfews, assignments, and other such distractions. For now, everyone's waiting. Some are thinking hard about what took place earlier in the day. Others are making futile attempts to perceive the future. Several are touching up their makeup. And one may be in a private discussion with members of the production crew, but we're hardly going to listen in on that, now are we? Instead, we'll wait until all twelve are told to leave their rooms, and into the elevators they go, wearing moderately to very formal outfits, every one of them -- except for Erin, whose definition of 'formal' is 'six rips or less', and Mihoshi, who simply doesn't own anything which would qualify. They're packed into limos immediately after stepping out into the evening, riding in silent groups of four -- -- and when we next join them, they're sitting around a large circular table at a three-star restaurant on Royal Hospital Road. There's quite a bit of space around them: the floor arrangements have been changed to allow for a little private space, and the eatery's other patrons are being kept at bay. There aren't many of those here tonight, and most of them may be camera operators in their best formal wear, with a few technicians brought in to fill out the scenery. It's very much a private party, even if the kitchen keeps trying to break into the affair. Felicia glances up from the wine list as another storm of cursing escapes from the doors at the outer edge, seeming to ruffle the white tablecloths as it moves across the room. "So that's what's under all those bleeps..." Mark grins. "That man was just born the wrong color. What's going on in there?" "Just the usual," Christopher decides, because he does work in the Red Rock and there was one application where he decided to lie about knowing how to cook. He unconsciously adjusts the lines of his tuxedo. "So are we getting the masters or the students?" This with a glance at their host, who might be in a position to know. (She's sitting between Mark and Mihoshi, if that means anything to anyone.) "No idea," Alex concedes as she hands her unopened wine list menu back to the waiter. (No dress: her outfit hasn't changed from the first meeting, although the shoes are new.) "We booked this months in advance: what he chooses to do on that date is up to him. It would be a little hard to sort out the extra forms, though..." She looks around at the group, grey eyes pausing on each. "So -- now that we're all in one place, and it'll take some time for the food to arrive -- we can work on slightly more formal introductions. You may have noticed that none of you can see your own symbols on the PDC's phone network -- the same way you don't know how the others are choosing to perceive you." Some nods at that, and just a few hints of unease at the second part. "Each of those symbols represents either your chosen profession or something about yourself that you personally found very important -- sometimes both. I know some of you have figured out which symbols belong to a few people through trial and error -- does anyone care to admit what that image might mean?" Silence -- but it's brief: Mark readily-if-hesitantly moves into it. (It takes him away from visibly counting candlesticks.) "Charity -- you're not some kind of priestess, right?" Charity blinks in surprise, and Mark looks very awkward for a second. "You've got those snakes..." For her part, Charity just looks confused by Mark's first guess. "I'm a medical student -- just finished my second year." (Some surprise at the announcement, a little of it based around the announced year: Charity looks to be, at most, eighteen.) "I'm going for a pediatrics specialty, if that means anything. I've got a Hippocratic cross?" Because she (presumably) hasn't seen it. (Patricia, who's on Charity's right, helpfully displays her own PDC and points to the image.) "Oh..." With a small, shy smile, "That's a little premature." "You're going for medicine?" From Erin, this comes out as a mixture of disbelief and disdain. "What are you, seven goddamned freakish feet tall? Why aren't you slamming them down in the WNBA for one-tenth of what the men make?" Some winces around the table: Charity just shrugs and reaches for the rich cotton napkin next to her plate, unfolding it before wadding it into something that might pass for a sphere in complete darkness: a little larger than a baseball, with the edges tucked under each other to help hold it together. "See that white lamp sticking out of the wall?" Heads turn to regard the light fixture forty feet away, and Erin can be bothered to spare a quick nod. "The top's about big enough to catch this, right?" Group agreement while Charity adjusts the right sleeve of her light jacket -- then throws the napkin. The toss hits the wall five feet to the left of the lamp, then slides down until it comes to a stop in the lap of a very annoyed off-duty sound editor. "Sorry!" Charity abashedly calls out, "I usually miss far enough out to drop it between chairs!" -- then returns her gaze to Erin. Very calmly, "That's why I'm not in the WNBA. And why I didn't play college basketball, or any other level. Being tall doesn't mean you can play -- it just means everyone either assumes you can or keeps trying to recruit you because they're convinced they're the ones who can teach you." Another shrug, smaller this time. "And I've got other things to do with my life." Erin isn't even remotely bothered by this. "Yeah, whatever -- I'll keep that in mind if we get any 'missions' where we have to play Horse..." Okay, that person wasn't as angered as they could have been: next target! "Doesn't take much to pick out the Jew in this group, though. Not with a Star Of David on the menu and that kind of name on the 'team'." All of the quotes are audible. Jacob chooses not to take any of it as bait. "I'm a rabbi, for the very little that's probably going to be worth." Some attention from various parts of the table (and look at the sudden, very intense focus from David). Smiling, "I can't imagine that's going to be helpful to most of our assignments." Verni's a little worried. "Wait -- what happens to you when we have to play on a Saturday?" This is a Wednesday night. "Are we going to lose you for one day in every seven?" The name 'Lee' invisibly hovers above the table. Jacob smiles. "We're playing a game. I'm allowed to have fun any time I can spare some for it -- does anyone remember Ethan ever taking a day off?" The group seems to be somewhat reassured. "And I'm not Orthodox, so some of the more -- draconian -- restrictions don't apply to me. Unless our assignments become extremely strange, I'll be in them all the way -- for as long as I manage to stick around." "You don't think you're going to win?" This from George, who's grinning. Jacob looks amused. "I have the same chances as anyone here -- but unless someone's made a very early and accurate guess, that's one in eleven. David -- the cross is yours. Do we share a professional field, if not the exact profession?" David shakes his head. "I'm an assistant principal -- I've held the post for nearly thirty years." Very pointedly not looking at Erin, whose triumph isn't even remotely concealed (and slightly toxic). "It's a private school, though. Who does the sine wave belong to?" "Me," Felicia concedes. (She's in the most elegant dress of the evening: a very smoky burgundy.) "I spend a lot of time in recording studios." Which, despite some curious looks from the others, is all she's going to admit right now. If anything, the gazes are just making her divert the attention. "And Christopher is the swaying watch -- we didn't have much to do but play with symbols while we were waiting to get unlost." She glares at her partner in bad directions -- -- who doesn't pick up on it: he's too busy being happy about his cue. "Professional hypnotist," Christopher proudly announces. "Traumas cured, addictions dumped, and shows performed twice per night, with the occasional kids' matinée on weekends and private parties on request." This with a big grin aimed towards Charity (who looks distinctly uncomfortable with it). "Hopefully it comes in handy for a few of our assignments." "It'll probably be useful for you to pick up some extra notes with, too," Verni snaps: she does not like Christopher (or at least that's the way she's playing it right now). "If anyone's got an unemployment form, that'll be me -- I lost my job because I came out here." Sadr winces. "That's rough -- your boss didn't want to give you the time off?" Verni's anger doesn't fade: it vanishes all at once, buried into the weight of a long sigh. "It was just the last in a long line of things they didn't want to give me. Why are you the cartoon rabbit jumping into the hole and pulling the hole in after him?" That gets a small laugh from Sadr. "Animator." (Look at Felicia here, while none of the others are doing the same: she was not expecting that, and she's not entirely happy about it, either. It gets covered quickly.) "So I got the sight gag. Alex, you're the green thumbprint off to the side?" "Occasionally," Alex admits. "If there's a mission where you need to directly call me at regular points, that one provides the link. Otherwise, it puts you in contact with someone on the crew." Sadr nods. "I figured there had to be a way to call for help -- I just didn't want to try it unless we really needed it. Who's the fan?" An old-fashioned furl of paper, waving gently back and forth in an imaginary breeze. "It goes to Patricia," David tells them. "I'm not sure why..." Patricia laughs. "It gets surprisingly hot in Montana during the summer, and until someone invents a truly portable air conditioner, it's the single best accessory to an umbrella. As far as work goes, I'm very retired." A little surprise around the table, as Patricia doesn't look old enough to be finished working. "Mark, you're the clapboard -- are you the actor who was recruited to play a specific part?" This with a small wink. "I know I've seen you somewhere..." Mark isn't thrilled by all the attention, at least not when it comes with an unexpected casting call attached. "In the background or in the middle of too many flames to make out my face -- I've got the clapboard because I'm a stuntman." A surprisingly soft sigh, and he lightly thumps his cast. "Which is how I got this. Verni lost her job to come out here: I just wound up losing full control during a planned spinout." Is anyone buying this? Some -- but it looks like everyone's planning on keeping track of their receipt. "I'm just glad the producers didn't call for a backup -- I could have sworn I was gonna be kept out of this." And now that receipt has been pinned inside every sleeve. "If we're going to people who don't answer their calls --" a hard look at Erin "-- or make any -- then you've got to be the multicolored drum set melting into the acid pool." Each with the anarchy symbol on them, which still floats on the pool's surface after all else has dissolved. Erin isn't even remotely abashed by this. "I play. I'd say who I've played for, but we all know it just gets cut out..." And why would she promote people stupid enough to toss her? "I'm thinking Micro-Blonde over there is the radio broadcast tower -- you in the industry?" Some faint-but-actual curiosity there. "I used to be," Verni immediately (and angrily) replies. And we can add that reaction to the very long list of things Erin doesn't care about. "So use Mega-Blonde as your next tower." The two freshly-named parties exchange a glance that has at least one thing in common. "Who do the parallel bars go to? No one here looks like a gymnast..." Omitting herself from that description: she has the (relative) lack of size and she's exactly that thin. "Even without process of elimination, that's probably me," George decides. "They're a great therapy tool -- I help people put themselves back together after accidents." Erin's feeling especially merciless tonight. "Practice on yourself a lot?" And George isn't bothered by it. (Erin's not having a good night.) "Only on the first run. And that's got to leave the computer monitor as Mihoshi." The hornrims bob a little during the nod: they don't fit very well across the bridge of her nose. "Fact-checker." A very plain statement. "I make sure magazines don't get sued for putting the wrong things in print. So they just get sued over telling the truth instead." "So you're good with computers," Verni says. It doesn't quite come out as an accusation. "I can run a search engine," Mihoshi responds. "That's about sixty percent of what it takes, and most of the rest comes in sorting out the truth from the blog lies that just want to look like it. Field trips to the library are getting rarer by the month." Looking directly at Verni, her glasses slipping a bit more with the slight lean-forward: "But I didn't come here to tamper with everyone's PDCs and I sure didn't show up to get a free one. I came here to beat this game." That gets a laugh out of George: it's a little more high-pitched than you might have expected. "Hello, million-dollar quote..." "I believe most of us would say the same if pressed," David decides, sipping at his own water goblet for a moment. (More screams echo across the room from the kitchen during the pause.) "Perhaps all -- except one." And then he sets the goblet down just a little too hard, turns slightly too fast in his chair -- and comes to a stop facing Alex. In a voice that launches a million echoes, "Why are you here?" The restaurant goes silent. Every contestant, every member of the crew pretending to be a patron -- everyone. The kitchen has been caught in a moment of downtime, and far too many seem to be between breaths... Alex sips from her glass (some kind of lightly-fizzing blue liquid), then carefully sets it down before meeting David's eyes. He doesn't flinch back. (Christopher, sitting on his right, does -- and then pretends it didn't happen.) "Very familiar question, that..." Soft, her voice far too toneless. "Do you really want the answer?" David nods, just once. It's barely enough of a movement to register as such. Alex nods back, then takes another sip before starting. "There's two answers to that," she begins, her voice back to a normal volume, keeping most of her focus on David. "Part of the first is that I was under consideration before the first season ended. The network had been mulling over bringing the show back for a while -- there was still enough devotion from the fans that they felt they'd have some kind of core audience, and there were also long-term rumblings of a possible writer's strike -- they might need all the unscripted programming they could get. With the audience numbers we were pulling in, everyone wanted to get a share. A lot of us saw that after the Reunion, and some people went for it. Robin became a celebrity dance trainer, Tony signed up for the roses -- we all tried to talk him out of it, and we were all so happy to be wrong..." The slightest (and briefest) of smiles there. "But they were thinking about me from the start, even before the win. Probably not too seriously -- just bring me in for an interview, get a little more publicity from that, and if they thought I could actually hold the show, keep things moving, then maybe they'd have some very publicized regrets before they passed me over for someone else. But then we went for the run..." She trails off. The length of the pause is more than enough time for everyone to remember. "...and then they had to have me," she continues. "Then there was nothing that would stop them. And I could have said no anyway, but --" and stops. "That's all you get for now." David is still meeting her gaze: his eyes are an extraordinarily pale ice-blue, and they aren't even remotely ready to blink. "When do I get the rest?" It could be something close to an order -- but it's oddly short on the necessary strength. "Last a while," Alex suggests. "Because you'll have to earn it." The lock continues -- and then David breaks it with a final nod. Alex returns the gesture, then goes back to her drink for another long sip. "Does anyone feel they have the Mole identified yet?" Guess who speaks up first? "I've got some ideas," Erin challenges. "I'm not gonna say I've got it exactly pinned yet, but I'm narrowing the field. I already know a few people it can't be." Which gets Alex's mild interest. "Want to name anyone in the second category?" Of course Erin does. "Me," and this gets the first smile-snarl from her, revealing very even, extremely white teeth whose points are only suggested through the eyes. "Of course, if any of you think I'm the real deal, go ahead and answer the quiz that way: the faster you put yourselves out, the better off I am..." "I don't know if we can pick out the Mole based on a first assignment," Patricia offers. "Not if she -- he -- whoever it is had to help us on that one to get the pot built early." A light shrug. "Unless it's me, just because I knew who we were looking for and did help get money in the pot." Apparently Patricia's here to play. Sadr sighs. (He's wearing another home-built T-shirt, but it's a very formal one.) "It is early. I think I've knocked a couple of people out, but I've still got a really wide field." Anyone want to form a coalition with Sadr to gain access to his brilliant deductions? "Could anyone really pick out the Mole based on one assignment?" "I think beating the first quiz is based more in luck than knowledge," Charity proposes. "We've almost got to be all over the place right now. And there really isn't any guarantee that the Mole's done anything yet." "Possible," Jacob says. "Unless we pick out the Mole by whoever helped most on that task..." He doesn't sound happy about this, perhaps because it puts him in line with Patricia. George just groans. "We need a second assignment to work with before we get the damn quiz. There isn't enough to go on yet." Another bought of cursing from the kitchen adds a certain emphasis to the statement, along with adding a bit of wilt to the fallen napkin. Verni looks over to Alex. "Are we getting one?" "Maybe yes, and maybe no," Alex replies with absolute non-commitment. "Maybe not, and maybe so... Verni, I don't think we ever heard what you did before you were fired." Verni sighs. "Anyone who would recognize me from it, knows me already. Anyone who doesn't, wouldn't even after I told them. It doesn't matter -- this isn't a job audition." Water is required to get rid of the aftertaste from that statement: Verni rinses it down. (There isn't enough liquid to wash the confusion away from most of the others, much less the automatic denial from Christopher.) "I'm done with that now. Permanently. If I knew how to change that symbol..." And now she needs a refill. The group waits to see if Alex will press her on the subject, but the host doesn't: the only immediate (and visible) result of Verni's speech is the appearance of a waiter with a fresh pitcher. For the most part, the discussion goes light after that -- but things keep coming back around to the game, and some of it may be deliberate. What does everyone think of the little bit of London they've seen so far? It's been fun -- but Felicia wants to know why she wound up seeing so much of it, at least where the underbelly was concerned. (According to her, the money-gathering was done when she found the right person after four minutes of searching: no contribution from Christopher, because he was in charge of re-getting and verifying the directions -- and look how well that worked out.) How have the hotels been to date? Well, the latest one is an improvement for most of the group, but aren't the room assignments just one more thing to watch? Should the Mole be closest to the elevators or staircase so they can sneak up to the producers at need? (Patricia proposes this part, and gets some people thinking in the process -- but then, Patricia is the one right next to the staircase.) Is it too early to watch room numbers? Floor numbers? (Twelfth floor -- purely coincidence, right? Surely they won't be on the eleventh after the first person leaves. Surely.) Eventually, the food arrives with a side order of forbidden words, and the group settles down to a world-class meal and slightly expected vocabulary lesson. Fine dining etiquette is being broken all around the table, mostly by Erin, who seems to see it as a new kind of challenge -- but the others get their share in, mostly through semi-public PDC use. (It used to be writing in a tablecloth-hidden journal whenever someone mentioned a personal fact: now it's trying to whisper into your microphone and hoping you don't get caught.) The conversations dart all over the field, stopping on families for a time, moving to hometowns, skidding over the slippery field of declared professions. Too many people have questions for Mark about the movie industry -- who has he met? Was he on fire at the time? -- and a few try to quiz Alex on unseen aspects of her previous experiences: she quotes an old contract once just because -- then gives them the full details of why licenses are now required for hang glider ownership in Denmark, not to mention why the clues now specifically say you can't travel by air unless you're jumping between nations. Time spent getting to know a little about each other (or at least what people are choosing to lie about) and enjoying dishes which the cursing gives just the right amount of spice to -- and five courses later, it's back to the hotel, arriving at ten in the evening. Most of the group heads for bed: there's no telling what the morning has in store for them, and they may need all the rest they can get. Most... ----------------------------------------------------------------- Here's Jacob, who's bemusedly watching his notes organize themselves. He's pretty good at keeping details in short-term memory -- he has to be, with members of his congregation shouting at each other in front of him, no pauses to let a normal mind sort things out and certainly not so much as a nod towards letting people take turns -- so he's waited until he reached his room before he sorted things out into his growing electronic database. This doesn't mean Jacob isn't the Mole, of course. The Mole takes notes, the Mole takes the quiz, and the Mole sweats things out while the results are revealed. The Mole plays a lot of games, and keeping up the act at all times is the central rule to just about every one. "...and Patricia is a widow," Jacob tells his PDC. "We have engaged, steadily dating, and divorced -- but there are a great number of singles among us, and I'm the only married person in the group. I'm almost certain this isn't meant to point towards me in any way, but I don't know if it is indicating something -- or if it's meant to show anything at all. I don't know where to seek the patterns just yet, and I don't want to drive myself insane looking for them where they don't exist --" and then there's a knock at the door. Then another, and another -- three of them, very close together, evenly spaced -- but without much force. Just enough to get through and gather attention. Jacob stops taking notes, pushes himself away from the rolltop writing desk, and goes to see who it is. He's expecting someone from the crew: mission assignments could come at any time, and they do almost have to get another one before the first execution. Jacob's very wrong. "May I come in?" David asks, his voice far too formal -- but that's how he's sounded for practically everything he's said. Jacob, more than a little surprised, steps back and gives the older man access to the room. David nods and moves past him, coming to a stop near the writing desk, back spear-straight. His bearing suggests leaning against the furniture would be a forbidden pleasure. "Is there something I can help you with?" Jacob offers. There's a possibility on his mind, but it seems unlikely. But for this, at least, Jacob is right. Slowly, "You are -- a man of faith," David begins. "I think you are someone I can discuss things with. I -- want to offer a coalition." Jacob blinks. It's all he trusts himself to do just yet. "You're acting a little early," he tells David, his voice lightly touched with humor. "Don't you want to look for a better offer?" David seems to take this a little too seriously. "No. As of late, I find I think better when I have someone to discuss my thoughts with. You seem intelligent, and I know that with your profession, you are used to a certain degree of debate. Right now, I do not believe you're the Mole -- and I feel that strongly enough that I'm willing to take this chance. Are you willing to trust me enough to see if we can work together?" Jacob can't help but smile at this: David is being a little too careful, a man gently tossing paper airplanes into what he sees as a minefield and waiting for the explosion. Jacob also thinks he might just be the first of his religion David's ever spoken to: right now, that wouldn't surprise him in the least. "You're not very high on my suspect list at the moment," he decides to say, still keeping it light. "In fact, the only thing keeping you there at all is your knowing who Poirot was -- and realistically, someone had to." The grey man appears to take this as some kind of consent, at least for now. "That's part of what I've been thinking about. The first assignment. I keep wondering -- how were we supposed to beat it?" And another blink from Jacob, who now looks somewhat troubled. "Go on," and the mirth is gone from his voice. David nods. "I keep coming back to what Erin said," he tells Jacob. "That we must have something to play for, especially early -- that there will be times the Mole must help us win. There may be times when that is the primary clue to the Mole's identity -- the rest of us flounder, and one rides to the rescue, because this is an assignment the show wishes us to conquer. And to beat the very first real one -- discounting finding the Roundhouse -- I have to think they would want that. But this first task -- Mrs. Christie isn't as known as she once was. To get a devoted reader in our pool wasn't a guarantee. However, there were questions about my reading interests on the application... and I never read the books. I only saw parts of a film or two. And no one asked me the name of every movie I'd ever seen." Jacob is visibly mulling this over. "Which would seem to put you in the general neighborhood of Patricia and Verni." "It has not escaped me that Patricia is directly related to one of the world's greatest hustlers," David dryly responds. (The topic was one of many to come up over dinner: Sadr finally asked.) "Although I'm not certain that trait is --" a sudden, very awkward pause "-- genetic. Patricia knew the name -- and they might have based the assignment on her reading tastes." "She said it wasn't one of her favorite series, though," Jacob gently debates. "Just about the opposite. Would she have mentioned something so far down on her list?" "Perhaps," David says. "If she was the Mole, she might have been quizzed more than the rest of us. From what our hostess said, the Mole was chosen after we arrived in London. There was time to consult with her -- but by their very nature, some of our missions have to be set up well in advance. So I don't know how much advance knowledge really plays into this, as our Mole could be quickly briefed before we begin. In fact, with the PDCs, they can be updated in the middle of a mission -- and would we have any chance to catch it?" A long hesitation. "I know I'm talking in circles. Give me a moment." Jacob silently nods, smiles casual encouragement. He does seem curious to see where this is going. "So -- Patricia," David continues. "She solved the first part of our puzzle, pointed us in the right direction -- claims to have been to London before and knew the bookstore had existed. To that degree, she was an asset to the mission, and did nothing to disrupt it. Verni knew a little about the character, but not enough: she never truly made a contribution. Was she meant to be a backup? Patricia with honest knowledge that the show did not expect -- but if she hadn't given us the answer, Verni was waiting to do so? And Verni may have lost two of our passes on purpose: split the group, slow us down -- a little interruption in the mission: not enough to make us fail, but enough to get our attention." "Or there may have been ten passes and only ten in that envelope to begin with," Jacob suggests. "I'd hardly put that above our puppetmasters. I was giving some thought to Verni, but my primary reason to suspect her was employment status -- she may have a dream job, and was offered it to be our Mole." He taps his PDC with increasing proficiency, checks a note he really doesn't need to consult. "And Charity was the one who solved the 'flightless bird' portion of the riddle and knew it was the name of a book publisher -- another asset, but one who didn't slow us down." But David had known the publisher as well -- -- and the grey man takes a slow breath. "And that's where I kept coming back to. Assets who did slow us down. One person tried to divert us at the beginning, throw us off the trail early, disrupted the group at every opportunity. Almost getting into a fight on the street, refusing to answer calls or report in -- but at the very end, swooping in to save the mission in the last possible minute. Claiming that there were no books that would help us, when none of us ever got to see if she was telling the truth. Was she speaking with the producers, receiving answers just in time to make things work? She doesn't strike me as the sort who would spend her time reading mysteries decades-old: anything over ten years past is likely of no interest to her. Without exacting experience with the character, how were any of us supposed to know about those shoes? And to tell the difference between men's and women's footwear on a glance, when she's hardly a fashion plate herself... it seemed a little too convenient. None of us were able to confirm whether those books were missing: we were hurried out so the store could open. She had the knowledge, the most unlikely one of us to possess it -- and left us with no way to discover where she'd found it." "Erin," Jacob says, just managing to keep his voice steady. "David, I'll be frank: that's a little too close to the way I've been thinking. But -- if we're going to be honest with each other, I was considering you, because you did have some knowledge and you took the lead at a few points -- tried to keep us under control and moving. Getting us to trust you early to any degree would be a very good move for the Mole. Christopher's on my list, because he cost us time and kept himself and Felicia from rejoining the team. I can come up with reasons to suspect anyone -- and part of that is because it may have just been too early for the Mole to strike. The show may have decided to stay out of this one entirely and see how we'd all react to each other, saving the first outright sabotage for a second assignment." David does something not quite expected: he sighs. (It's very quick, and his chest barely moves.) "I can see that possibility. And it hasn't escaped me that Erin may be far too blatant a choice for a Mole --so obvious to some that we wouldn't tilt our answers towards her for fear that she was trying to lure them in her direction. But that's a tactic that can work for our saboteur. Erin might be just obvious enough to last for the duration. But -- for the moment, she is my primary suspect." The tiniest of head tilts, just a degree or two towards the right. "Who's yours?" "Erin felt too obvious to me," Jacob admits (or seems to). "I was thinking more about pure helpers, and people trying to look too blatant from the other direction -- so Patricia, because it feels like she wants quiz answers to indicate her. I'm not discounting Christopher, though." Everyone had gotten fed up with the extended, fidget-filled wait on the sidewalk. And this is very sharp. "The man is an idiot." "I don't think any of us are stupid," Jacob gently counters. "You don't get to come here if you have nothing to work with. He may be playing himself as --" a moment to search for the right words "-- a self-obsessed relentless promoter as his role. Making our missions all about him would be a good way to sabotage us on certain assignments. But -- you're making a very good case for Erin." Carefully, "I just have the same concern you do -- that she's making too good of a case for herself." Another one of those micro-sighs. "Well -- it did help to talk it out, at least." Seemingly to himself, "I've become far too used to group discussion..." With more focus, "I believe I have to be very careful about everyone's wording here. Do we have a coalition?" "We do," Jacob replies. "We'll try it for now and see how it goes -- and if we see a need to break it, we do." "That's fair," David decides -- hesitates again -- then offers his hand. Jacob firmly grasps it for the duration of two pumps. "I'll check in with you regularly -- face-to-face is better for this than voice alone." Because that way, they can see each other's reactions. "Regardless of how this might turn out -- thank you for listening." "It's most of the job," Jacob tells him, smiling. "I -- imagine that would be the same," David replies. "Good night." And he leaves. Jacob looks at the closed door for a moment, checks the clock to make sure they haven't violated curfew -- it's twelve minutes away -- then goes back to the desk and activates the Notes function once more. "Well," he tells his PDC, "I think I just got a great deal more than I gave..." -----------------------------------------------------------------   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Belle Book 1925 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Herbal Healing Drugs Endorser" 02-14-09, 07:48 PM (EST) 17. "RE: A Dark Room: Part V" Hmm ... I wonder if Jacob and David's coalition doesn't last throughout the game. Often coalitions that are revealed don't succeed -- on the other hand, Erik von Detten and Kathy Griffen had a coalition that lasted throughout the first Celebrity Mole game, so they might last throughout the game. I'll wait and see. Belle Book   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 02-20-08, 03:52 PM (EST) 13. "A Dark Room: Part VI" LAST EDITED ON 02-22-08 AT 09:54 AM (EST) Are there other late-night conferences? Do we have people staying up well past curfew, confiding their best guesses to what they hope is the privacy of a softly-glowing screen -- or perhaps even each other? Does anyone try to sneak out? Maybe we don't need to know that just yet (or at all), because the next time we see anyone, they're answering their doors shortly after sunrise. One at a time, they receive their instructions, and the latest set of marching orders is this: leave. Get out of the hotel. Here's an Underground pass that's good for the day (which Verni gives a long, dubious look), here's some local currency, and this is a map of London loaded into your PDC and ready for use. Go do whatever you feel like until five this afternoon, then work your way back to the hotel. Make sure you're here by seven or the penalties will start to accrue. Oh, and one more thing -- for this bit of stepping out, you travel alone. You might run into someone else from the cast wherever you wind up, we accept the possibility -- but you're not coordinating your relaxation time. Not yet. As such, the cast disperses, twelve people going in twelve directions. The camera crew follows them (at a slightly larger distance than usual), still filming away just in case someone comes up with a brilliant deduction -- or does something that might provide a clue. Here's George, heading into a local stationery shop, where he picks up a classic black composition notebook and a good supply of pencils. Patricia? She's getting a good look at the palace, while Charity wanders down to Regent's Park to see the Royal College Of Physicians, indulging a bit of curiosity about a 17th-century anatomical table that might have been better off left unsatisfied. Christopher visits a casino to see what the overseas competition looks like, while Sadr spends the morning in art museums and the afternoon trying to understand cricket (with limited success). Jacob finds himself in a soccer game -- not at, in: his very random wanderings put him in the middle of someone else's lunch break at the exact moment one side finds themselves a player short. (He's a credible sweeper, although everyone else in the game is having far too much fun with his accent.) Erin goes to the Factories, and what she does there may be best left unseen, especially during the period when she has to wait for them to open. What are the others doing? Does it really matter? Do we need to watch every moment of every day, following them from place to place in hopes of picking up the tiniest hint? Give Mihoshi a private moment here, David some time to himself. Having Mark and Felicia intersect at London Bridge doesn't have to mean something: there are events that can be purest coincidence. We don't need to eavesdrop on their surprised exchange right now, nor listen to the few things they say to each other before heading off in different directions, nervous about whether this will somehow drop a penalty into the game. (It won't. Coincidences do happen, you know -- even if you never truly believe it.) Let them all have a little time just for being here, because the world hasn't really gotten any smaller. Television, computers -- they've given us the ability to see, yes. We can look in on just about anything at any time, or so it frequently seems. But the ability to look from afar has eroded the desire to go. Why travel thousands of miles, risk the hazards of foreign lands, strange cultures, and dubious directions to see something for yourself? You can get almost the same results from a few carefully-placed pushes on small buttons, and isn't that just as good? Millions of people will think so in the end, watching some of our dozen in the tiny insert shots that may divide segments. They've glanced over someone's shoulder: there's no longer any need to pick up the book themselves. But our twelve are here, some of them may be starting to understand how rare and special that is -- -- and now they're somewhere else. It's approaching sunset, and that's a glorious thing to see on a sunny London day with just a few clouds -- a rare treat, even in early summer. The air over the city is cleaner than it once was, but we're still gazing at the descending sun through the airborne residue of a few million humans. If there's anything positive about air pollution, anything at all, it's that you get some glorious sunsets through it, and Felicia is smiling at the pinks, lavenders and fuchsias that layer the sky. We're on a boat now -- really an extra-long motorized canoe, big enough for our entire cast, host, and a slightly smaller selection from the camera crew. There's no rush to this journey: the craft makes its way down the Thames at moderate speed, letting the passengers enjoy the view along the way. There's a lot to see, certainly: ancient buildings, legendary bridges, clocks of all sorts, people passing by -- -- and, in the encroaching twilight, shadows. London always has shadows. Some are deeper than others. Are our twelve aware of this? Mark seems to be picking up on it: spend enough time in his industry and you might develop a sense for the darker moments, which don't always need a script to cue their arrival. He's focused now, carefully moving towards the front of the boat (very carefully -- this isn't a good place for a man on crutches), staring ahead at a fort that looms in the distance, towers along the walls, old stone meant to stand against an attempt at conquest that was forever expected -- but never from the skies... The others notice, begin to crowd forward themselves, coming closer to our host -- who's riding at the bow of the boat, silently watching their progress as the craft begins a subtle turn, angling itself towards that fort. "We're going there, aren't we?" Sadr softly asks, eyes fixed on a battlement. Alex nods. "The Tower of London." An oddly formal gesture -- and they follow it to a closed iron gate, flush against the water. "We enter through that." Christopher takes a very sharp breath -- then pretends he didn't. "Wait a minute -- that thing's got a name, doesn't it?" Another nod from our host. "It's had one for a long time." Neutrally, "Edward the First had it built for a purpose other than the one it found. All it was meant for was giving the royal family a water entrance to the Tower complex. But it was more discrete than the roads, and that meant it was easier to smuggle things in -- anything you didn't want people to see entering. Or anyone." More softly, "Sir Thomas More passed through it. Anne Boleyn came this way. Too many found this route -- and on their way in, they saw the heads of those who had come before them, stuck onto pikes on London Bridge." Felicia shivers. "They call it Traitor's Gate..." The shiver spreads, skips some, grounds itself in others. Erin glances back towards the bridge they last passed under, perhaps looking for the pikes (and a few severed heads to go with them). Charity's grip tightens on the rail. Mihoshi closes her eyes for a moment, while David's posture becomes even more severe -- and then they all watch as the gate slowly swings open, the two barred iron doors creaking as they move. The soft whine of metallic protest makes it seem as if it's been centuries since they last parted. As if they're eager to assume their duties once more. "Of course, there's one crucial difference between you and the last people to enter this way," Alex casually mentions. "Eleven of you will be coming out." The unspoken words are the loudest: and one won't. The first execution will be conducted at the Tower. The boat passes through the gate, and Patricia looks up: a large piece of ironwork overhangs the gate, feels as if it's barely attached, could come crashing down at any moment. A guillotine blade shot through with holes. Silently, they glide into the Tower, and the ghosts gather at speed. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Should the grounds be this deserted? The Tower (more properly, the complex of buildings and grounds inside the fortifications) is one of England's most treasured sites: there are guards here at all times, protecting what lies within. Or there should be. Tonight, it could just be us and our group, moving quietly across those lonely walks in the increasing darkness. There are times when someone will pause to read a plaque left behind for those who would come after in this fading light. A honored place, yes, honored for the attention royalty gave it, and that royalty's history means so much to this land -- -- but royalty does what it will. And few ever try to stop it. Each iron message tells a story stinking of liquid rust. People were imprisoned here. People were tortured here. People died here. Some for reasons, some because they were simply in the way, or in the wrong place, or worst of all, just because... Some say the history of royalty is written in bloodlines. It's mainly composed in blood. Two ravens sit on the remnants of an ancient wall, caw down at the group as it silently passes. No one has felt very much like talking once Christopher's first weak joke met a small chorus of dark gazes, and the sound of the birds is the first living tongue to be heard this evening. A few people jump. Alex looks up and around, completely unafraid, until her grey eyes settle on the ravens. "Hello, Hugin. Hello, Munin." The ravens shift their position a little, spread their wings ever so slightly. "They have names?" This from Christopher, who could hardly stay silent forever. "They all do," Alex replies. Her voice is low: there's no reason to disturb the ghosts any more than they already have. "There are nine ravens of the Tower. There have always been ravens at the Tower, and some say that should all die or be taken away, England would fall." Stopping now, still looking up at the now-silent ravens, and the group unconsciously copies the action. "They came close to that, during the second world war. Most of the birds died from shock -- the bombs didn't have to hit here to scare them to death. But one survived -- and so did England. They're very careful about these birds, the British... and as long as there is an England, there will be ravens at the Tower." "Ravens," David points out, his voice strangely muted, "are carrion birds. They're notorious for gathering at hangings, public executions -- anywhere they might find a fresh corpse." Alex nods to that. "That may be why they originally came here," she says, her eyes never leaving Hugin and Munin. "But why you come isn't always why you stay..." A long moment of silent contact -- and then she moves on. The others follow, and the ravens watch. "Why are we here?" This from Jacob, who isn't as unnerved as some of the others. (In particular, Felicia's moving on eggshells right now, and Christopher will be very happy if the cameras stay off him for a few moments. Oddly enough, Erin is choosing to leave the darkness undisturbed.) Alex glances back at him, and her first words don't seem to be answering the question. "That bit of wall there was Roman. Because this site is such an ideal location for defense, it's been used more than once. The Tower dates back to 1078 -- but there were people trying to hold this ground against intruders long before that. Tonight -- they failed. Tonight, we are here. A bribe placed across the right palm, words to those who shouldn't have listened -- and we have the place to ourselves. England has always paid too much attention to whatever they perceive as celebrity: raise them up, tear them down again -- but always give them what they want, because indulgence is the best way to create scandal. Tonight, they indulged us. The failing of a nation: give them what they want and glory in watching it, until what they want is you..." A small head shake. "It's easy to find our own roots there. But the results stand: tonight, the Tower has no guards, because they decided it would be interesting to give us what we asked for. So tonight -- we take more than they bargained for." A little more quietly, "And for those who last long enough, it won't be your only wall..." Mark has causes to doubt some of this, stemming from a hundred scripts. "Oh, come on..." The lightness in his voice is only a little forced. "There's got to be guards here -- they wouldn't just give us the run of the place..." "Find one," Alex suggests. The group looks -- oh, how they look -- but there are none to be seen. Through the Tower grounds they move, and there is only moonlight now. Bright enough for all that, a clear night to go with the day -- but everywhere they travel, the darkness follows. Here: this is where the lions were kept, because there was a royal zoo and the citizens could come to see it: only three half-pence to enter -- or the gift to the crown of a cat or dog, because the lions needed to be fed. Here: this is where two boys were kept, declared to be illegitimate, out of the line of succession for the throne -- but kept here still, because the claim to the crown was shaky, and in the end, two boys, ten and thirteen, died here to prevent any possibility that they would ever take it. Here: this is where they kept most of the prisoners, and the torture implements close to that. They say no animals will enter that tower, and the humans leave quickly once they read some of the writing left behind on the walls... They walk in silence and ancient shadow -- and in time, they stop. This building is old -- but the age feels as if it's been enforced, made to show the years against a constant stream of renovation. Old brick, off-whites and creams, unused cannons sitting outside -- but there's a hint of embedded wires in the windows, and sharp eyes might see tiny cameras around the doors... "The building as a whole is known as the Waterloo Barracks," Alex tells them. "The first floor has another name." A pause. "They call it the Jewel House." Felicia gasps -- and that's the cue to break Erin's longest silence of the game. "This is a joke -- we're not actually going to --" Alex turns to look at them -- and somehow that's enough to cut Erin off, if only for a moment. "Oh yes we are," Alex softly answers her. "I need four people who can crawl, four to walk, and four to run." ----------------------------------------------------------------- It never takes very long for the arguments to begin. "I'm on crutches here," Mark immediately establishes. "I'm not the best guy for walking or running. I'm not even sure how good I'll be at the crawling thing. I just shouldn't be tackling either of the others." Now let's see -- who's our first and best candidate to be upset by that? "Figures," Erin grouses. "We're going to be stuck with you for everything physical you last through, and you're going to screw up every one of them..." "I don't know if we should have you crawling," David unilaterally decides. "This could be something you can do on crutches." Mark's prepared to be insistent here. "Not if it's something that involves not triggering pressure plates -- we're stealing here. Who knows what kind of traps are in that building? I can hit three or four points at the same time if I'm upright --" "-- as opposed to the four or more you'll automatically trigger if you're crawling," Sadr points out. "We need to know more about this assignment." "About this con job, you mean," Erin complains. "Like we're actually going to be stealing anything real -- there's just a bunch of paste in there under dim lights, with shooting angles set up to make sure no one can ever tell the difference..." Mihoshi shakes her head. "It doesn't matter if what we're stealing is real -- we have to treat the assignment as real. That's the only way we're going to beat it. And we're not going to get any more information until we divide up the group -- look at her." Alex is leaning against the wall, watching the impromptu huddle with vague interest. She's not making any contributions to the discussion. Jacob sighs. "We need to make a decision here -- but we may be doing it in the wrong order. Let's sort out our fastest. Those can be the runners, and we'll divide the rest after that." This seems to make some degree of sense. You'd like to think it would have to if Christopher's going along with it -- but then, he tends to have other motivations. "I ran track back in high school." A very significant glance at Charity. "And we all know who's got the longest legs..." Charity's not entirely happy with that bit of attention, or possibly with the source of it. "I can move pretty fast when I have to... but this is stealing. If we're doing things like working around laser beams..." Then Charity has as good a chance of breaking them as anyone, and worse than most. Mark softly groans. "We can't make too many assumptions or we'll be here all night. Can we just stick me on crawl duty and move on from there?" "I think Charity's got a legitimate point," Sadr decides. "We could have lasers and things to go around. But with all twelve of us playing something -- and does anyone else think the crawling people could be stuck in the air ducts? Maybe we should be putting the smallest people on the lowest rung." This gets the group's attention -- -- especially Mark's: he's not all that bulky, but he isn't exactly designed for moving through a narrow space with or without the artificial aids. This is something he doesn't want to think about. Actually, right now, he may not want people thinking about much of anything. "About that 'too many assumptions' thing..." "Fine," Patricia breaks in, trying to move things along. "Let's try it this way: low speed, middle speed, high speed -- and Sadr, what if we have the smallest people other than Mark on the crawl? Because they could be working their way under things, too." Sadr's expression suggests he can go with that -- but Charity's still nervous. "I don't know if there's any place I can go -- we have to make some assumptions, or we'll never get through the assignment. She's going to wait until we're ready -- maybe we should just try to work out a little more about what we're doing..." George shakes his head. "Divide up and hit it. Because if we stall too long, she might make the decision for us." Mihoshi would also like to get things moving. "Can we at least put one person onto one thing and go from there?" We can't, not immediately: there's too many voices arguing for what should be done, what might have to be done, and we may be looking at some serious overthinking in progress: there's only so much they know -- but as we're rapidly learning, they can guess at pretty much everything. It reaches the point where Alex placidly says "I need a decision in five minutes or I'm going to take a thousand dollars out of the pot," and that mainly serves to kick the debate into another gear. There could be sensors, there could be pressure plates (whatever those are), there could be anything -- except a group consensus. But the money in the pot has to be protected -- and that's what finally gets the group divided up with twelve seconds left on the decision clock: Mark, Verni, Sadr and Erin to crawl: David, Patricia, Jacob and Mihoshi walking: Christopher, Felicia, George and Charity for the run. (No team is as it was proposed on the initial draft.) "All right," Alex says. "Here's the assignment," and now they're all listening, wondering just how wrong they were... "The Jewel House is the display museum for the Crown Jewels of England," our host tells them, ignoring Erin's very visible doubts. "The jewels are kept under extremely high security at all times -- with the exception of tonight. Most of the security systems have been deactivated, and a few locks -- haven't been. A touch of benign neglect, and four pieces weren't put away for the night: they are the Ampula, the Anointing Spoon, the Armills -- and the real prize: The Sceptre With The Cross. If you succeed, they will leave this building for the first time in years. The British fences won't touch this sort of thing, of course -- far too visible -- so you'll have to settle for our bounty: twenty-five thousand each for the first three, fifty thousand for the Sceptre. All you have to do is get them outside the door -- one at a time. That means you're actually working as four teams of three: one crawler, one walker, one runner -- and that division will be made randomly." Some nods at this: they're all listening. There isn't much else they can do just yet, beyond feeling frustration at the sudden twist. "As soon as you enter, the computer system will decide the museum is actually open," Alex continues. "Believing that the place is taking tourist traffic is part of the patch code keeping most of the systems asleep. When the door shuts with no one in the room, it's closed for the night. But the computer isn't completely stupid -- it knows there has to be some traffic. The Jewels are viewed from a moving walkway that travels around the cases. This is where the walkers come in. They may have the easiest job: just stand on the walkway and move around with it to the beat of the museum's prerecorded lecture. As long as the walkway registers traffic, all is well -- but you move on its cue or you won't like the results." Instant envy of the walkers. "Most of the cases are empty. When you reach an occupied one, the crawler will go under the walkway railing and close in on the jewels. There are motion sensors present in that area. You only have to cross nine feet -- but if you move at anything over a yard per minute after completely leaving the walkway, the alarm will go off." And now we have some very unhappy people. "Your PDCs will tell you how fast you're moving at any time. Just remember: you can't resume normal speed for any motion until your hand touches the walkway again -- the system does presume people might stick their feet over the edge at stop points, which gives you the loophole you need to scramble back on. And naturally, you'll have to wait until your walker reaches that point in the system before you can do it, because the system will need to read traffic in that area. Drop the item, open the case too fast, anything at all -- and the alarm may alert the guards." "May?" Sadr nervously interjects. "That's where the runners come in," Alex tells them. "The system also has to have a guard on standby. Normally, it's two -- we've managed to fool it that much. But there's one thing we can't do anything about: the surveillance station and alarm shutdown are at two different places -- and the guard has to stay at the surveillance station unless the alarm goes off. Normally, if the alarm falsely sounds, the surveillance station signals his counterpart, who shuts the alarm off. And it has to be done quickly -- anything over twenty seconds, and the system treats the disruption as being very, very real. The runners will be at the surveillance station. Their presence makes the system think everything's fine -- while they're waiting for something to go wrong. If it does, they race over to the alarm area and input the shutdown code from their PDCs. Get it done inside that twenty-second window, and back to surveillance inside another twenty -- everything's fine. As long as the crawler didn't move any more after the alarm went off -- as long as the computer can believe it's just a false signal -- you can continue. But get any part of it wrong, and that section of the mission ends. Not the entire mission -- you get one strike." This news isn't allowing anyone to relax. "I can give the central line exactly one override code: after I use it, it'll randomly change to something else. The price for failing one is not adding the money for that item to the pot. The price for failing twice is the possible arrival of Tower security." Just the slightest touch of shade in her voice: "You really don't want them to show up." "Wait," Christopher interrupts, and some of these nerves may not have been jokingly faked. "There really are guards?" Alex nods. "And -- what do we do if they come in?" "I would suggest running like hell," Alex replies. "First team: your PDCs will flash green. Move to the door immediately after they do. On my mark..." -----------------------------------------------------------------   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 02-23-08, 10:39 PM (EST) 14. "A Dark Room: Part VII" And now we have a very discomforted Felicia, Jacob and Mark -- with extra discomfort on Mark -- standing just outside the door, waiting on Alex's cue. It's going to be a little while in coming: right now, she's instructing the others on a series of specific PDC commands that, when enabled, will allow them to watch the activities inside the Jewel House in real time. (No one's going to miss out on clues just because they're stuck outside.) Our host is also rigging her own PDC to give her voice communications with all three members of the first team, which means there is a conference call function on the device. It just doesn't mean the players ever get to use it. The arrangements give the initial trio a little time to talk, and the subject of discussion is their target: the Anointing Spoon doesn't sound like it's the most awkward item to carry just by virtue of name -- so that's the one they're going after. Get twenty-five thousand on the board, leave the Sceptre (which pretty much has to be larger) to someone else. The time to go after the more difficult pieces is after a practice run on an easier one. Of course, the practice run counts... A little more planning -- and then Alex hands Jacob a small iPod, tells him the museum's lecture is on it and ready to play, push the button on her signal and move to the beat. Jacob nods and puts in one earphone, leaving the PDC's receiver in place rather than opt for stereo. Felicia kicks off her heels and leaves them by the door: one less thing to potentially go wrong. "All right," Alex tells them. "In three, two, one..." and pushes the door open -- -- the lights over the walkway are dim: most of the illumination comes from the brighter bulbs above and inside the cases. From where our trio entered, they can see rich velvet lining the bottom of the brass-trimmed displays -- and that's all: every case visible from their immediate vantage point is empty. There's a soft hum just barely audible at the lowest end of the human register: the walkway in motion, playing a perpetual game of tag with a dozen safe stations and a very vicious It. Most of the display cases are clustered in the center: varying sizes arranged at different heights. A few smaller, secondary ones are against the walls, but all of those are dark. The first security station is to the immediate left of the first shadowed display, only five feet from the door: Felicia moves for it, carefully easing across the floor until she's behind the curve of the controls. There's several lights (meaning unknown), buttons (ditto), camera screens (helpful, but not looking at much of anything just yet) and an intercom grid (which really shouldn't be touched). What we don't have showing up on the security images are camera operators, members of the production crew, or anyone other than our first trio inside the Jewel House. Anything being used for broadcast has been pre-placed, and the results are currently invisible. "Now," Jacob hears in his right ear, and he steps onto the walkway, pressing the Play button as he does so. Mark follows. "Here we go..." Mark mutters under his breath -- and in full audio reception of everyone watching outside, following the action on arm-worn screens. Alex's voice is oddly soft in his ear. "Mark, which piece are you trying for?" "The Spoon," Mark replies. "Anything I should know?" Not really expecting to get anything resembling a helpful answer, but hey, you never know. And in this case (as opposed to the empty one they're passing, which Jacob is being told normally contains William The Fourth's coronation ring), he gets to know. "Here's the basics," Alex tells them -- all of them, inside and outside, and now Jacob's starting to feel as if he's back in the office. "The display case locks at the bottom and moves up on a hinge at the back: essentially, you're going to be lifting from the front edge of the cube. Each case contains completely inert air -- so don't stick your head in once you break the seal: there's nothing there that'll harm you, but it won't be a lot of fun to breathe, either. You may want to give it a few seconds to disperse before you keep going." "Or just hold my breath," Mark says. "So if it's hinged, I can't drop the top." Take the good news wherever you can find it... "But I can't count on it staying completely in place, either." Along with the bad. "And I don't have anything to prop it with -- and if it drops down too fast, that's gonna trigger the motion sensors, isn't it?" And the worst. Groans outside, which Mark can just barely hear -- and a clear response, which he didn't really want to. "Any movement off the walkway over a yard per minute, Mark." Mark sees this as sufficient cause to get in his first eventual bleep. Felicia just sighs. "Has anyone ever told you that you'd make an interesting antagonist...?" Their host doesn't answer that one -- but those outside get to see the smallest degree of lip quirking. "The Spoon is just that: silver-gilted, with inset pearls. It's thought to date from the thirteenth century, which makes it the oldest surviving Crown Jewel. In other words, Mark -- try not to drop it." And a soft groan from Mark. "This would be a really good time to tell us we're after duplicates." No answer. "Oh, come on -- it doesn't have to make the air." The exact same lack of response. "Fine, but if I wind up in jail for destroying a national treasure, I'm blaming you..." Jacob is now speaking to himself, echoing the lecture track. "'...saved from destruction by...' We're coming up on it, Mark." Mark reluctantly nods -- then starts on their planned move: passing the crutches to Jacob. It's not an easy or subtle process: Mark has to keep one hand on the walkway's railing as a brace -- then keep hopping forward on one foot, maintaining pace with the track while passing the crutches over with the other hand to Jacob -- who has to walk backwards the whole time. It's a ballet of awkwardness that brings out a few involuntary giggles from Mihoshi, but it's eventually completed with no more than one near toe-smashing with a crutch end on Jacob's left foot. This leaves Mark unsteadily hopping along -- for three seconds: he nearly goes down as the walkway comes to a stop. "Jacob!" "Sorry!" Jacob hisses back. "It doesn't say exactly where the track freezes...!" But even this exchange is wasting time, and Mark doesn't have that much of it to lose: he carefully lowers himself into a slow swing under the walkway, hoping to get the coordination just right. He's got to be completely off the walkway within a second or two of Jacob moving again -- the computer will give them that much for stragglers at the stop -- after that is when the damn yard-per-minute timing kicks in. And as it turns out, this move does get him into position and completely into the motion sensors' field just as Jacob is carried away -- -- but it also puts him on his back with his feet facing the cases, looking like a very odd turtle longing for some kind of shell. Outside, Erin pitches her own comment so that it's audible to the stands (and a good part of the grounds), not to mention receivable on background audio: "He'd better be glad he's cute, because he's got nothing else going for him..." "Someone tell Acid Rainbow Girl it's one more thing than she's got," Mark mutters -- then looks over to his PDC, which is now showing his speed in fractions of a yard per minute: currently, that's zero. "And somebody give me a limbo beat. How slow can you go -- how slow can you go...." ...and that's where it starts to get really awkward. Mark starts to put his arms behind him, pushing off the walkway -- but he can't touch the walkway until Jacob gets back, and realizes it about a third of the way in. The motion also puts the PDC out of casual sight: he can't tell if he's about to go overspeed, he can only find out when the alarm goes off -- and just turning his head too quickly for the check could set those bells a-ringing. "Just for the record," Mark announces to whatever number of viewers will eventually be watching this, "this sucks." At her station, Felicia lets go of a low laugh. "We know you have trouble with high speeds -- maybe you'll be a natural at low ones." "Yeah, yeah -- ha, ha..." Mark replies -- then begins the very slow, very tricky process of flipping over at a speed that won't set the alarms off. It's not easy: he has to use some very difficult arm brace points, and then he has to raise and lower himself at a rate below the critical limit: falling speed will definitely trigger the bells. This means supporting a good percentage of his weight on one arm for a significant part of the process -- and by the time he gets to where he's lying on his left side, he's sweating. "Think I just invented a new workout..." Felicia's been watching his progress. "Mark -- just drop and turn. This is wearing you out. If I reset the alarm, you can get a lot of movement in before it shuts off." "Work stutter-start, huh?" Mark considers from his still-awkward position. "Sorry, Felicia -- don't know if I trust you enough to get that done..." Jacob's on the other side of the display, but he's well within earshot. "Mark, it's a workable tactic. You don't have to crawl all the way -- we can use the alarm's trigger time for short bursts." "Don't know if it works that way," Mark counters. "Maybe one movement sets it off, and then you've got to freeze -- not freeze just as it's being shut down. Continual motion could cost us our only strike. I don't want to test this unless we have to..." He starts lowering himself, agonizingly slowly -- and now the sweat is really starting to come. "Mark, think it out!" It's not quite a plea from Felicia: more of an insistence that a certain someone clean out their ears and listen. "If I'm the Mole, then at worst, all my being wrong does is take out the first strike. It'll make things easier for the next teams -- they'll know not to repeat that mistake. And that also means the next three teams are Mole-free, so there won't be any sabotage during their attempts. This is worth trying!" "Only the Mole sabotages?" Mark half-gasps. "Nice theory..." (Unseen by Mark, Felicia smiles at that.) "And it doesn't stop an honest screw-up. We try it when we have to, Felicia -- not before." Felicia shrugs. Casually, with a hint of casual evil in her voice, "I could just throw something into the field and make us test it..." (Outside, Mihoshi stares at her screen.) "But fine, Mark -- play it your way for now." She glances at the alarm area, surveys the distance. "I just won't make any promises in case I get really bored..." "I could hate you really easily, lady..." Mark pants. Which gets a bigger, equally unseen smile from Felicia. "I'll take that as a compliment." Finish the flip, slowly rotate, pull himself along. What's a yard per minute? A little over an inch every two seconds. Have you ever tried to move that slowly? The body fights it, screams for some kind of release. The desire for speed is inherent to the species: we have virtually none of it ourselves compared to the rest of the kingdom, so we enhance, modify, use artificial aids of all kinds to make ourselves the fastest living thing in a self-defined creation. But to slow down, to this kind of degree? There used to be something called the Patience Exercise, designed as part of a soul-exploration course in California: take twelve hours to cross one football field and see what came to you along the way. The institute stopped offering it after a while. Too many people were going mad. -- here's Mark, who thinks he's the first explorer on the shores of a brand-new hell. Extending his arms out, pulling himself forward towards the base of the stand, which started to resemble Everest right around the time the floor got exactly that cold. He doesn't want to know how long this is taking. In theory, it's just three minutes if you ride the redline, but that means being constantly on the verge of setting the alarm off -- and how much does Mark trust Felicia to shut it down? How much does he trust himself to continually be on the edge of at-but-not-ever? How long would he be willing to put up with this before he made his own sabotage move? Inch by inch, thinking about filling out the application, thinking about the little Foley artist and what she's going to say when she sees this footage, probably something about how he could learn from it and take his time in other places too, delivered with a smile but it's not going to be something he'll laugh about for a while because while he knows she means no harm, he won't want to be reminded of this for a good long time. Mark may not watch this episode when it comes around -- no, maybe he will, because he'll be curious to see if the stand was actually shimmering or if it was just him... He's also wondering what the word is just under millimeters in terms of distance measurement. He's been working on inventing one, just in case. He's going to call it 'molelimeters'. Mark does recognize that it may need some work before it catches on. Dragging the cast along, fingernails used for brace points, sweat dripping off his nose onto the too-cold floor -- -- and what's going to happen when the not-believed-to-be-particularly-patient Erin has to do this? "On the record, for broadcast, better see it in a few months," Mark grunt-declares. "I hate my life..." The resulting laughter outside comes as a personal affront. Sure, let's see how they feel about it when three more of them go through this torture. Jacob's not having fun either. Walking around the track isn't any sort of effort at all (although the crutches aren't exactly pleasant to carry), but listening to a dry lecture delivered in an Oxford-measured voice is its own kind of pain. "It's not much further, Mark," he assures the younger man. "You can start pulling yourself up in a few more inches." "Yeah," Mark wearily replies. "How tall is that thing? About three feet, three and a half to the bottom of the case?" Jacob thinks so. "And there's enough room around the edge to grip?" There is tonight, at least for fingertips plus a little extra. "So we're talking one minute to reach up, and then I get to do the world's first sixty-second pull-up. Plus. You people have no idea how much this sucks..." Erin may be starting to get an idea. "Probably about as much as watching you do it." Not that she actually cares. "Punk ass -- step back," Mark mutters, then begins the slow, slow ascent... ----------------------------------------------------------------- Some of those on the exterior may not have realized the effort involved just yet. "Bet this isn't going to be shown in real time," Christopher grins. "I still say he should have tried Felicia's plan." "But you're used to short spurts," Erin decides -- and that gets the smile off Christopher's face (for a count of four seconds). George shakes his head in disbelief, although it's not necessarily disbelief of Erin's statement. "That man is strong. You can't try that sort of move without some serious muscle behind it: trust me there. I just don't know how long he can keep it up." "Why not just stand up?" Verni asks. "It's got to be easier to straighten up slowly." Another head shake from George. "Depends on the break and how much weight he can afford to put on it. For that long a time -- doesn't look like he can risk it. And once he's on his knees, he has to decide how he's opening the thing. " "He's picked a method," Alex tells them. On their screens, Mark is braced with his right hand, pressure-easing the case up with the left, pushing his fingers under the first tiny opening to present itself, then slowly forcing his arm in, the glass lifting from the slow pressure of the flesh... Sadr winces. "That has got to suck," and the last word in the statement sounds a little odd coming from his lips. "That's not what I'm trying." Verni firmly nods at that, and George can also go with it. "You've got two good legs, use them -- and two hands for a slow flip-back." (Erin looks briefly thoughtful.) "He looks like he's in pain..." Mihoshi observes, somewhat emotionally detached from the action on the screen. It's just a video game and she's not controlling the character. "The glass is two inches thick and shatterproof," Alex says. "That's a lot of weight on his arm." Into the microphone, "Mark, rotate your hand and get the Spoon on the underside -- we can't risk any damage to it." The first part of the response is very audible. And will be very bleeped. "Got it, got it..." Mark's voice is strained. "Why doesn't he just hold the glass up with his right hand and work with the left?" Patricia asks. "Even with his position, he's got to have the leverage for that." Verni, who may get to face this herself, has a natural question of her own. "How heavy is it? Maybe he can't do it one-handed." George doesn't believe that one. "If he can haul himself up like that, he can lift the case up with one hand." "Maybe he's just tired," Charity proposes. "Maybe he's the Mole," Erin counters. On the screen, Mark is bringing the Spoon out: only a tiny section of the handle protrudes outside his fist grip. Near the edge of the case now. Coming out from under the glass, the smooth bottom moving up and over his knuckles -- -- and by the time they see it happening, it's too late to stop it. The case slips over the ridge, starts to slide down. Mark instinctively yanks his hand out of the way. There's a tiny hiss of air as the suction at the bottom reseals itself -- and then the alarm goes off. Mark's next move is to fling himself away from the display stand: with the bells already ringing, this is the time to test Felicia's theory, and he's crawl-shifting for the walkway at his best possible panic speed. Jacob freezes in place for a second -- but remembers himself: he keeps moving, staying with the pace of the excruciatingly boring lecture as if nothing was wrong. Not that he can hear much of it any more, because the bells are loud. Those outside are receiving practically none of the sound: just a cross between a snooze button running out and a light case of tinnitus -- but inside, it's an eardrum-pounding din. Felicia loses two seconds to a similar freeze -- then runs for the alarm station, crosses the forty feet, finds the keyboard, reads the code off her PDC, types -- -- and the bells stop. Felicia exhales -- "-- move!" Jacob calls out. "You have to get back!" Felicia blinks -- then scrambles barefoot for her starting point, making it back with a few seconds to spare -- -- leaving Mark frozen a few inches from the railway, the Spoon tucked into a pocket, awaiting Jacob's approach. Felicia shrugs. "And since our hostess hasn't told us that we've blown our only strike," she casually remarks, "told you so." And sticks out her tongue. Mark exhales (and tries very hard not to move just yet). "Sorry -- it was just reflex..." "No harm done," Jacob says, adjusting the crutches. "Just hold on a little longer, Mark -- I'm coming into range." Mark almost nods -- catches himself just in time. "Tell you this about moving that way," he tells the microphone and everyone within receiving range. "It feels so good when you stop..." ----------------------------------------------------------------- Alex takes custody of the Spoon after the first team returns, slipping it into a padded case provided by the camera crew. (Erin makes a visible point of trying to inspect it before declaring the pearls look fake.) There's no time for the others to conference and rethink their plans before the second team is randomly chosen: David, Sadr, and Christopher, who decide to go for the Ampula. (David actually knows what this is: a vessel for anointing oil. Patricia looks very surprised to get a response to her question. Everyone else looks lightly to moderately suspicious.) Mark leans against the Jewel House, taking slow breaths. "Seriously -- you do not know how much that sucks until you have to do it..." "Talk to Sadr about it later," Felicia suggests. The named party is currently about halfway towards a fully standing position. For the moment, this trio is following the original plan: get as much done as possible without setting the alarm off -- and if it happens, then play hurry-up for as long as the window lasts. Every shutdown attempt is one more chance for something to go wrong. "You'll have a shared experience." "I don't think he's gonna be my favorite guy to talk to," Mark decides. "Hear that accent? That's almost got to be a put-on. Bet the first time he slips, we're hearing pure desert: all your oil belongs to us..." Felicia tilts her head slightly to the right. "I know accents -- either that one's genuine or he's a professional actor." Mark shrugs, which isn't all that comfortable a motion when you're on crutches. "Everyone plays their own game. I'm thinking the voice is part of his. 'I've got the light drawl, I'm working the Braves cap...' It's like people who move to the country and spend two thousand dollars a holiday sticking decorations on their lawn -- ten thousand at Christmas. Trying too hard." The decision to table this discussion for later is very visible on Felicia's face: besides, she's sure the vocal notes have been ringing true all along. "He's doing pretty well at the assignment, though." Another slightly-impaired shrug from Mark (the crutch handles really poke on the down motion) which seems to suggest anyone with four fully working limbs would have an easier time than he did -- but in fact, Sadr is doing well. He manages to work into a standing position without setting off the alarm, and gets his hands on both sides of the case to an equal applause of silence. His next part is going to be trickier, though: the Ampula is in the shape of a stylized eagle, a hollow vessel that looks like it's made of gold. (Erin is insisting it's metal-toned marker rubbed over tin.) "It's too irregular," he tells David and Christopher. "I can't do what Mark did without chancing damaging it, and I don't want to crawl with it, either -- I can't scrape it against the floor. Once I've got it out, I'm going to try slide-walking back." Christopher nods, very slowly. He's not entirely comfortable with this part of the plan, perhaps because he's not controlling it. "If the alarms go off because you're standing..." "I'm hoping it's just motion," Sadr admits. "But we're learning for the next team, too -- if this works, they can slide their feet across the floor on the way in and out. It'll be easier than crawling." He braces his hands, starts to lift. "All right, everyone listening outside -- in case Mark didn't tell you, these things are heavy." (Mark mutters something about knowing that already, rubs at his left forearm.) "And if the alarm goes off because I was standing, I will drop. I just don't feel like being locked away for damaging a national treasure." "If it's real," David submits from his position, currently a hundred and eighty degrees across the display. "I have my own doubts there." "I don't want to find out the hard way..." Sadr eases the lid up, hands pressed flat against the glass on the left and right of the cube. Lifting it slowly, watching his PDC to make sure he's coming not close to the overspeed mark. Mostly to himself, "'So, what did you do on your vacation?' 'Well, I did some traveling, went through an ancient tunnel system, raided the Tower of London, and stole a royal artifact.' 'Cool! What game was that?'..." Patricia's responding giggle doesn't quite make the pickup. "Maybe I can just prop this thing open." David's response is suitably dry. "I wish you luck in getting something to prop it with in under twenty minutes. The only thing that could possibly go more slowly than trying to untie one of those sneakers is this man's voice reading an algebra lesson." David is not having a good time. Sadr softly groans. "Right..." Slowly, slowly lifting the lid, bringing the weight to the apex point, then back over it -- -- which is when the heavy glass slides out of Sadr's palm grip, going the rest of the way backwards on its own. The alarm promptly decides that counts as motion. "I'm on it!" Christopher yells, racing for the second station (and keeping a visible hero pose all the way) as Sadr decides it's a good time to make up some ground, grabbing the Ampula with one hand, wrestling the lid back into place with the other just in case the open state somehow counts against them, moving for the walkway -- -- while Christopher hurriedly inputs the code, takes the resulting silence as a cue, starts for his original point -- -- and the alarm goes off again. Only louder. "What the hell?" Christopher yells, U-turning on the spot and practically diving for the alarm controls. "It's not shutting down!" Frantically typing. "And it's not taking the code again!" And from the same speakers carrying the ear-piercing ringing, the trio gets a computer-generated voice crying out "Security breach! Security breach! Security --" Christopher is getting a lot of mileage out of this yell. "Alex, we could use an override in here!" -- -- the alarms stop all at once, and the silence closes in. "You've got one," Alex calmly tells them. "That's your one strike. Bring the Ampula out with you -- but it won't count towards the pot." David picks up his pace around the walkway until he finds what those outside are now seeing -- Sadr, frozen in position right next to the walkway, his body poised almost exactly like Mark's had been -- but with the Ampula resting on the foot railing. He looks up, wincing. "Crap." A simple statement that would normally be rather plain, but it's been served with a heavy overtone of guilt. "What happened?" David asks (with just a hint of demand). "I came down too fast and I had it in my hand," Sadr sighs. "I saw the padding on the lower railing and the same thing happened that went down with Mark: instinct. It feels like real gold, David -- something in my head said it was real and I couldn't risk damaging it -- and we're not supposed to touch the railing..." Utterly disgusted with himself. "I didn't think the Ampula would count. I didn't think." Carefully, David kneels down and lifts the Ampula, visibly weighing it in his hand as George approaches. "It's heavier than it should be," he observes. "Heavier than it would be for something made of plastic or one of the less-dense metals. This could be gold -- or a very well-made substitute." A slow head shake, looking down at Sadr. "This fools the touch -- but you have to use all of your senses. Including the common kind." Sadr gets to his feet. "I screwed up, okay? I'm sorry." Abashed, "I can't take it back -- let's just get out of here." He's bleeding slightly from a small scrape on his left arm, taken from rough contact with the floor. He doesn't seem to have noticed yet. Christopher theatrically sighs. "Crap happens. At least he's copping to it." A movie-quality shrug. "It's just twenty-five gees. I see people drop that on one blackjack hand..." David doesn't respond to it, and Sadr still looks dejected. "Come on -- let's just give the next team their shot. At least I called in the override in time, right?" Beaming a little at his own vocal prowess. "And no matter what happens, we still scored some cash for the pot tonight. Plus there's no way there's really guards..." "I suggest we wait until we find out how the next team does before we make a final decision on that one." David's reply is lightly rimmed with frost. "By the way -- are you sure you put in the right code?" Christopher, who was taking the lead on the exit, pauses -- but just for a moment. "I'm cool on the code, David. Don't worry about me." "Really," David dryly considers. "Because our hostess did say it was a hand touching the walkway without someone present that was the key to the alarm going off. If you input the wrong code..." "Maybe the system treated it as a foot over the side with no leg present," Sadr wearily decides. "The alarm did shut off for a second." "The second where it may have been considering whether to reject the code," David answers. Do you think Christopher likes where this discussion is going? "Come on -- there's no way the system acts like that. Let's just get out of here." They do -- but David watches him for most of the way out, and spends the rest of the time considering Sadr... ----------------------------------------------------------------- With their single strike gone, the weight of the assignment falls very firmly on the third group. Unfortunately, the third group is composed of George, Patricia, and Erin -- who's formed her own plan, and doesn't let the others in on it until they're inside the door. "Here's how it's going to work," she tells them, focusing her attention on George as she heads for the walkway. "I'm not taking two years to get this done. We've got a quiz after this, and while four in the morning is my normal kind of hour, we've probably got somewhere to be tomorrow and I'd like to get some damn sleep before it happens. Right now, I don't think we're taking the stupid thing before midnight unless someone picks up the damn pace." George isn't very content with the current description of Erin's assignment philosophy. "I think I need to hear more about this plan." Patricia, slightly ahead of Erin, steps onto the walkway and lets it carry her forward, perhaps in a move to get away from the argument. Of course, Erin has to follow her. "I'm going to dash for it. Get across, open the case, take the Armills --" they're a pair of gold bracelets: the outside group got a glimpse of them during a camera sweep "-- and then dash back. I'll work in twenty-second increments. Your job is to keep putting that shutdown code in. I don't do slow." "It sounds like you don't do putting money into the pot, either," Patricia calls back. For his part, George doesn't exactly look happy with the current plan. "I was listening to Miss Firebrand's little speech out there," Erin angrily replies. "'Crawl' just means the pace. I can stand without setting off the alarm, I can run while it's going. I just can't get back on the treadmill until you show up again -- so I'm going to get it done before you even have to leave. You know what the first lesson of our been-there done-this is? Grab every loophole you can find and put your fist through it. I think I've got one, I'm running it -- and there isn't a thing you can do to stop me. Besides, if you don't like my money going into the pot, you can just ask her to take the fifty thousand from yesterday back out..." And now no one is happy with the plan, inside or outside. (No one on the contestant side, at least: Alex is just listening calmly.) George is just the one in a place where he can vocalize it to the problem area. "Fine -- but I know where my answers are going if you cost us this assignment." Erin can be bothered to toss off a shrug -- but that's all George is going to get beyond "You just do your job, jigsaw man -- back and forth, back and forth." This pause is slightly artful. "Probably the first time you've had a woman moving on your beat in a while..." George grits his teeth and stands at the absolute edge of the security station, waiting. Erin gets ahead of Patricia, gets cautioned not to outrun the lecture, gets an expected response out -- then impatiently fidgets, waiting to reach the Armills' station. Impatient fidgeting is the least of the actions going on outside. "I could very easily learn to hate that woman," Verni decides. Sadr is sitting with his back against a tree, still looking somewhat dejected. "If she blows this, you could get a lot of company." Christopher's not willing to look or sound irritated, but providing subtle hints at it? No problem! "She's making this assignment all about her," decides the expert on the subject before making some very visible (and low audio) notes on his PDC. Jacob allows himself a sigh. "But we can't do anything about it -- and when you can't take any physical action, you might as well go for the spiritual." A faint smile. "Pray, hope, or cross fingers to taste -- it's all we get right now." He's not quite right about that: they also get to listen as the alarm goes off -- then goes silent -- goes off again -- gets shut down -- and they also get to watch most of the accompanying movements on the PDC screens, the camera switching between participants -- -- until they all get to watch Erin come out first. "Not my look," she tells them, jangling the Armills: she's put them on. "On the other hand, I'm probably the first non-blueblood ever to get the things over their skin." A vicious grin. "Wonder how much cleaning they'll put the things through before they use them again -- if they're the real deal." She works the left one off, casually tosses it to Alex, who smoothly catches it. "And if this doesn't tell you posers that you should be listening to me more, nothing will -- until the next assignment..." ----------------------------------------------------------------- Which leaves Charity, Mihoshi, and Verni with a very solid plan. "I'll do what she did," Verni declares. "Move fast during the alarms, either freeze or crawl during the twenty seconds when you're getting back to your station, Charity. Mihoshi, all you've got to do is walk." "And put up with the lecture," Mihoshi groans. The three prior walkers had been perfectly willing to tell the others how deathly boring it was, if only to make it look as if they'd been doing their part. "Do you think this is what they thought we'd do?" "You mean the show?" Charity asks, gets confirmation. "I don't know -- but I think it's what we're supposed to do. Think on our feet, look for those loopholes -- anything we can do that might beat the assignment. That's got to be part of why we were chosen -- because we were the one who would think. Thinking gets you here." With a small smile, "Maybe it even keeps you here." "It sure keeps you out of the hamster cage," Verni shrugs. The others look at her, and she manages a wry grin of her own. "I'm over forty and I have a brain. They would have disqualified me from reading the application if they could... Okay, let's do this." Off they go, with Mihoshi grousing about the lecture's poor quality from the very start. It's a long ride around to the Sceptre, which they haven't seen yet: the cameras never focused on it, and the people who've already been inside didn't speak about the other Jewels. Verni looks at the empty cases as the walkway trundles on, watches them slip away. "They've got to be fakes," she maintains: the position she's held from the start. "There's no way anyone would ever let us mess around with the real stuff. I bet nothing we say about this not being real ever makes the show." "We'll see," Charity says from her station. "Have you spotted it yet?" Verni shakes her head. "No -- just empty cases and -- wait. I think that one's got a darklight over it --" -- which switches off. Mihoshi and Verni stare. Alex's voice sounds in Verni's ear. "That's the real prize," she tells the former coordinator. "Like the other pieces, it's used during the coronation -- but the new monarch holds this one in their right hand during the ceremony. I know it looks small, Verni -- two feet, nine inches -- but it is gold, so be ready for the weight." "Or it's really nicely painted lead..." Verni proposes. Yes, the Sceptre looks magnificent, from the triangle-point cross at the top to the ball of purple banded with (fake) gold and (fake) rubies just below that, to -- -- well, clearly that can't be real. "As you say," Alex neutrally replies. "Remember, you're putting fifty thousand dollars in the pot if you bring it out." "Right..." Verni answers. Because that's what's important here, isn't it? The Sceptre can be real or it can be fake, but it's worth fifty thousand either way. Someone (possibly Verni) will get that money at the end if they can just bring this piece out now. Maybe that's important to Verni, regardless of whether she's the Mole or not. Maybe the Mole has to get two wins on the board for the first eventual episode, and this is the most expensive piece here. So it could be about how much trouble gets produced during an ultimately-successful run, three out of four is still pretty good -- -- but right now, it's mostly about public disbelief. To herself, "No way. There is no way that's the real deal -- nothing is actually that big..." Verni sounds like she's trying to convince herself. Mihoshi gets Verni's attention with a quick point: they're almost at the station. Verni moves into position, gets ready for a quick duck-and-run under the railing -- -- and here we are, with Verni, looking at the open case. It wasn't an easy lift for her, getting this case open: the five sides of the partial glass cube accommodate an object nearly a yard across. This left Verni openly wishing that Charity had tackled this part of the assignment, both to handle the larger weight of glass and put more arm length into the moving of it -- but it was at least partially complaining just for the sake of chatter: radio people aren't all that comfortable with dead air. The alarm bells cut out once more -- there was a trigger when the case top finally fell back: Verni couldn't keep the weight in her grip any more, and she was holding it from the bottom -- and leave her looking in silence at what cannot possibly be the actual Sceptre. Carefully, oh-so-slowly, she reaches for it. Makes contact with the metal. Moves up, letting her senses serve as lie detector, everything's fine as long as she doesn't do it too quickly and Charity can just turn the alarm off again if she does, everything's fine -- -- reaches the bit below the purple ball. Verni freezes. "No," she mutters. "No way..." Alex may have another opinion. Or she might just have to provide commentary for the episode. "What you're touching is called the Great Star Of Africa, Verni -- weighing in at just over five hundred and thirty carats. It's the second-largest cut diamond in the world." Tear-shaped, far too large to be encircled with thumb and forefinger, the point facing the grip of the sceptre, playing a thousand rainbows over Verni's face and arm. A pause. "As you might guess, it's worth something over fifty thousand dollars -- or even two million." Just a little more softly, "It's designed to be removed and worn as a brooch -- so if it falls out, don't panic. It's probably not going to break." Verni shifts her arm ever so slightly, watches the rainbows shift with wide eyes -- then narrows them at a speed which the motion detectors would protest on anything larger. She moves her hand back down, grips the Sceptre, lifts it with a near-total lack of speed. "I'm ready to go, Verni," Charity tells her, watching from the security station. "You can run for it." "No -- not yet," Verni breathes. Charity might be getting just a little bit worried here. "Verni...!" "I don't do this," Verni forcibly says. "I don't put up with people feeding me lies. Not any more. I don't care if it makes good television, watching me falling for them. There is exactly one way to prove that we're digging through a giant pile of bull, and I've got both ends of the means right here..." She moves the Sceptre up, keeping her pace in time with the motion sensors' needs and any personal sense of drama, brings the tear into contact with the case, presses hard, slashes -- -- takes a single tiny, abrupt step back -- -- just as the alarm goes off. Charity's out of her station and racing for the alarm controls, making the same frantic check of her PDC as she did before, trying to get the code in within the limit, and the bells stop -- -- for one second. The restart is much louder. "Security breach!" the computer screams. "Security breach!" Mihoshi seems to feel some degree of need to avoid blame. "I didn't do anything!" Verni is standing frozen in place, looking at the case, the Sceptre still in her hand. "I -- I think I typoed!" Charity calls out, somehow managing to simultaneously sound apologetic and desperate. "I hit the wrong key putting in the code! I --" Whatever Charity meant to say next is going to be lost for a while: the host's words take priority here. "And we're screwed," Alex says, still sounding rather calm about it. "Verni, put the Sceptre down --" her arm is still partially inside the case "-- and all three of you, get out of there. We don't have long to clear the area. The guards gave us the Tower for the night -- but they'll get here from their position outside the walls in a hurry. We're making a run for the Bloody Tower." Verni has no response to this: she's still staring at the case. It's Charity's turn for denial, even as the microphone picks up the sound of people trying to scramble outside. (Listen closely and you can make out George slamming his notebook shut.) "But there can't be any guards --" The smallest possible moment of silence, found while the computer takes a virtual breath before it screams even louder -- and all three hear it in the distance: the baying of hounds. The question as to whether there's any guards or not instantly becomes moot. Verni defrosts, puts the Sceptre back, touches it one more time -- then runs for the door. Charity's already gone: Mihoshi becomes the last one out. Our twelve run, some keeping pace, some dropping back, and some getting ahead of Alex before they realize she's the only one who reliably knows where the Bloody Tower is and it's her movement that's going to matter in the end. Behind them, the baying grows louder, and shouting begins to penetrate the night. Mark, who's in trouble again -- keeping up with a race while on crutches: good luck with that (although it looks like Felicia can run in heels) -- finds himself with company. Verni's at the back of the pack, taking glances towards the Jewel House, checking for pursuit -- or perhaps looking back at something else. There's more than enough moonlight to show Mark her expression. "What happened in there?" he asks, the words jarred loose by the crutches' impact against the path. "Did you see one of them do something?" Somehow, in the middle of the jolting run, Verni manages to lock eyes with him, and hers are wide and startled. They may stay that way for quite some time. "It scratched," she just barely breathes. "It scratched..." -----------------------------------------------------------------   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold" 02-23-08, 11:06 PM (EST) 15. "A Dark Room: Conclusion" LAST EDITED ON 02-24-08 AT 05:03 PM (EST) They huddle just inside the tower entrance, where they wait for the sounds to recede -- and in time, they do. Mark and Verni are their main reasons for staying silent and still: Mark claims to have seen the guards at one point, and their company was not a special effects bullhorn set on Really Angry Rottweilers. Verni is all too ready to back him up, and her ongoing air of moderate to heavy stun contributes to the others' willingness to suspend disbelief for a while. Finally, when the silence has gone on for a while, Alex gives the all-clear. "We're okay. Since they've gotten everything back, they'll leave us alone for the rest of the night -- as long as we don't go near the Jewel House." She'd left the case next to the building. "That's fifty thousand dollars added to the pot out of a possible one hundred and twenty-five. Not the worst possible result." Alex looks around. "We're staying here for a while. You need some time to make and review your notes before the quiz -- this'll do." It appears as if Mark's disbelief is still suspended well overhead, and that's coming from the one who has a little experience in created reality. "Fine -- all the more time for those dogs to get back to sleep." "The Bloody Tower?" a still-shaky Verni asks. "That plaque about the princes was outside this..." Alex quietly nods. "They were kept here. It's believed they were murdered here." A soft sigh. "They're hardly the only ones. You're standing among distinguished company. Sir Walter Raleigh was kept here -- but they let his family stay with him. Half comfort, half group sentence..." And a small head shake. "It's not just this tower that held prisoners, and you don't always know where everyone was kept. But the names last. Guy Fawkes. Edward the Fifth and Richard of Shrewsbury. Gruffydd ap Llywelyn Fawr. Henry Laurens." A long pause. "Rudolph Hess." Jacob inhales, sharply and between his teeth. "The innocent and the guilty, the famous and the infamous -- some of whom are said to still be here. The Tower is supposed to be one of the most haunted buildings in the world. There's been a number of sightings here -- some more vivid than others. Anne Boleyn walks through the chapel on some nights -- when she's not in the White Tower, carrying her head under her arm..." David regards their host with a long, forcibly neutral look. "You don't actually believe that." The question mark is, at best, implied. "It doesn't matter what I believe," Alex tells him. "It matters what is. You have two hours to record and study your notes before the quiz. I'll see you after you're done taking it." She heads for the door, opens it -- turns back. "But if any of you get a series of little shivers, be sure to let me know..." The door closes behind her, and the sound takes far too long to die away. The camera operators move, begin to divide the group: one person to a room, hallway, stairwell -- wherever there's space. They find places to sit, or lean against the walls, or in one case, lie back on an ancient four-post bed -- and make their observations, soft voices falling against cold stone. At times, some of them stop and listen, ears searching for every creak, every breath. Every lack of breath. A few take time to pray for those lost here. Two ask not to be disturbed. And when any sound is heard in the distance -- any at all -- more than a few shiver... ----------------------------------------------------------------- The quiz. Patricia was expecting it to be detailed in a number of places: what kind of clothing was being worn during the assignments, the order they took their PDCs in. She was also ready for questions about which team the Mole was on for their second assignment, if the Mole was left behind at the Underground station during the first, who ate what at the first group dinner -- questions of all sorts. She just wasn't expecting twenty-five of them. "I wonder if they'll all be like this," she muses -- they've all been asked to think aloud now. Patricia's camped out in a window, sitting with her back against the stone, and she spent some time looking out over the grounds before the quiz began. She's among the most comfortable here. The idea of ghosts doesn't bother her. In a way, it's nice to have the extra option. She looks down at the PDC again. The quiz is being taken on her forearm, which she finds somewhat amusing. As soon as the counted-down time for note taking and reviewing ran out, the little computer switched over into potential execution mode: green words against a white screen. She can answer questions, go back to questions after answering them and consider changing her response (although she can't page ahead: answer what you're on to move forward) -- but she can't access her notes. It's just her and the quiz. Twenty-five questions that will determine someone's end. "Not mine," Patricia says. "Not yet..." She rereads the first question (and again wryly notes the '#1 of 25' in the upper left corner). "'Which team was the Mole on for the second assignment: first, second, third, or fourth'..." She considers. There's a time factor here, yet: tie for the lowest score, slowest person goes home. But get them right, or not have your time be a factor at all, and you can take as long as you like... ----------------------------------------------------------------- "Charity claims to have miskeyed on the alarm code," David considers, calmly regarding both the PDC and his arm where they rest on the ancient wooden desk. (Sir Walter Raleigh had sat there: the camera operator told him that. David is being very careful not to scratch the furniture.) "The result was that the alarm turned off for a second -- then came back stronger than ever. This is the same result we had with Christopher. It's quite possible that one or both made a mistake. Or perhaps Christopher made the first error by accident, and Charity's came with more purpose. And it could have been the reverse as well. Resting the Ampula on the railing might have meant nothing after all..." ----------------------------------------------------------------- Erin's pacing back and forth in her little section of hallway: she doesn't do slow, and she's not very good at still either. "'What part of the second assignment was the Mole on: crawl, walk, or run?'" she mutters. "How about every part? We've got people who could be faking, we've got the real one, and then we've got actual screw-ups. If the Mole is still trying to get a little trust in so the real slapfest can come later, then nothing says the Mole wasn't walking the perimeter..." ----------------------------------------------------------------- George carefully taps his answer for that question, watches the screen change, gives his closed notebook a momentary look of regret before moving on to the next. "'At the end of the Poirot assignment, did the Mole have a book with hir?'" He frowns with concentration. "Mark had one, the punk had one... most people's hands were empty... Is this thing supposed to be directing towards majority, minority, or nothing at all...?" ----------------------------------------------------------------- Jacob sighs, adjusts his position against the wall. "And if any of you spirits happen to know that one," he says to the air, "I'd appreciate the assistance." Smiling a little, "Regardless of whether I happen to believe in you or not..." ----------------------------------------------------------------- Charity stares at the bed's roof, shifts her position against red fabric and tries to bring up her legs a little more: having them go over the edge like this isn't comfortable. After a moment, she goes onto the diagonal. "'Did the Mole directly put money into the pot?'" she asks aloud. "Erin's the only one who actively put money in on the first assignment: take us as groups of three and six people did it for the second assignment -- including Erin." A sigh. "I knew I was going to hate overlap questions..." ----------------------------------------------------------------- Sadr adjusts his position, gets his back against the battlement and straightens his legs to rest evenly across his little section of roof. "'Did the Mole create a delay during the first assignment?'" he quotes. "That's a Christopher question if I ever heard one -- all you have to do is believe he got us lost on purpose and screwed up in getting himself and Felicia back to the team. But at the same time, Verni may have lost two of the passes on purpose -- and that created a delay. You probably can't argue for all of us while we were trying to work things out in the Roundhouse -- there's no such thing as a universal question..." ----------------------------------------------------------------- Felicia rubs her back up and down the stone wall, using it to take out an itch. "'Did the Mole have the steak, the chicken, or the sea bass for an entree?'" she reads. "I wonder if we're ever going to have a group meal where we can just enjoy the food instead of memorizing it..." ----------------------------------------------------------------- Mark sighs, looks at the door leading to the outside, thinks about movies and how the black guy always runs into the ghost first, wonders if the ghosts know about that, checks the question. "'Is the Mole staying on the left side or the right side of the hotel hallway?'" A big grin. "Bet you thought I wouldn't take notes about that, didn't you? I got that in three minutes after we hit our doors, I read it twenty minutes ago, and I know it now..." ----------------------------------------------------------------- Christopher jumps at the sound of footsteps in the distance. Settles back down against the floor. Reads a question. Starts to answer it. Jumps again. "'Did the Mole reach the fifth floor within the first assignment deadline?'" he asks the air -- and starts as a distant banging provides an inapplicable answer. "Yes or no, nothing else... now who did the others say was up there at the end -- or do I even really need to know this...?" ----------------------------------------------------------------- Verni gives her PDC a fierce look. "Don't even try to trip me up with the wording," she tells it. "I'm not going anywhere just yet, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it..." ----------------------------------------------------------------- Mihoshi taps her PDC. Reads the next question. Taps it again. Ignores the cue from her camera operator in favor of answering a third -- then finally takes the hint on the very last one. "'Who is the Mole?'" She looks directly at the lens, smiles, adjusts her glasses. "Well -- who do you think it is?" ----------------------------------------------------------------- And here they are, twelve again for the last time, walking down the moonstruck paths, silently heading towards a circle with just a little more illumination in it. The lights are halfway subtle: perhaps three times that cast by a full moon. Enough to bring out colors, but there will be long, deep shadows for our last moments at the Tower. Perhaps that's as it should be. Twelve chairs await them, arranged along a subtle arch. They're old, these chairs -- not as ancient as the one David was permitted to borrow for a time, but they're at least cousins, and you can see the connection in their lines. Their host awaits them, sitting in a thirteenth seat that's almost exactly the same as the others. The primary differences can be picked out by the soft white glow coming from the top of the metal cylinder in front of her. It's four feet tall and one in diameter, its sides smooth and dark. Alex nods to them as they enter. "Pick a seat," she says, and they do. The shadows of the Tower fall across the space between themselves and the cylinder, between them and their host. "Welcome to your first execution." Felicia, who has her own sense of drama, delivers a shiver that probably has a bit of acting behind it. Charity looks nervous, almost seeming to twitch in her seat as she once again tries to find a comfortable position for her legs. Alex notices that last. "If you're here for the next one, Charity, we'll get you something taller." Charity smiles her thanks. "I see we have a fairly calm group tonight." In fact, the rest of them are showing varying degrees of settled patience -- coming out at varying degrees of forced. "I think I'm in good shape," Mark says. "Like the lady said over dinner, the first one out can be about luck as much as figuring it all out -- but I usually do pretty well on both fronts." "You've got a broken leg," Patricia feels compelled to point out with a smile. "Just how good is your luck?" Mark grins. "I didn't die: that says it all right there..." Alex looks around, right to left, left to right. "Will anyone admit to feeling shaky tonight?" Jacob raises a hand. "Not sure of your answers?" "I divided a few," Jacob (apparently) admits, the silver of his hair showing up especially well in this light. "There's more than one suspect to my mind right now. For some, answers could overlap, and I could pick one solid response without worrying. For others..." He sighs. "I'm hoping someone is more wrong than I was." A long pause. "That feels like a very strange thing to be hoping for. I want to advance, I certainly want to win -- but I'm still trying to come to terms with the idea of wanting people to lose." "You have more control here," Alex tells him -- all of them -- and it's just a little bit gentle. "This is, for the most part, a meritocracy. Luck plays a part -- luck is always going to play a part, no matter where you are. But if your thinking is sharp, your notes are clear, and you don't spend time fooling yourself -- you have control over your fate in this game. Even so --" and this is toneless "-- some people are going to be looking for extra help. The pot currently stands at a hundred and twenty-four thousand dollars -- not bad for two days' work." It isn't -- but the change in her voice has some people getting very nervous. "If I offered someone in the group a chance at an Exemption right now -- guaranteed safety during this execution -- at the cost of taking twelve thousand dollars out of the pot -- who would consider it? Show of hands." Watch them for a moment, watch the eyes go up and down the row as each person considers their neighbors, waits to see who'll make the first move -- -- the first hand goes up. Then, as if they were waiting for just that cue, a second, third, fourth -- stop. Alex looks over the group. "Jacob, Verni, Charity, and Patricia." A small nod. "Same reason for all you -- lack of perceived safety?" Jacob sighs. "It's as I said: I'm not that certain about my chances. Twelve thousand dollars is a lot to pay for a guarantee -- but in a way, that money isn't real yet. It's easier to give up." Verni's answer is fiercer. "I'm not going anywhere. I don't care if I have to pay for it." Charity's discomfort is now from more than position. "It's both sides of what Jacob said -- it's not real yet, and I don't want to go." And Patricia's smiling. "Some people say the only thing better than spending your own money is spending someone else's..." There's a look of fury at that -- -- and Alex immediately focuses to it. "Erin -- something to say?" "Yeah," Erin immediately declares. "As far as I'm concerned, it's all my money. That's the best way to stay motivated on fighting for the pot -- believing that. We're going to fail assignments, I know that -- because the Mole screws it up, because we screw up, maybe there's a chance I screw up. But taking money we earned out? That's going to suck every time -- especially if someone's just doing it because they can." Alex nods again. "Well -- now you know. Four people here are willing to take that money out tonight -- or willing to admit they would. But the point's moot: there is no Exemption being offered here. It was just a rhetorical question." A small shrug divides the sentences. "Still -- now you know. Maybe that will play a part later..." Verni groans. "That was a fake-out?" "That was a question," Alex responds. "They always have answers -- but you have to decide how the answers apply." Another slow survey of the group. "I'm not going to make you wait very long for this tonight. There will be times when we sit here for an hour or two and discuss the assignments, let people share what they want others to see as their beliefs. But -- not tonight. Because ultimately, there isn't a word which could be said here and now that would change the answers you put on the quiz. The fate you controlled has been determined. Making you wait too long to find out the results of that first one has a touch of cruelty to it -- and this place has seen enough of that. There is something I want to say before we start, though." She looks at Jacob. "You're struggling with something that a lot of you will need to come to terms with. The idea that, at least for the main pot, there is one winner. The final person standing gets the money, the Mole gets their dream. What the other ten get may depend partially on what they wanted to find." Starting to move her gaze across the group now, spending a little time on each person. "Some of you may make friends here. It's a chorus that sounds across all the shows, to say that's not why you came -- but it generally doesn't happen only if you make an effort to stop it." On Erin for that one. "You'll learn about each other. Family situations. Employment ones." Stopping at Verni. "You will watch people leave, and there may be some guilt over that." Charity now. "You'll wonder if you deserve to be here -- if there was something you should have done where the person who just left could have stayed, and someone else would leave." David gets a quiet regard. "You may reach a point where you wonder why you came here -- and why you stay at all." Pausing on Sadr. "You'll all have to find your own answers to those questions: a way to balance the game and any relationship you form with the people in it." A long, silent focus on Patricia. "But you have to remember that the questions exist. That there is the game --" Mihoshi "-- and there is you --" George "-- and if you want to keep your sanity intact --" stopping on Christopher "-- you can't completely merge the two. You are people playing a game. As soon as the game starts playing you --" Mark, then Felicia "-- you've lost." Erin snorts. It comes across more as a parody than an echo. "And how much of that do you believe?" "All of it," Alex softly answers her. "It's time." She touches her PDC, just once. The white light coming from the cylinder goes grey for a moment, starts to take on colors around the edges, fluctuates, twists -- -- and the radio broadcast tower is hovering six inches above it, emitting silent pulses. Mark stares at the three-dimensional image slowly rotating in front of them, Mihoshi's small laugh startles the others, and Patricia smiles. "Verni," Alex says. "You're first." The light goes white again, and the tower vanishes. The named party gets to her feet: it's as slow as some of her movements in the Jewel House. "What -- do I do?" "Just hold your PDC over the light," Alex tells her, "and wait." Verni moves through the shadows, reaches the cylinder, reluctantly brings her arm up -- then, as if making the decision all at once, thrusts it into the light. The PDC's screen flashes, and Verni's in position to see what's on it: the quiz questions, one after the other, only there for a fraction of a second each, just long enough to recognize as such, no indication of her answers, and now the light is pulsing in time with the rhythm of that silent beat -- -- another flash, this time from below -- -- and the light turns green. The PDC's screen returns to its original menu. "Well, that would have been a waste of a perfectly good twelve thousand dollars," Alex observes. "You're still here, Verni. Take your seat." Verni gives her PDC a wide-eyed look -- then thrusts her arm into the air. "Yeah!" And returns back to her chair with a great deal more confidence than she left it. "One down!" How do the others look right now? No visible disappointment that Verni's still in the game -- but perhaps she's someone's Mole choice, and her being here is a good sign for them. Someone else could be happy to have their coalition partner still in the game. But for the most part, the expressions are guarded -- and a little worried. Their own odds may be down to nine in ten. Well -- most of them have something approaching those odds. One person (who could be Verni) is definitely sticking around. But we don't need to point that one out just yet, do we? The light twists again, changes -- and the snakes silently hiss. "Charity." Who comes up a lot more quickly than Verni did. "Eager to find out?" Alex questions. "I'm just glad to be out of that seat..." George laughs, as does Christopher -- but only one of those feels like honest mirth. "Here goes everything..." The color of 'everything' turns out to be green (which to some appears to come a little faster than it did with Verni), and Charity has no problems with getting back in that seat. "Interesting," Alex decides. "Two people who would have taken exemptions -- two people still in the game." "Are these really random choices?" Mark asks, the disbelief starting to sway over his shaved head. "They are," Alex replies -- just as the light flashes into an exploding clapboard. "And there is such a thing as coincidence -- Mark." Who laboriously gets out of the chair and crutch-swings his way across to the cylinder. "Nice timing... Come on, let's see the green..." Ask for it (this time) and get it: Mark's clear. One by one, they come. David nods when his name is called, nods when he's verified to continue, silently returns to his seat. Christopher looks briefly surprised by his own clearance -- but it's very brief, and it's followed by a weak line about how green could easily become his favorite color. Patricia does a little sashay all the way to the cylinder, and then gets to do it all the way back. "This tour isn't over yet, boys..." Erin actually takes a moment out for something other than provocation: she's had no known chance to see her symbol yet, and watches it melt into the pool before standing up. "Huh. Well, that doesn't completely suck..." (We can probably try to qualify that as high praise.) It seems to take a very short time to verify Erin, and she appears to have been expecting it all the way: confidence marching up, acidic victory heading back. Sadr gives his PDC a long look before putting it into the light -- then gives it a green-tinged kiss as it's coming out. Four left, and the odds are getting worse for Felicia, George, Mihoshi, and Jacob, or possibly any three of the four. Mihoshi's verification is oddly muted: she shows no surprise at being cleared, no reaction on heading back. (At least David nodded. Twice.) Her symbol is more animated than she is, running code, scrolling through menus, search engines returning results both imaginary and real. Three now, and the parallel bars appear: elevate and lower, seem to bend in slight curves. "George." He pushes himself to his feet, becomes the first person to jog up. "You seem to be ready," Alex wryly notes. "Every time," George grins, thrusts his arm into the light -- -- where did it start to go wrong? The others will question that later, try to remember as much as possible. Just in case. Because they may see it for themselves, and any warning, any at all, even the tiniest fraction of a second... It starts normally at the beginning: the PDC flashing through quiz questions in the glow of the white light below. But then -- -- did the screen change? Some will swear it did. That it went to the connection menu, then to a notes page (scant, Jacob will say -- not much text there at all, and none of it legible at his distance), rotating through frozen images -- was that the Sceptre? The Roundhouse? -- and going through functions they'd never seen before, some that a few might never see, too fast to identify as anything but unfamiliar -- -- before the light changes one more time. The red glare blazes into the sky, rivals the moon and surrounding lights, paints a new kind of shadow onto the Tower -- -- and in the middle of it, a sudden flare of black as the PDC's screen goes dark -- -- the cylinder's light shuts down. George stands in place. He's not moving. Perhaps he can't. Eleven people are staring at him. Ten of them are looking at their own potential future. "George," Alex says, and her voice has just the smallest touch of gentleness to it now, "you are the Mole's first victim -- the first of the ten who will be executed." He stands there, looking not at her, but at the PDC, pain on the bulldog face -- -- which doesn't vanish under the forced smile. He tries, yes, it's a major effort -- but you can see what's lurking underneath. "Well," he makes himself say, gets the note of joviality in there somehow, "at least I got here this time..." "That's a victory in itself," Alex tells him. "No matter how hard it can be to see it that way." Then, with a more quiet note: "Take off your PDC and leave it on the cylinder." George quickly strips it away, doesn't quite throw it down: he settles for an unsubtle drop. "I'll see you at the end, George -- take care of yourself until then." This grin is a little less forced. "No getting back in, huh?" Alex shakes her head. "So where's Sequesterville?" And that has some real curiosity behind it. "Somewhere special," our host says. "You'll have fun -- if you let yourself." "Yeah..." George considers. "I can do that." A long look at Alex, visibly considering a question -- and finally, "Can I say something to the group?" A small nod. "As long as it's not about your quiz answers, the game, your notes -- I think you know the drill." "I do," George firmly says, and turns to face the others. Solidly, "This is what I want you guys to remember -- red can be the color of innocence. If that light takes someone out, it doesn't automatically absolve them -- but maybe it can mean you'll give them a second chance somewhere down the road." A too-light shrug. "Just don't get to thinking that green is the color of purity.” He turns back to Alex. “Ready.” A long moment -- and then Alex offers her hand. George shakes it, leans down, says something to her. She says something back, points off to the right. George walks out. The moment before he leaves the pool of light is when he finds the strength to whistle. Alex looks at the eleven who remain. “He asked if he made the right decision in packing swim trunks,” she lets them know. “Some of you are going to learn that answer the hard way.” She stands up. “This Tower has seen enough executions. Let’s not give it any more.” The host starts to walk -- and, after a moment, the others stand and silently follow. The ravens and ghosts of the Tower watch them leave. One is gone. Ten are still playing. One more is playing them... ----------------------------------------------------------------- . . . . . . . . . . . . (End of Episode #1)   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Belle Book 1925 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Herbal Healing Drugs Endorser" 02-14-09, 08:22 PM (EST) 18. "RE: A Dark Room: Conclusion" Okay, I didn't really think George was the Mole. But I've still got quite a few suspects. Some are more likely than others. I think Erin's the least likely of the ones left. Patricia, David, Jacob and Mihoshi could be the Mole -- I'm keeping my eye on them -- but it's not too likely at the moment. I'm looking most at Mihoshi of this group because she said she didn't do anything. Does that mean she did something and is trying to cover her own tracks? Christopher did a lot of things wrong this round. The problem is, that makes him a little too obvious! Felicia could've screwed up on the first mission and tried to make Christopher look suspicious. Mark could have deliberately screwed up while opening the case, as could Sadr. Charity claimed she made a typo, but did she? And Vreeni -- she gave up a dead-end job to come onto The Mole. And didn't Alex suggest that someone got something by being the Mole? She did try to do the hero part in the first mission. And most of all, she really screwed up in the second mission, scratching herself with the diamond. She's my most likely suspect at the moment. But I can't discount anyone else -- except for George, of course. Anyway, great job so far, Estee! Belle Book   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

Belle Book 1925 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Herbal Healing Drugs Endorser" 02-14-09, 05:51 PM (EST) 16. "RE: The Mole: Season #5: Episode #1: A Dark Room" No surprise -- I thought our host was none other than my favorite fictional Survivor contestant, Alex Cole! Glad to see she's hosting The Mole -- she's perfect for the part of host! Belle Book   Remove | Alert Edit | Reply | Reply With Quote | Top

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