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wonder_cityOut of the frying pan...
“No,” said the Dean, climbing the ladder.
“But we don’t know if we’ve made it to Grimm yet!” said their erstwhile guide, wringing his long, bony hands in a melodramatic gesture.
“Who cares?” asked Christopher, following the Dean with an alacrity he usually reserved for less vertical activities. “I can’t wait to get out of here. I keep thinking I’m hearing... things.”
“Up you go,” said Tom, giving the saturnine man a toothy grin which was not really a smile. He looked for a moment as though he were going to argue, but then set his hands and feet on the ladder with shoulder-slumped resignation.
Tom waited at the foot of the ladder for everyone to get a decent way up. She glanced down the dark corridor, lit only by pale yellow and blue emergency lights near the floor.
Something was moving down there. After a moment, she could hear a distant whispering noise (feet? wheels?).
“Hey,” she said, a little more faintly than she had intended. The Dean went on climbing. Christopher stopped and their former guide bumped into him. “Do you mind?” the saturnine man hissed. “Why do I have to work with such complete incompetents...”
The dark bulk moved closer. Then a woman’s voice announced pleasantly, “Guests are not permitted in the service corridors. We regret the inconvenience. Guests are not permitted--”
Tom yelled and leapt for the ladder. What happened next, she thought, would have been funny in a horrible Monty Python physical comedy sort of way, if it hadn’t been for the dreadful swiftness with which the metal thing rushed for the ladder. Tom was yelling, their former guide was bellowing something -- some kind of instructions? -- Christopher was panting and scrambling up the ladder and suddenly Tom’s foot had no support as the (death machine? repurposed repair bot?) swept away the bottom part of the ladder.
“We regret the inconvenience,” the woman’s voice said again.
Tom bellowed and smacked their guide on the ass. “Move it, you goddamn oversized character puppet! It nearly got my foot!”
A flood of sunlight suddenly blinded Tom as the Dean got the hatch at the top of the ladder open. A shadow blocked the sun for a moment and Christopher’s frantic babble ceased as he was lifted out.
The thing below made another pass and Tom felt something sharp go past her calf, although whether it was the machine or part of the ladder (more of which was suddenly missing below her) she couldn’t tell. Then the ladder above her was clear and she scrambled up and fell onto the grass. The voice below was still declaring its regrets.
They seemed to be in a pleasant little wood. Tom took a couple of deep, whooping breaths.
Their ersatz guide said, “You know, I think that was a very hurtful thing to say.”
Tom rolled up on one elbow to tell him just what she thought of that and found herself looking at the business end of an arrow, something she never thought she would see outside of a bad period film. It was, however, oddly convincing all the same.
The Dean said, “I think we have, in fact, made it to Grimm.”
“We don’t call it that,” said a voice behind Tom, and she heard the sound of someone spitting. “This is the Republic of Sherwood.”
“Oh, give me a break,” she said. “You mean, we’ve just been captured by terrorist Merry Men?”
Christopher said, in a voice which was only slightly wobbly, “I think they may prefer the term ‘freedom fighters.’”
“No,” said the Dean, climbing the ladder.
“But we don’t know if we’ve made it to Grimm yet!” said their erstwhile guide, wringing his long, bony hands in a melodramatic gesture.
“Who cares?” asked Christopher, following the Dean with an alacrity he usually reserved for less vertical activities. “I can’t wait to get out of here. I keep thinking I’m hearing... things.”
“Up you go,” said Tom, giving the saturnine man a toothy grin which was not really a smile. He looked for a moment as though he were going to argue, but then set his hands and feet on the ladder with shoulder-slumped resignation.
Tom waited at the foot of the ladder for everyone to get a decent way up. She glanced down the dark corridor, lit only by pale yellow and blue emergency lights near the floor.
Something was moving down there. After a moment, she could hear a distant whispering noise (feet? wheels?).
“Hey,” she said, a little more faintly than she had intended. The Dean went on climbing. Christopher stopped and their former guide bumped into him. “Do you mind?” the saturnine man hissed. “Why do I have to work with such complete incompetents...”
The dark bulk moved closer. Then a woman’s voice announced pleasantly, “Guests are not permitted in the service corridors. We regret the inconvenience. Guests are not permitted--”
Tom yelled and leapt for the ladder. What happened next, she thought, would have been funny in a horrible Monty Python physical comedy sort of way, if it hadn’t been for the dreadful swiftness with which the metal thing rushed for the ladder. Tom was yelling, their former guide was bellowing something -- some kind of instructions? -- Christopher was panting and scrambling up the ladder and suddenly Tom’s foot had no support as the (death machine? repurposed repair bot?) swept away the bottom part of the ladder.
“We regret the inconvenience,” the woman’s voice said again.
Tom bellowed and smacked their guide on the ass. “Move it, you goddamn oversized character puppet! It nearly got my foot!”
A flood of sunlight suddenly blinded Tom as the Dean got the hatch at the top of the ladder open. A shadow blocked the sun for a moment and Christopher’s frantic babble ceased as he was lifted out.
The thing below made another pass and Tom felt something sharp go past her calf, although whether it was the machine or part of the ladder (more of which was suddenly missing below her) she couldn’t tell. Then the ladder above her was clear and she scrambled up and fell onto the grass. The voice below was still declaring its regrets.
They seemed to be in a pleasant little wood. Tom took a couple of deep, whooping breaths.
Their ersatz guide said, “You know, I think that was a very hurtful thing to say.”
Tom rolled up on one elbow to tell him just what she thought of that and found herself looking at the business end of an arrow, something she never thought she would see outside of a bad period film. It was, however, oddly convincing all the same.
The Dean said, “I think we have, in fact, made it to Grimm.”
“We don’t call it that,” said a voice behind Tom, and she heard the sound of someone spitting. “This is the Republic of Sherwood.”
“Oh, give me a break,” she said. “You mean, we’ve just been captured by terrorist Merry Men?”
Christopher said, in a voice which was only slightly wobbly, “I think they may prefer the term ‘freedom fighters.’”
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Date: 2012-10-03 04:28 pm (UTC)Thanks for writing!
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Date: 2012-10-03 04:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-23 11:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-02 09:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-03 06:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-04 02:35 pm (UTC)