Post by Aidan on May 23, 2013 23:29:12 GMT -8
Approximately 6 weeks ago...
“Take the next right. Continue forward 20 meters. Elevator banks on right.”
Thomas pressed against the wall, willing his breathing and pounding heart to stillness.
“That infernal contraption is going to get you killed,” hissed GigaByte padding softly along at his knee. The low, guttural growl that followed surely would have alerted the guards flanking the elevator bay, had he not been a whisper from the past.
Thomas quickly assessed his options; the stairs lay beyond the elevators, so were of no use. Back into the labs and dormitory was also out of the question. If he had not already awoken, Dr. Hems would be rousing any minute, and would likely be very cross with Thomas after that blow to the back of the head.
A flicker of movement to his right, drawing his attention to the floor to ceiling windows. His left eye took in the material- tempered glass, 215 pound of pressure minimum to shatter it outward, followed by a 13 story drop, no scaffolding, no trashcans, no parked cars, no railing or other breaks in the fall, 23.7744 meters to the neighboring building. Nothing out there but lots of cold air and some very solid pavement; suicide by physics.
His right eye, belied this truth, as it took in the moonlit silhouette of a tall man in a wide brimmed hat and duster, looking out over the street below with a combination of disgust and eagerness for the challenge. Rail-Spike tipped his hat, shrugged his shoulders, and muttered in a barely audible whisper, “No pain? No gain.”
Thomas is a very special person. Set aside the fact that he is a werewolf, one of Gaia’s chosen warriors. Put aside also that he is a Glass Walker, or a Garou that has strayed too far to the wiles of the weaver for most sane people’s liking. Gloss over the fact that he is Metis and even among his own people he is pariah, the offspring of forbidden union. And pay no heed that he was born on the new moon, giving him a very special task amongst his people.
Thomas has access to something most of his people have lost. This makes him precious, and worth protecting, even from himself.
He has lived most his life on the 13th floor of a building that, officially, only has 12 floors. No button in the elevator, no door in the stairwell that normal folk can see. Carefully placed wards, high-tech security systems and a lab that would make even ‘Big Pharma’ openly drool on themselves like Pavlov’s dinner bell was stuck. He’d seen many other Metis come and go, quickly growing to maturity (some with help from special ‘vitamin shots’) and moving on to exciting new lives beyond the antiseptic white walls. The doctors were pleasant enough, seeing to all of his needs and providing him with books, DVDs and even a heavily firewalled internet access. They gave him a certain amount of latitude, but professed his value so often, they just gilt the cage that had been his home for 20 years, now.
They were very careful to only tell him what he needed to know…
Until Dr. Hems slipped up, confirming months of suspicion and making his options very clear. The blow was exact, concussive force to the occipital ridge, jarring the brain forward, into the frontal bone. Concussion was certain. A brief period of observation and a double-dose of Ibuprofen, and the good doctor would recover just fine.
Thomas took in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds, he rushed the window. The guards flanking the elevator responded to the furtive movement instantly, letting loose a hail of bullets that ripped through glass partitions, punched holes in the drywall and left a snaking trail of pinpoint destruction following Thomas to the window. Any hesitation, and one or two may have found their mark. There was none.
The impact was more than sufficient to overtake the window’s resistance, the whole pane shattering into millions of tinkling motes of streaming light as gravity took hold and pulled him inexorably downward. The wind began to howl in his ear, but even still, he heard the chiming voice of EGO, “Recalculating… Recalculating… Recalculating…”
The motes of glass and the street lights blurred, taking on a silvery hue. The tears welling in his eyes blurred the horizon as the world grew slightly brighter, yet more ephemeral, like someone had found the dimmer switch on the moon and dialed it up to 11. Open air was suddenly choked with wisps and chords of spider webs. Snapping under his descent, even as they clung at him, trying to embrace him and hold onto him.
The city streets seemed to be welcoming him with open arms. The impact was solid.
“You have arrived at your destination.”
“Take the next right. Continue forward 20 meters. Elevator banks on right.”
Thomas pressed against the wall, willing his breathing and pounding heart to stillness.
“That infernal contraption is going to get you killed,” hissed GigaByte padding softly along at his knee. The low, guttural growl that followed surely would have alerted the guards flanking the elevator bay, had he not been a whisper from the past.
Thomas quickly assessed his options; the stairs lay beyond the elevators, so were of no use. Back into the labs and dormitory was also out of the question. If he had not already awoken, Dr. Hems would be rousing any minute, and would likely be very cross with Thomas after that blow to the back of the head.
A flicker of movement to his right, drawing his attention to the floor to ceiling windows. His left eye took in the material- tempered glass, 215 pound of pressure minimum to shatter it outward, followed by a 13 story drop, no scaffolding, no trashcans, no parked cars, no railing or other breaks in the fall, 23.7744 meters to the neighboring building. Nothing out there but lots of cold air and some very solid pavement; suicide by physics.
His right eye, belied this truth, as it took in the moonlit silhouette of a tall man in a wide brimmed hat and duster, looking out over the street below with a combination of disgust and eagerness for the challenge. Rail-Spike tipped his hat, shrugged his shoulders, and muttered in a barely audible whisper, “No pain? No gain.”
Thomas is a very special person. Set aside the fact that he is a werewolf, one of Gaia’s chosen warriors. Put aside also that he is a Glass Walker, or a Garou that has strayed too far to the wiles of the weaver for most sane people’s liking. Gloss over the fact that he is Metis and even among his own people he is pariah, the offspring of forbidden union. And pay no heed that he was born on the new moon, giving him a very special task amongst his people.
Thomas has access to something most of his people have lost. This makes him precious, and worth protecting, even from himself.
He has lived most his life on the 13th floor of a building that, officially, only has 12 floors. No button in the elevator, no door in the stairwell that normal folk can see. Carefully placed wards, high-tech security systems and a lab that would make even ‘Big Pharma’ openly drool on themselves like Pavlov’s dinner bell was stuck. He’d seen many other Metis come and go, quickly growing to maturity (some with help from special ‘vitamin shots’) and moving on to exciting new lives beyond the antiseptic white walls. The doctors were pleasant enough, seeing to all of his needs and providing him with books, DVDs and even a heavily firewalled internet access. They gave him a certain amount of latitude, but professed his value so often, they just gilt the cage that had been his home for 20 years, now.
They were very careful to only tell him what he needed to know…
Until Dr. Hems slipped up, confirming months of suspicion and making his options very clear. The blow was exact, concussive force to the occipital ridge, jarring the brain forward, into the frontal bone. Concussion was certain. A brief period of observation and a double-dose of Ibuprofen, and the good doctor would recover just fine.
Thomas took in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds, he rushed the window. The guards flanking the elevator responded to the furtive movement instantly, letting loose a hail of bullets that ripped through glass partitions, punched holes in the drywall and left a snaking trail of pinpoint destruction following Thomas to the window. Any hesitation, and one or two may have found their mark. There was none.
The impact was more than sufficient to overtake the window’s resistance, the whole pane shattering into millions of tinkling motes of streaming light as gravity took hold and pulled him inexorably downward. The wind began to howl in his ear, but even still, he heard the chiming voice of EGO, “Recalculating… Recalculating… Recalculating…”
The motes of glass and the street lights blurred, taking on a silvery hue. The tears welling in his eyes blurred the horizon as the world grew slightly brighter, yet more ephemeral, like someone had found the dimmer switch on the moon and dialed it up to 11. Open air was suddenly choked with wisps and chords of spider webs. Snapping under his descent, even as they clung at him, trying to embrace him and hold onto him.
The city streets seemed to be welcoming him with open arms. The impact was solid.
“You have arrived at your destination.”