2.b.x
The tech boys
stormed into the bathroom like a swat team.
Each movement practiced to perfect reflective action, their formations
models of efficiency, tested in computer simulations thousands of times.
“He’s there,”
said one of the boys in the standard, black and pale yellow field tech uniform as
he pointed to the slumped D.O.S.
The boy wearing
the black blazer with the significant elbow pads, scratched at his stubble-less
chin. “They’ve been here too,” he said,
“and so has The Greed.”
“How can you
tell without running a battery?” the tech boy in the collared, sleeveless, pale
yellow shirt and black shorty shorts said.
“Easy. Use your nose. That smell of covetous sweat, dirty money,
and exorbitant filth is The Greed’s signature scent,” the blazered tech boy
said.
“Oh. Is that what that is? I just thought it meant that someone dropped
a deuce,” said shorty shorts.
“That’s
because you’re new, newbie,” said a standard issue tech boy.
“Wait,” said
shorty shorts, “how did we even know to look in here?”
A standard
issue boy rolled his eyes and said, “Easy.
Our system monitors all our people in the field. We ran a search for any operative whose
bodily readouts were instable. This guy
pinged something fierce.”
“Looks like
they escaped into the ventilation system,” the blazered tech boy said, pointing
to the grating on the wall. Viscous,
gelatinous ooze dribbled from it’s horizontal slits.
“Sick,” said
shorty shorts.
“Yes. Sick indeed,” said blazer. “In you go, newbie.”
“What? Why’s it gotta be me?” asked shorty shorts.
“I thought we
went over this already,” said blazer. “Because
you’re new.”
Shorty-shorts’s
shoulders slumped. His head fell forward
and he kicked the tile floor as he made his way over to the ventilation access;
a chorus of jeers and laughter salting his little figurative wounds.