The control room is a dark, cramped room filled with equipment and two uninspired human beings. A wall of television monitors, each tuned into a different station provides the sole source of lighting. The two technicians, both men dressed in Company fatigues, man their monitoring stations. Of the pair the smallest, a thin and bland figure, seems the least interested in his work, leaning a bored, bespectacled head upon his folded arms. His larger partner, MIKE, with close-cropped hair and moderately athletic build, pushes away from the desk console and makes a move to stand.
I'm gonna go to the restroom. Be right back.
Mike passes his ambivalent partner, PAUL, and leaves the room. Paul glances at a desktop clock before returning his weary eyes to the wall of television monitors facing him. Scenes of six different news stations, five gunbattles, three soap operas, two pornographic exhibitions and a Shaktarian religious sermon all compete for his attention but the operator’s only response is a deep sigh. Gradually his eyelids begin to slide shut.
Psst! Hey, Paul.
The operator jumps in his seat, startled, his head scanning for someone else in the otherwise empty room.
Who is that?
God.
Paul follows the sound of the voice over to one of the center television screens, which displays a blathering female news anchor. The sound has been muted and instead the voice comes out through the television speakers.
Paul Savore, I need to speak with you.
Are... are you with Station Analysis?
No but I really need your...
This is a privately owned transmission and all unauthorized broadcasters can and will be prosecuted to the utmost extent of...
An ear-piercing whine erupts from the entire bank of monitors and the screens of each of them go off save for the lone television broadcasting the nightly news. The female anchor finds her voice again and rattles off a leading 'top story'.
Earlier this evening Paul Savore, an employee with the Company, was shot dead while attempting to commit a terrorist bombing of a local broadcast facility. Authorities behind the shooting are still investigating the motives behind this would-be destroyer of public television.
Footage of Paul's bullet-riddled corpse and heavily armed Operatives flash across the screen, much to Paul's horror. The murder scene is in fact the same control room where he is seated.
Paul was survived for about an hour by his elderly mother and father, both of whom died in a brief but bloody firefight with Operatives assigned with giving them the bad news. Obviously, terrorism runs in the family...
Oh my god!
Without missing a beat, the female anchor’s voice switches to a deeper male tone.
Don't worry, none of that has happened yet. And it won't if you agree to help me out.
What do you want with me?
The footage of the news anchor pauses, her face frozen in mid-syllable. After a few seconds the screen goes dead and words scroll across the television set.
The Company's got me in a real bind. I need you to help throw them off my tracks.
Paul glances at the screen, his eyes squinting behind the tiny pair of reading glasses. At a loss for understanding, he looks around the room for a clue.
But why me?
The screen beeps once, an announcement of further lines of text.
Because I know you, I know what you could do if you were ever given the
right job. You know television in and out, how to wield that black
magic.
.
.
.
And unlike a lot of people, such as the Company folks tracing this
broadcast, you can read.
Upon finishing the message Paul's features turn ashen grey. As fast as his fingers can move he furiously types out a reply.
They're listening? That means they'll be here any minute now!
Right. So here's my deal. If you do what I say and do it fast I'll help you get out of here. So far they only know that there's a terrorist working down in this control room. It could either be you or your partner Mike.
Okay. What do I do?
I'm gonna air that news program again. It's gonna have some really weird footage with it so don't panic. It'll last about 45 seconds. Record it onto a dataslug. While that's going on you can open up Mike's terminal and do a Third Eye topicsearch for 'Project Avalon'. Nevermind the d-notices, just type the word 'Dragonsbreath,' hit Enter, and run. Don't forget the dataslug and whatever you do, don't look back. If you move fast enough you'll be out of here by the time Mike comes back from the shitter. I doubt they'll send anything as genteel as Cloak Division and he won't even have time to scream.
Paul is now visibly nervous, almost on the verge of panic. The whole thing hasn't even registered with him yet as his trembling hands work out a reply.
What do I do then?
Five full seconds of a tense quiet settles over the control room before the television beeps and the screen fills with the final bit of instruction.
Take the dataslug down to the 320th sector of Downtown. Wear a black scarf. That'll let some associates of mine know not to kill you. They'll ask who sent you and you reply with silence. Just say nothing. They'll take you someplace secret and after that you give up the 'slug and we discuss a bright new future for you. But we can’t have a future without protecting the present. Time’s wasting, Paul. Let’s move.
The wall of television monitors comes to life all at once, each chattering on and on in their own little TV worlds. Paul focuses on the center screen, still displaying the same female news anchor. He quickly slips a dataslug into a deck and switches it on record. Even as that commences he is busy at work, feverishly typing away at his coworker’s vacant Oyster terminal.
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