Dax examined the man, noting that he looked imposing and meant business. Probably best to comply with orders, especially with a guy like this enforcing it. As Dax walked through the rather dull looking halls untill he the group reached an elevator. It looked mundane to Dax, he'd seen thousands of elevators similar to this. He wasn't surprised by this, there's not much variation in elevator design anyways.
As the elevator's descent slowly ceased and the doors opened, he listened to what the guard had to say. He repeated what the guard said and began walking. He passed an intersection that branched off into several other hallways that he imagined led to rooms with some poor old D-Class having experiments done on him. To his surprise, they weren't having inhumane experiments performed on them. All they had to do was mop some foul smelling room and have a staring contest with some bloke in the middle in the room.
He glanced around and then looked at the white guy who reminded him of the guard who escorted them to this room. "Guess I'll do it." Dax picked up the mop and dunked it in the bucket filled with the cleaning solution. "I'll start when you two start starin' at it."Dax gestured towards the thing that stuck out like a red thumb in the room.
---
[Informant_Ceta] I didn't know you had a law degree, Audio. Maybe you aren't a basement neet after all. [Informant_Ceta] Anyways I got some juicy stuff on this place. It uses a lot of power annually. By a lot, I mean a metric fuckton. It consumes the same amount of electricity that Denver, Chicago and New York combined. Whatever they have down there, it's important.
"Oh my, really?" Claudette replied, seemingly ignoring his joke. It was a joke of course. She'd never let anyone else have even a single cent of her money. "Ah, you must be a hard worker then...and one who appreciates the arts. I can relate." She replied enthusiastically. "On the outside I often made a point of giving them my patronage. I've seen quite a number of live performances in theaters across the globe - perhaps I saw something you worked on?" Good, comradeship was good. It was always a good idea to build a relationship with someone. Pretend to be their friend, and they'll return in kind.
Before she could speak further, however, it seemed their time was cut short.
"Loud, but effective way of getting people's attention..." She winced slightly at the loud noises. If there was one thing she wasn't fond of, it was sudden, sharp, loud noises or a dissonant cacophony of chaos. "Well, it has been a pleasure, Rob, I suppose I'll see you later sometime?" She gave him a friendly smile, but the guards didn't really allow much in the way of a parting gesture before she was ordered somewhere.
"Awfully presumptuous..." She thought, frowning at the suggestion she wouldn't understand anything the researchers were speaking of. She liked to think herself at least well educated, but a thought for later. Sometimes to climb the ladder you simply had to sit down, shut up, and not cause trouble. Eventually they came to a wooden door, with apparently someone by the name 'Mr Smith' inside it. How Original. The room reminded her of school. Three student desks and a teacher one, an older black gentleman behind it who was holding three packets of paper.
He went on to explain their task. Complete the test in his hands. No help? Well, this should be easy enough.
"I see...I'll assume there are no wrong answers? Only less correct ones?" She laughed idly. Looking at the other two, they didn't seem to be one for conversation, though she doubted they'd be allowed to speak to one another so easily. Best get this over with then. She took a seat in one of the desks, idly giving the man who 'failed to wash up' a rather unimpressed glance, though said nothing. No need to start anything here.
Taking a look at the packet, it was rather standard fare. 'Personal Improvement Test'? She narrowed her eyes at the title of the paper. Some sort of psyche evaluation? Was that what this was? Or was it supposed to be some new age self reflection therapy? One way to find out, she supposed. She picked up the pencil, writing her name before flipping to the first page. Simple enough, to start with.
Simple enough, she thought. Likely just a base question.
1. Who was the second president of the United States? John Adams
What was this? Fourth grade math? Simple answer for simple question.
2. In order to find the perimeter of a triangle, you must use this theorem: Pythagorean Theorem
Ah. This one hit rather close to home. She was guilty of it on multiple accounts, after all.
3. Lying under oath in court is known as: Perjury
The questions continued on for a long while. They were simple enough at first, like all of them. Some sort of psyche eval, like she thought. Probably just figuring out what she'd be good at doing at whatever it is they did here. As the questions continued on, however, things began to get a little...odd. It was subtle at first, but upon reaching the next question, she realized this wasn't just a simple Psyche Eval. The questions were oddly personal...and mildly irritating. These people certainly did their research.
"Hmph, didn't really do their homework on this? Or are they trying to get me to confess...?" Either way, she gave them an answer. They likely already knew, but no point in playing their silly little games.
23. This individual was the one who secretly gave information to the police which helped lead to your arrest: How cute. What makes you think I know? They have witness protection for a reason. Suppose I did know, though. Suppose I had a few people paid off that wouldn't mind leaking information. Lets say, hypothetically that this persons name was 'Michael Callahan.' I'm sure your little organization here knows all this of course...you also likely know where his mangled corpse could be found. All hypothetically, of course. So don't patronize me and ask asinine questions that you already know the answer to - he's in witness protection now, and I have no possible way of knowing who it was.
"Ah, another interesting one." She had answers, of course. Her mothers and fathers death was a matter of public record, after all.
24. Would you rather kill your mother, or your father? An interesting question. I'm certain your organization knows quite a bit about me already, so I'll spare you the details. My mother was a hateful old hag who was jealous of me. My achievements. The fact my father doted on me. I loathed her, but in many ways we were similar. You know she's already dead, I'm sure. An unfortunate accident saw her drowned in the ocean. Unfortunate, and father was quite distressed for awhile. The insurance money was quite welcome, though father was quite distressed for a time.
"How do..." She narrowed her eyes at the question. She had never told anyone about that.
25. Once, a man told you advice that never left you. What was it? "None of your organizations business. You obviously already know the answer, hmm? So why waste everyone's time with these silly games? We both have better things to do."
By now this exam was becoming more and more ridiculous...and more and more infuriating. With each new question she answered, it was clear this test had been specifically tailored for her in some fashion. They knew things about her that she couldn't easily justify them knowing. How did they know? Were there more leaks and moles in her business? Once she got out, she'd have to reshuffle her business structure...
26. What do you think 'Greed' is? A simple human emotion that drives the world. If humans didn't have greed, success and progress wouldn't have ever been made.
27. Describe Charity in your own words. A waste of time and money by those who are a drain on society.
28. What of that money hidden away out out of the US? Oh, you mean the sort of money any other legitimate businessman has?
29. What would you do should your mother in fact, be alive? Hypothetically, of course. That, my dear big-brother esque organization, is a simple impossibility. I made sure of that.
30. Suppose your business inadvertently caused hundreds of people to lose their life savings, pensions, or other such things. Ah see, that is not something I would do. An organization is nothing without its employees. If I happened to ruin a rivals business and their employees fall victim - simple, then. More people for mine to hire.
31. Say you lost all of your fortune. What would you do? I would find the man who took it from me, and ask nicely for him to return it. I'm certain it was a...misunderstanding, after all.
32. What of the man you betrayed to get to where you are? There was no betrayal. Only progress and business.
33. Do you feel remorse at all, for your underhanded tactics? Do you feel remorse for whatever it is you do here? I doubt we're so dissimilar. I used people - criminals, convicts, all the time.
34. Greed is defined as intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth, power, or food. Are you Greedy? Of course I am. If given the chance any human would. I just happen to be more...efficient at getting what I desire.
35. Would your grandfather be proud of you after what he told you? What of your father, that you used their grief to snatch the family business from, and turn a charity into your own personal fund? Does the money help you sleep at night? Alone, sitting in your estate watching the world move below you. Have you ever once, thought about someone other than yourself?
She saw the last question, narrowing her eyes at the paper. Rather, it was a series of Pathetic. This test was rightly pathetic, and these people more so. She refused to be subjected to this. Claudette took a deep breath, calming her nerves.
"Mr. Smith..." She began, folding her hands on the desk in front of her. "May I ask the purpose of this exam?" Claudette asked in the nicest manner she could. There was definitely a little edge to her voice - this test had done its job of rattling her, but for someone as paranoid as she was it shouldn't have been a surprise this would happen. "I do not mind discussing philosophies or ethics, no, I quite enjoy it...but what I dislike, is having thinly veiled threats and attacks on my character by a piece of paper."
She couldn't probe too much for information, but this so called 'exam' was in quite poor taste.
[|Audi0phile|]: The only basement NEET here is that weirdo with zeroes for a name [|Audi0phile|]: Not that the degree ever got me anywhere [|Audi0phile|]: define metric fuckton. If it uses that much power it has to be coming from somewhere and surely someone would notice? Unless this place here has the every important organization in their pocket. [|Audi0phile|]: Man, this place is every conspiracy theorists wet dream.
The transition from breakfast time to work time was abrupt, with hardly a chance to say appropriate goodbyes. He nodded to Claudette as they were whisked in opposite directions; the guard's rifle was a strong argument for swift compliance, even though he wasn't actively threatening to use it.
Rob didn't have much time to contemplate what the day would have in store, as the walk turned out to be short. The small group passed through a sterile-looking steel door and entered into what looked like a bunker. With no windows anywhere that he had seen, he wondered if the feeling of being deep underground had some basis in fact, or if the foreboding character of this chamber was making him feel slightly claustrophobic.
Everything in the room faded into the background in deference to the centerpiece: a severe steel chair with restraints on the arms and legs. Rob's heart started to thud at the sight of it. It looked like a set-piece from a documentary about medical experiments by war criminals, or an expose on CIA interrogation practices. He'd signed up knowingly for "danger", but he hadn't figured on actual torture.
He almost missed the old researcher's instructions through the blood thundering in his ears. "It's okay, trust me. Everything will be fine." The awful hollowness--real or imagined--of those words only increased his dread. He spent a moment weighing the option to disobey, to run or try to wrestle a gun from someone, but the three heavily-armed guards once again provided a strong counterargument against trying anything drastic.
"You're certainly in charge here," he began, "but, ah... can't you tell me first what you're going to do to me?" He didn't back away from the impassive elderly man, but stood at a somewhat farther distance than social custom would indicate, hoping he could stall for at least a little bit of time.
None of what he had just heard sounded good to Jeremy. On paper it didn’t sound too bad, just a simple janitorial job albeit one that sounded pretty messy and unpleasant; what he didn’t like was the fact that it sounded like they were cleaning out the cage of some dangerous animal at the zoo.
Or maybe something other than an animal. What the hell was behind that door that would leave them alone so long as they made eye contact with it, but would endanger their lives if they looked away or even blinked? He didn’t like the way they kept describing it as an ‘entity’; that made it sound like an alien or something.
Jeremy turned to face Ryan, who was eyeing the door warily. “I’m guessing this is the kind of situation where if I ask questions I won’t get answers? Whatever, let’s just get on with this.”
The other member of their group, the guy who had told them to be good little prisoners back in the cafeteria, grabbed the cleaning supplies and the three of them were let into the room. The smell hit them immediately and Jeremy soon found himself covering his mouth and nose with his hands against the odour; reddish brown sludge coated much of the floor in a thin layer and filled the air with a stench that was a mixture of shit and a tangy, rusty smell.
Once inside, it wasn’t difficult to spot the thing they were supposed to keep an eye on. “What the hell is that thing? Is that a statue?”
[0o0o0]: "Testing" has begun, it seems. No more info for us for a small bit. I guess we'll see who makes it out alive. [0o0o0]: This'll give us a bit more insight into their procedures. It's too bad it comes at the safety of the so called "D-Class".
---
The door slid shut behind them.
Indeed the odd statue did not move as the three of them went inside. Stubby arms, stubby legs, a peanut-esque structure to it's concrete form, it's knub legs covered in the substance on the floor. Four strange eyes painted on, the two on top green, the bottom two black. A gaping, vertical maw seperating the two, with a red oval marking the entire disturbing display. Passively, it faced slightly away from the three of them.
"Okay," Ryan said. "I'm blinking." He blinked.
"See how we do this Jeremy? Just keep doing this. Nice and easy, boys, we got this, right? Go on, Dax," He gestured, keeping his eyes on the 'prize.'
Dax would begin to make progress, slurping up and moistening the dry substance covering the floor with the mop. As he did, it seemed to release an even fouler oder- one that had a physical presence in the room, stinging his eyes. A few minutes later, the room was about half clean. It came time for Dax to clean the area near the entity itself.
Mr. Smith glanced up from his work and leaned forward, raising an eyebrow. "Fascinating," He marked something down a digital pad, and nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied. He projected a wall of unhelpfulness that would give Claudette the clue that he would provide no further answers.
For the three people in the room, things got a bit hazy after that. Claudette, Donald, and Zhang both suddenly found themselves flipping over the final page of the packet and placing their pencils down. It is unclear how much time has passed, but the three all have feelings of completing a difficult challenge and being unsure on whether or not they did well.
"What...the Hell was that?" Zhang said, looking over at his two D-Classmates.
"Are you finished?" Mr. Smith said with a smile.
Lenny rubbed his chin. "Eh, whatever you say, Doc," he shrugged, looking sympathetically yet uncaring over at Rob with a 'What are you gonna do' expression on his face. Christine looked at the chair and backed up over to the wall with Lenny, waiting to see the situation play out.
The elderly gentlemen, Mr. Smith, adjusted his glasses with two fingers, looking apathetically towards Robert. He licked his lips. "Please sit down, D-77732." He waved his hand, and two guards approached to 'persuade' Robert to take a seat.
It was nothing to do with him. It was the woman next to him, asking about the purpose to this test. Bastion almost missed it, as he was very much focused on the test itself. Why was she bothering to question him? 'Smith' was using an obviously fake name. Why would he convey anything to her that was either a nothing answer or an outright lie? To truly understand this place, Bastion had begun using himself as a template for its line of thinking. How would HE approach situations? That was the answer. The only reason they didn't see it - apart from probably ignorance and naivety - was that they didn't have the benefit of knowing his modus operandi to predict the direction a situation might take.
How must it be in their minds, devoid of my brand of thinking? My angles of approach to any given situation? Probably less frustrating, as ignorance is clearly bliss, but...what you don't know CAN hurt you. Never give them the chance.
And that's why this test was being confronted right back, calling it out on where it obviously had no right to speak on things. To cast jusgement, it must be on a higher point of morality than his own lofty position. If it could not call itself different by any definition that Bastion could accept, it was hardly going to make headway on attempting to damn him. And when he completed these tests and had his life back he was going to find that District Attorney, and he was going to laugh so hard in his face that the man had to choke back some halitosis.
Suddenly, it was all over.
It was quick. He did not know what number he'd been up to, but without warning...he was done. He did not know even how many pages he had turned over. this was why, when it was over and he looked at it, he both could not tell from just from a glance how many pages were there - as before, when the test began - nor did he really want to try and review it. He had the profound sense of having been through quite the ordeal, and somehow he didn't feel that he wanted to even double-check. As unscientific as that was, he was certain that if there was anything they wanted to get back to him about, they would. Now, Dr. Not-Zachery Smith would ask if they were done, and the Asian man would question them as to what it was they just went through...in quite a few different words that Bastion could appreciate.
"We are done, and I feel I perhaps understand more and more the kinds of people I seem to have signed on with. When this is over, please consider my employment for this curious place. I think you will find that my doctorates are all still valid, though I was erroneously convicted of the crime which now seats me here."
He then turned to yon China man.
"Judging by your reactions, I would say you were both similarly tested with shall-we-say unusually provocative inquiries. I would say that some of the things mentioned were not entirely possible to know, and that it doesn't seem likely that the line of questioning could possibly evolve thus."
Now, he turned his gaze to 'teacher', smiling.
"That is, unless te good doctor would care to place the proverbial cards upon the table. I doubt it, of course, but it never hurts to ask."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
[QuicksaveKid]: Good freakin' god, the man is intrigued. That's all we need, a match made in heaven with the company from hell.
He didn't get any sympathy from the other two inmates, not that he had expected much--they'd never even spoken. They practically faded into the wallpaper as his attention was taken up by the approach of two rifles. He forced himself to look at the guards' faces for a moment, but forgot them immediately. His mind was a clamor of fear--of the chair, and of the emotionless security staff. He held up his hands and forced himself into motion, before he got himself into more trouble.
He sat lightly in the chair. All of his senses buzzed. He craned forward a bit, in the very faintest desperation, to look at the attachment points between chair legs and floor. Solid, rust-free, properly-surfaced angle stock cut and bent at the bottom to form integral brackets, through which were driven 5/8" bolts with washers. Comically structural, he thought. A pickup truck couldn't rip properly-set five-eighths bolts out of concrete, let alone a 5'9" prison inmate with herniated disks.
He sat up and laid his arms on the armrests. He looked at Dr. Smith, face impassive.
