I have followed your edicts, friend. My dealings with this Board have only made me realize how maladaptive this whole system is... 21.6 Seconds Post-Integration.
No one was screaming. Which seemed odd to Clark. All the workers continued to go busily about their jobs as if an unbelievably loud alarm wasn't screaming.
"What is that?!" he yelled to Ditch.
Ditch, though seeing him, only cupped his hand to his ear as if to say, 'WHAT?'
Clark repeated himself but before he could finish Ditch yelped, "Oh -- THAT! That's the monster alarm!" he shouted, struggling over said alarm.
"A monster alarm? On the first floor?! You don't sound panicked. Should I be panicked?" Clark asked, curious at Ditch's chill.
"It's always just some minor infestation. Some muck in one of the robots' gears. Pay it no heed. Speaking, I think it is your time to clock out, new Lifers are rarely, if ever, scheduled past now. Do what you want, of course, but understand your pay will not be what it is during the scheduled mandatory hours. That said, thank you for your hard work today, Clark. You can get on out of here, if you want," Ditch said back to him.
Quitting time? He'd admit he totally lost track of time during his labors. It was all so busy, so much screeching, clanging of carts, him going back and forth, back and forth, and then the numbers! The oh so many UPC digits! It fried his brain like an egg, he thought. For at least a little bit.
"Awesome-sauce-on-a-boss, I will head out, then," Clark replied.
Heading back to the salesfloor, Clark returned himself to the nearest timeclock. He unplugged his toggle -- nearly without issue! -- and was soon out of line to let the next person use the clock. He considered returning to his dorm. Gods knew he was exhausted.
In the distance, an alarm continued to blare. He couldn't ignore it. He knew he should, but he couldn't. I have obligations to fulfill to the Spiritual Consciousness. I shouldn't turn tail just because my feet are sore or my muscles ache. He clocked back in and set off toward the source of the alarm.
"SIMP -- set me a path toward the source of the outbreak," he asked of the Spiritual Consciousness.
"Done," SIMP replied, a breadcrumb trail having been generated for him to follow.
The trail took him from one side of the store to the other. He dodged customers, but failed on some of his agility rolls, so to speak, and had to help a customer find a product as he traversed the Section. Every time he set out for his objective and ran into a shopper demanding to know the location of a niche product, he called such moments 'random encounters.'
Several random encounters later, he came before the source of it all. It was in the niche goods section he barely remembered from earlier when a customer had asked where sporting or home goods were... or whatever it had been. He had since forgotten what that particular customer wanted, but Clark remembered giving them directions to this sub-department much earlier in the day. He hoped the lady or man or Whoever was not caught in whatever monstrous cancer manifested.
"What is the problem here?" Clark said aloud as he approached a group of Assistant Level Managers circled around the sub-department cage.
Most of the managers turned to look at him. One, perhaps the actual manager for the floor, did not turn to look at him.
"Who are you?" one of the assistant managers asked him. His nametag read, 'Jose.'
"My name is Clark. Cola Clark. I am a new Lifer. I was on the executive lounge when it all went to crap. I survived that and am looking to throw my weight into the fight against the monsters. Let me take a look and do what I can," he told the members of management, each word of his spiel bull-crapping on through like a pro. Nothing of what he said was a lie, per se. It was only his qualifications which were lacking.
None of the managers who turned to face him took him seriously. "Thank you for wanting to do your patriotic duty," Jose told him. "But we have guys on the way. It would be too dangerous for you to handle it by yourself, without any training, anyways."
At that moment, a radio resting in the back pocket of the lead manager, still staring into the niche department cage, beeped.
"Canceled?" the manager spoke into his two-way radio. "New estimate? Really? Understood. Thank you for letting me know."
Now turning to Clark and the group, the lead manager, who was, in fact, the local floor manager, as Clark recognized him from when they met back on his first day, said to him, "Clark? If you think you have what it takes to tango with filth, then let's see your chops!"
The lead manager walked into the niche department and bade him to follow.
Just behind the man, Clark walked through the department cage and entered the niche department. Inside the niche department zone there were a few lanes cordoned off and reserved to carry items which did not otherwise fall into an appropriate department. The manager led him to the back, turned down an aisle, and walked confidently up to a malfunctioning robot flinging sparks from a damaged component.
"What the juice?" Clark asked under his breath upon seeing the robot. Part of him couldn't help but laugh. Just as Ditch guessed.
"This, my new friend, is called an auto-scrubber. It de-sanitizes and cleans corruption before it manifests in outright plague. It's a custodial bot. Ironic though it might seem, these machines are susceptible themselves to plague. We think it must be because of a side-effect from the actual handling of the corruption. Whatever the case, this is what that alarm is going off about -- its chest, see, must be where the corruption is manifesting. Let's get closer," the manager said.
Clark stepped closer to the machine. It jinked wildly on its back, partially propped up by cargo boxes in states of disassemble. "We won't know what we are dealing with unless we open the machine up and take a look. Every auto-scrubber has the same hatch in the middle of its chest. Right there!" the manager said, indicating to a small latch which did, in fact, exist. The manager put on some thick gloves and went to open the robot's chest when he suddenly stopped. "Actually," he said. "This is your job. I will walk you through it. First, put on these gloves."
Clark did as he was told and put on the gloves. He approached the malfunctioning robot and waited for further instructions.
"So, open up that door, we don't got all day," the manager told him, light of heart but firm, in the fatherly way.
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Intimidating at first, the sparks which spat from the robot hardly registered as a concern, now that he had some time to adjust to such a strange sight and noise. He stepped close to the robot and nudged open the small chest hatch, taking note of its flailing limbs to avoid being hit.
With the hatch open, the whole interior of the robot's chest cavity was exposed. Lots of switchboards and wires, things and blinking lights he did not understand. What he did understand was how the black fuzz which grew inside and throughout its chest was unnatural. "That's the corruption, I take it?" he asked the manager.
"Yepper. That's it. Good observation skills. You wouldn't believe how many recruits can't even identify basic anomalies. This is as basic as corruption comes, though. It will be the perfect target for you. Meanwhile, I won't have to worry about Extenuating Circumstances paperwork. So, first thing you will want to do is grab your multi-tool. Obviously, you don't have one. You can use mine," the manager said, handing Clark their own device.
He took the multi-tool from the manager. It was a sleek, ornamented tool which looked similar to a handheld scanner, such as what Front End Associates used to 'bust,' a large customer cart, such as when multiple scanning devices are used at once. The manager's family crest, a large ornate 'S' overlapping an equally as large and ornate 'A,' formed a practical balcony at the end of the tool, making its heft lopsided. Small buttons and levers lined its frame, forcing Clark to be careful on where he placed his hands and fingers. Were all multi-tools like this?! He wondered in disbelief. So much complexity; I shouldn't slack on learning the multi-tool when the opportunity arises.
"Now, angle the multi-tool into the machine. Right: now, hold your palm against the butt of the tool. Gently, now, touch the corruption. Graze it, a tap -- yeah, like that. Perfect! Carefully remove the tool and give it back," the manager instructed, and he obeyed.
[You've Earned Experience!]
"Really that easy, huh?" Clark said, a subtle grin showing his pride at a job well done.
"That easy! Good thing you aren't stupid. Nothing worse than a stupid Lifer. For both the stupid person and the store, frankly," the manager joked.
Blushing a touch though not knowing for sure, he continued to smile at the praise. He hardly had done anything, yet they praised him as if he had single handily hunted a deer. Like he had done several years ago, when he came of age.
"I consider myself an average bloke, but I am wise enough where it matters," he said, cryptically, but that was the point. To provide adults with mystery, and therefore, maturity.
The manager loved his response. He brought something up on a device he kept in his back-pocket. With a finger's movement, the alarm stopped.
Peace, finally!
"I think that will be all for now, Lifer. You're dismissed back to whatever it was you were doing before," the manager said.
Clark respectfully made a half-bow but approached the manager all the same. He said, "Sir, with due respect: I want to help the store more than I am doing in my current capacity. Please, is there any possibility of a special exemption that can be made for me? I want to join the anti-monster force recently created."
"Hmmm," the manager sounded. "Let me take a look on my handheld. Okay, okay... I see. You say you survived the chaos on the lounge? Let me take a look and see if there is anything I can do for you."
For several minutes, the manager made a show of searching through his device. Clark had no idea if the device he was using was a System-oriented device or if it was another machine. It would be a long time before he would know, he figured, so why overthink it?
Finally, the manager told him something. "Okay. Let me say this, Clark. Work through your probational period. Then, I will put in a good word on your behalf with a local recruiter. You're several days in already and have exemplary stats. I think you'll be fine for another few days. I've set myself an alert for when the System ends your probationary period. Once I receive that notification, I will shoot a message over to a recruiter I know and see about helping you out. You'll have to pass a physical and answer some risk assessments. I don't think you'll have anything to worry about, otherwise."
"Sir! Thank you, thank you, sir!" he repeatedly told the manager as way of thanks.
With a twirl of his foot, Clark bowed and returned to the salesfloor as the manager broke contact and returned to his own labors.
[You've Earned Experience!]
[Exceptional Application of Niceness!]
[Exceptional Application of Endurance!]
He walked around and found an empty spot before clutching his face in shock and slapping himself around. Holy crappola! I just asked that! Did I? I did! The manager said he would help. So, I guess I just have to be on my best behavior. That and continue to work hard!
[Core Metrics Falling], the System notified him. It hadn't done that before, he thought. Which might mean -- a fine? Crap! Back to work for me!
After talking with the manager, Clark continued to labor. Although he had already worked a full shift that day, clocked in early besides, and was already back at it now, Clark felt compelled to labor. He had to work. He had to earn money. Furthermore, to do any working and any money earning, he had to do his job well, so he put effort into training himself on frequent usage of the Labor Dynamics Map. He spent the following few hours as an undead, mindlessly laboring, and shifting between departments. When his feet and belly again screamed for rest, for food, he relented.
Clark clocked out for the day, shocked to see the local time. It's midnight. How could it be still so busy! Don't these people have lives, homesteads to defend?!
Standing still before the Associate Service Center, he was glad to see this place, as ever, remained a safe haven for associates from the sweaty, hairy tangle of flesh and sandals which had cash to spend. It does feel more peaceful here, Clark admitted.
Finally letting himself away from work for the day, he missed the notification about his paycheck's deposit. He was too tired to care very much at the moment. Eyeing the transport tubes which would take him back to his dorm, Clark instead wandered over to the window. Strange though it seemed to him, he realized he hadn't seen much of that outside since he arrived at Augustford Central. He'd seen the concrete parking lot through the employee lounge in the basement. But that was about it.
What his current window showed him, then, was much the same. A darkened concrete lot. A lot whose only source of illumination were lamp posts several times the height of a man, each of which bore a massive eternally burning flame at their top. People casually walked toward one of the Tower's many entrances. Even after having spent a week in Augustford's territory, he still couldn't adjust himself to the idea of letting one's guard down, especially at night. How safe these people must feel and live to not walk with fear at every step though the sun has gone since to sleep.
I'm getting pointlessly sentimental, Clark ruminated as he wandered back to the transport tube and his dorm.
Back at his dorm, he finished off the rest of his backpack food. He was so hungry, he couldn't resist his immense need, and neither could he listen to his voice of reason, imploring him to seek temperance over feasting. He eat without caution, knowing he had to satiate the hunger which came from laboring for the entire day. I can't rely on what I brought from home anymore, he told himself as he emptied the empty cans into the trash and cleaning up.
His paycheck for the day had been good. He finally got the chance to check it while he stuffed his face:
[Direct Deposit Now Available: +35 Standard Credits]
A full thirty-five credits. It was incredible. All for one day's work, too!
This, he thought, was why he worked so hard. He brimmed with pride as he wiped himself down with a wet wipe he had taken from one of the associates only restrooms. Finishing, he brushed his teeth.
Clark checked his stat sheet before heading to bed.
[Associate Name: Cola Clark, Lvl. 6]
[Core Metrics: B-B]
Clark checked his Resources tab, but his Resources remained as they were the last time he checked on them, though he reviewed it again, just to stay on top of it:
[Judgement Points: 25]
[Experience Points: ~Matriculating...]
[Promotion Points: 2 / 20]
[Incentives: 5 / 50]
[Coupons: 9]
[Culinary Credits: 11]
He winced seeing his Culinary Credit total. While he labored throughout the day, he relented and used a few credits for drinks and food.
[Standard Credits Banked: 65]
[Opportunities: 6]
Did he want to see what lay within those sweet boxes? Sure. He was also extremely tired and wanted to go to bed. So, he did. There would always be tomorrow to open up his boxes, such as in the morning, after he brushed his teeth. I'll open them, then... he said to himself, half-asleep.
Another day, another credit. Another chance to protect my family, was his final thought before sweet unconsciousness.
What is your Industry?
