Discovery Gaming Community

Detroit Munitions,
Prototype Hangar B


Many people would give a lot to be a fly on the wall in Detroit Munitions’ R&D department. Not one of them would assume that there had been, in fact, a literal buzzing bugger in Hangar B. A fly on the wall – the perfect crime, hiding in plain sight. Had anyone suspected its presence, conclusive proof would have been a single bio-scan away, but nobody did. In theory, it should have been detected by a routine check about eleven times by now, except that routine checks were all but gone, having given way to holo-bands and small-time gambling as far as the security personnel were concerned. To give credit where it’s due, we should point out that the twelfth security check had been conducted as planned, quite too late.

The brave insect inhabitant of Detroit Munitions got there by way of a roundabout accident, and was beginning to feel suitably confused and light-headed, due to the low gravity and only token air pressure in the hall. What’s a New Yorker fly to do in Detroit, anyway? For now, it had resigned itself to scouting out the immediate environment – and what an environment it was! Gutted machinery galore, an ocean of wires, a Sargasso of decommissioned parts used for target practice when testing new weapons. The city-slicker insect was distinctly unimpressed by all this remarkable equipment, looking instead for food or a mate. Machinery didn’t help on either account, though it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying on the fly’s part.

Finally, it managed to secure an assortment of sugar grains, left over by one of the hurried engineers hauling gadgets to and fro. Come to think of it – though our fly certainly didn’t – there had been an increase in the numbers of both. Most of the would-be wall creepers would have recognised this unmistakably as a sign of a big test run in the works. The actual fly didn’t pay much attention the commotion… until it got sucked in by an intake fan of some vital-looking piece of equipment, thus ending the first line of insect settlers on Detroit.

The fan whirred on.

And then it clicked.

Planet Manhattan,
Ageira Building K

Thomas White stretched leisurely in his leather chair, and cracked a short-lived smile which seamlessly turned into a yawn. Work was slow today, the massive screen installed in the office displayed an all-green status, overlaid on a pleasant mountainside landscape. He half-heartedly fiddled with the controls, finally deciding to replace it with a collage of Curacaos decadent beaches. With a flick of his wrist, he filled the spacious room with soft music. A dry snap of a hidden switch had disconnected the phone and uncovered a cocktail cabinet it was hardly midday, but the day held nothing of interest, anyway. A few minutes later, with a perfect drink in his hand, Thomas examined the screen again.

The green landscape was being ravaged by fires of bright crimson, beset on all sides by yellow sparks and undefined fields of ashen grey. Thomas spat out his drink in shock, spraying alcohol across the fiery display, which did nothing to improve the situation. As if mirroring the mist of drops on the screen, sweat begun to show on the mans face. He slammed the glass down, hastily trying to find the damned switch again with his shaking hands. At last he toggled it back. The telephone ringer pierced through the room, cutting the music in short. Thomas swallowed nervously, adjusting his tie. He took a few deep breaths and reached violently for the phone, almost attacking it before he could change his mind. Being nervous and unsure only made him angry, which was the main reason he got into upper management.

Just what the hell do you mean, it exploded!?, he snapped frantically. Right! Sorry. Did you get Johnson? You have got to be ff, he trailed off. This was no time for idle irritation. Thomas had actually been promoted because being angry made him decisive. Well, it made him find the first non-idiotic decision and stick to it, which was just as good most of the time. Have you tried Williams? Thompson? Christ, just what we needed. Cant we Sure, but I really dont Okay. Yeah, Ill get it sorted out. Two days. No, I said two days. Ill call you later. In the meantime, give the oddballs a retroactive clearance. I know and I dont even care, Clark, I dont even care. Call Taylor or Miller if you have to, they still owe me. I do not want another screw-up like last month.

With that, Thomas White closed the connection. He put his coat on and fished around in the pockets for a pack of cigarettes two to go, and the day wasnt about to get any better.

He changed his mind, returned the pack into one of his pockets, and left in a hurry. He was headed for Lab Zero, and that always put him in a rotten mood.