, love comma door.jpg
You might as well check up on the computer's documents. You are not appreciative of the cyber voyeur being aware of your actions but you are rather strained on resources and information. You double click a folder named, “_1” on the desktop. But nothing happens.
D-Don't touch me there, you lecher~!
What? Don't give me that disgusted glare. Aah, as I expected, it is nowhere as near as effective via text, huh? I'm a nuisance? Wahh, I'm crying. ;_;
Hmm? No, see, “;_;” is on the approved emoticons list. It is standardized for international and non-unicode use. Again with the questions! No, I'm not going to use italics. Why? Because you can use them for em-pha-sis. If you put italics on everything, it loses its flavor, yeah?
Irritated, you double click the folder again.
Unfortunately, it's encrypted. Thankfully, it's only guarded by a weak password. I can probably brute force the thing and give you access. Don't narrow your eyes at me! I'm helping!
“Is there no notification box?” you ask me. Man, you're asking for a lot. I can't just give you a neat little pop-up that will tell you, “Estimated completion time: x minutes” you know. It could take seconds, minutes, or days.
...Eh? What was that? No, not you. I think I heard something.
You blink. The ground stirs enough to scatter the newspapers around the room. For once, you are grateful for bolted metal tables. You grasp at the clanking coffee pot dancing around the desk and nestle it in your lap. Idly, you dip your index in the black brew and lick the tip of your finger. It's stale.
just keep quiet ok?? don't panic... oh youre already doing that good. shitttt. Il'l be okay so just find somwehere to hide and don't move. quick. turning off monitor.
The screen shuts itself off into darkness. From the other side of the door, you hear the sound of grinding; perhaps solid objects being pulverized into lesser mass. You tilt your head, pointing your ear toward the door. You can hear something akin to sand sifting into the earth. Placing the coffee pot underneath the desk, you make quick strides to the storage facility. You grasp at the latch and pull but the door refuses to budge. Above the handle is a digital door lock. Perspiration lines your forehead now. It needs a set of four numbers, but you're rather pressed for time.
As you struggle, the sound of the grating door does little to soothe your nerves. You can hear the bolts from the entrance pop from their sockets. How horrifying. What a convenient time to have amnesia, you think to yourself. You try several numbers. 7309. 4266. 9245. Each set of codes returns nothing but a red X on the screen and a series of bleeps.
Frankly, you're terrified. Are you really going to suffer an untimely because you couldn't remember the code was left untouched, still set at 0000?
...Ah. You remember now.
It is as they say: fear is the ultimate catalyst. You input “0000” and the screen flashes green. The door clicks open and you waste little time shutting it behind you. As the door groans closed, you can see main entrance creaking open just a sliver.
Red eyes, perhaps.
Your breathing is particularly erratic. Palpitations swarm your throat, making it rather futile for you to attempt to swallow. You take shelter behind a cardboard box filled with processed tuna. From the outside, you can hear a shuffling of paper. After hearing the entrance door scream for mercy, you're upset at such a tepid rampage. You decide to retract your previous statement when a scratching at the storage facility door relapses your erratic heartbeats.
Then, beeping. Exactly four times before a familiar noise rings through the silent chambers. The same noise when you failed the lock combination. And again. And again. Repeat ad nauseam. Then, with neither pattern nor indication, the beeping ceases.
[ ] Approach the door.
[ ] Explore the storage facility.
[ ] Remain hidden and stationary.