Away From Here- Chapter 8.
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Chapter 8.
Room 11A.
Simulation room 11A is situated on the west side of the Agency building, in the Marathon and Cardiac Vascular wing, for anyone interested in the geography of the building. It's kept mostly for running simulations, from training programmes to improve fitness, to video games, which are pretty good at fitness training themselves, not that the sulky teenagers want you to know that.
There are hundreds of these games, ranging from adventure and action to puzzles, but there’s one that has been played in 11A so many times the stats are unimaginable. The Game, as it’s known to all who play it, is a game many potential runners compete in. It was created as one of the many sports programs to replace the Olympic Games when the areas which had once been used had had to be paved over to make way for a growing human race- and the Olympic committee had to be dissolved due to lack of funding. The Game had eventually spread from just a four year game for potential Olympians to a game open for everyone. If you had the money to pay for simulator time, that is.
11A is one of three, perhaps the smallest of the three, so used by less, but those who use it tend to be religious worshippers of The Game.
Above every simulator room is a small square room, in which all manner of technology is kept, and the technicians stay to oversee the machines progress as people use it.
It is in this room, early morning, that we find Miss Shannon Mole, who is currently sat at one of the computer terminals, her uniform knee-length white skirt crinkling around her legs, bleeding seamlessly into her white plastic blend t-shirt, emblazoned with The Agency logo.
She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and pushes her glasses up her nose as she finishes the program she was updating. Her eyes flicker nervously down to her watch for the twenty-third time in the last five minutes and she bites her lip.
Twenty minutes until the doors open. She bites hard on her lip. She only has one chance at this, one shot at getting this right, and snagging her target, capturing her attention for long enough to get her to do what they need her to do.
She twists a strand of hair nervously. Natalie needs her to do this. Hell, she needs to do this. Natalie promised to put a good word in with her boss if she can get the deal, then she can be out of this hellhole of a simulations centre within the month, into somewhere with less grime and dust, somewhere where what she does will actually be appreciated.
And it all rests on the success of ensnaring the attention of one Mara-Louise Knight, one of the most prolific runners in this building -perhaps in the entire of the city- a girl who has never paid much attention to any technician except for her best friend, Liam Salvador, if you can call him a technician that is.
She huffs. An ‘honorary technician’ they named him. What an embarrassing title to have. Not good enough to be the real thing. Caught in limbo.
She sighs. The girl is a mystery; a lean and fit shadow that dances the corridors of the simulator hall to the latest hours, capturing the attention of everyone, but never returning their interest, happy to remain in her bubble of pure concentration, of pure passion for what she does.
And passion it is. Shannon has seen many people pass through these halls, but none have the power and precision of Mara. None have been gifted with the natural grace, the flexibility and power of the mind as well as body to guide her so quickly and aptly through every level, wiping their high scores right off the charts.
A girl like that doesn't need a girl like Shannon to tell her anything.
Shannon looks herself up and down and reminds herself why she needs this and how much she needs this. She can't give up; she hasn't even said two words to the girl yet, after all. So she brushes down her skirt, even though there was no dust there to begin with, and heads out of the room.
If she's going to do this, she at least needs a cup of coffee first.
Mara Knight streaks down the back alleys of the city in the morning sunlight, the dewy light glimmering off of her still water-damp hair, which bounces around her shoulders as she splashes through sodden puddles, carelessly allowing the water to splash up around her ankles, the cold slice a counterpoint to the hot slice of her blood pumping just below her skin as she runs.
She grinds to a half at the end of a street, right before a curve that will take her out of the back alleys and onto a narrow lane that they can walk down to reach The Agency building. She grins contentedly and leans against the wall, taking in deep breaths. She turns her head up to the sun and allows to watery morning light to shine down upon her.
There's a descending silence for a moment, which Mara enjoys, allowing the trickle of the wind to dance over her face, moving small tendrils of her hair to tickle her face in a way that really should be annoying, but somehow isn’t.
But the peace is shattered by the sound of hurried footsteps behind her, slashing through the same puddles as her, every splash accompanied by a curse.
Mara smirks a little and turns her head, opening her eyes to see the slightly damp figure of Whiz trampling towards her, his shirt on backwards and his hair ruffled. She chuckles and meets him halfway, smirking while he pants.
“You- You are going to kill me, Mara-Louise,” he says, in between harsh breaths.
Mara restrains a smile. “You didn't have to follow me, Whiz,” she tells him, ruffling his hair, which causes him to glare. “I would have waited for you.”
The man huffs out a breath, or she thinks he does; it's so in tune with the other gasping breaths it's almost indistinguishable.
“But the streets aren't safe in the morning!” he tells her, defensively, and she rolls her eyes.
“According to you, the streets are never safe,” she reminds him, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Which is because they aren't! God only knows what's lurking in the corners of these alleys! They hunt in the mornings, Mar, cause they don't think anyone's watching and- Mar, are you even listening to me rant?!”
By this point Mara is facing the opposite direction, watching the towering buildings on either side of her almost sway in the light.
“Wouldn't it be interesting to live somewhere you don't have to worry about being mugged?” she asks him, absently.
“A bloody miracle, more like,” comes the reply, his breath slowly evening out.
“Still,” she says, pretty much ignoring him, “it would be somewhere bright, where you could see someone coming a mile away; nothing but wide pastures for miles. But you would never be looking, because no one would want to hurt you, because everyone would be the same.” She hums to herself, pacing forwards almost without thinking. “It certainly would be... interesting.” she says, now more to herself than anyone else.
There's a pressure on her arm and she turns to look at Whiz, who's watching her with a raised eyebrow and a confused look in his eyes. “Are you okay, Mar?” he questions, cautiously.
She blinks at him, seemingly snapping out of whatever trance she was in when she last spoke. “Yeah, I'm fine. I was just thinking was all. It doesn't matter,” she replies, quickly and finally. “Now come on, let’s go! We wanna be there when it opens!” She looks him up and down. “if you can keep up that is!”
And before Whiz can even formulate a reply, she's off again at a hundred miles an hour. Any other person would probably fume at her for leaving them panting in the sodden back alley streets like that, but Whiz just sighs, bearing it with a sort of humble patience, and simply follows after her at his usual lolloping jog.
***
After a cup of coffee -okay, perhaps several cups of coffee, but who’s to judge?- Shannon decided that perhaps she can face the world today, and she’s feeling decidedly better about her impending meeting with Mara. With five minutes to go she heads back to her post, ready to talk to the girl before she starts doing anything too strenuous.
She hurries down the winding corridors, following the labyrinth of twisting and turning stretches of grubby chrome and faded metal towards room 11A. The minutes tick by and she picks up the pace, hurrying along, tugging up her skirt with threatens to slide down over her hips. She’s but a few meters away when the small metal device around her wrist beeps repeatedly.
She groans loudly into the echoing silence of the corridor and grinds to a halt by the nearest simulator room. She leans against the metal wall and lifts her wrist to her mouth, the offending item wrapped tightly around her wrist with a thin band of black, set into the skin itself, which emits a very faint buzzing sound between the loud, obtrusive beeps.
“Okay, okay,” she mutters at it, swiping her thumb across the surface of the shiny material, pressing and holding it against the centre of the band until the beeping stops.
Shannon coughs and straightens up. “This is Mole speaking.”
There’s a faint buzz before the voice emanates from the band, clean sand crisp. “Mole, we need you in room 62L; there’s been a fluid leak.”
Shannon can’t help the groan that escapes. “Again? Isn’t there anyone to deal with it?” She flicks down to her watch on the other wrist. Two minutes to go. “I’m on a tight schedule, and the L-Block is on the other side of the site...”
“Well then your schedule will have to wait, Mole,” the voice snaps at her and Shannon tries not to flinch. “You’re qualified, so you’re on the job.” Shannon slumps against the wall, resigned to her now obvious fate.
“Fine. But I can’t be too long.” she looks longingly towards room 11A.
“You’ll be as long as it takes.”
The communication cuts off and Shannon sighs, turning on her heel and promptly hurrying back the way she came.
Next Chapter>>
.
Chapter 8.
Room 11A.
Simulation room 11A is situated on the west side of the Agency building, in the Marathon and Cardiac Vascular wing, for anyone interested in the geography of the building. It's kept mostly for running simulations, from training programmes to improve fitness, to video games, which are pretty good at fitness training themselves, not that the sulky teenagers want you to know that.
There are hundreds of these games, ranging from adventure and action to puzzles, but there’s one that has been played in 11A so many times the stats are unimaginable. The Game, as it’s known to all who play it, is a game many potential runners compete in. It was created as one of the many sports programs to replace the Olympic Games when the areas which had once been used had had to be paved over to make way for a growing human race- and the Olympic committee had to be dissolved due to lack of funding. The Game had eventually spread from just a four year game for potential Olympians to a game open for everyone. If you had the money to pay for simulator time, that is.
11A is one of three, perhaps the smallest of the three, so used by less, but those who use it tend to be religious worshippers of The Game.
Above every simulator room is a small square room, in which all manner of technology is kept, and the technicians stay to oversee the machines progress as people use it.
It is in this room, early morning, that we find Miss Shannon Mole, who is currently sat at one of the computer terminals, her uniform knee-length white skirt crinkling around her legs, bleeding seamlessly into her white plastic blend t-shirt, emblazoned with The Agency logo.
She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and pushes her glasses up her nose as she finishes the program she was updating. Her eyes flicker nervously down to her watch for the twenty-third time in the last five minutes and she bites her lip.
Twenty minutes until the doors open. She bites hard on her lip. She only has one chance at this, one shot at getting this right, and snagging her target, capturing her attention for long enough to get her to do what they need her to do.
She twists a strand of hair nervously. Natalie needs her to do this. Hell, she needs to do this. Natalie promised to put a good word in with her boss if she can get the deal, then she can be out of this hellhole of a simulations centre within the month, into somewhere with less grime and dust, somewhere where what she does will actually be appreciated.
And it all rests on the success of ensnaring the attention of one Mara-Louise Knight, one of the most prolific runners in this building -perhaps in the entire of the city- a girl who has never paid much attention to any technician except for her best friend, Liam Salvador, if you can call him a technician that is.
She huffs. An ‘honorary technician’ they named him. What an embarrassing title to have. Not good enough to be the real thing. Caught in limbo.
She sighs. The girl is a mystery; a lean and fit shadow that dances the corridors of the simulator hall to the latest hours, capturing the attention of everyone, but never returning their interest, happy to remain in her bubble of pure concentration, of pure passion for what she does.
And passion it is. Shannon has seen many people pass through these halls, but none have the power and precision of Mara. None have been gifted with the natural grace, the flexibility and power of the mind as well as body to guide her so quickly and aptly through every level, wiping their high scores right off the charts.
A girl like that doesn't need a girl like Shannon to tell her anything.
Shannon looks herself up and down and reminds herself why she needs this and how much she needs this. She can't give up; she hasn't even said two words to the girl yet, after all. So she brushes down her skirt, even though there was no dust there to begin with, and heads out of the room.
If she's going to do this, she at least needs a cup of coffee first.
Mara Knight streaks down the back alleys of the city in the morning sunlight, the dewy light glimmering off of her still water-damp hair, which bounces around her shoulders as she splashes through sodden puddles, carelessly allowing the water to splash up around her ankles, the cold slice a counterpoint to the hot slice of her blood pumping just below her skin as she runs.
She grinds to a half at the end of a street, right before a curve that will take her out of the back alleys and onto a narrow lane that they can walk down to reach The Agency building. She grins contentedly and leans against the wall, taking in deep breaths. She turns her head up to the sun and allows to watery morning light to shine down upon her.
There's a descending silence for a moment, which Mara enjoys, allowing the trickle of the wind to dance over her face, moving small tendrils of her hair to tickle her face in a way that really should be annoying, but somehow isn’t.
But the peace is shattered by the sound of hurried footsteps behind her, slashing through the same puddles as her, every splash accompanied by a curse.
Mara smirks a little and turns her head, opening her eyes to see the slightly damp figure of Whiz trampling towards her, his shirt on backwards and his hair ruffled. She chuckles and meets him halfway, smirking while he pants.
“You- You are going to kill me, Mara-Louise,” he says, in between harsh breaths.
Mara restrains a smile. “You didn't have to follow me, Whiz,” she tells him, ruffling his hair, which causes him to glare. “I would have waited for you.”
The man huffs out a breath, or she thinks he does; it's so in tune with the other gasping breaths it's almost indistinguishable.
“But the streets aren't safe in the morning!” he tells her, defensively, and she rolls her eyes.
“According to you, the streets are never safe,” she reminds him, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Which is because they aren't! God only knows what's lurking in the corners of these alleys! They hunt in the mornings, Mar, cause they don't think anyone's watching and- Mar, are you even listening to me rant?!”
By this point Mara is facing the opposite direction, watching the towering buildings on either side of her almost sway in the light.
“Wouldn't it be interesting to live somewhere you don't have to worry about being mugged?” she asks him, absently.
“A bloody miracle, more like,” comes the reply, his breath slowly evening out.
“Still,” she says, pretty much ignoring him, “it would be somewhere bright, where you could see someone coming a mile away; nothing but wide pastures for miles. But you would never be looking, because no one would want to hurt you, because everyone would be the same.” She hums to herself, pacing forwards almost without thinking. “It certainly would be... interesting.” she says, now more to herself than anyone else.
There's a pressure on her arm and she turns to look at Whiz, who's watching her with a raised eyebrow and a confused look in his eyes. “Are you okay, Mar?” he questions, cautiously.
She blinks at him, seemingly snapping out of whatever trance she was in when she last spoke. “Yeah, I'm fine. I was just thinking was all. It doesn't matter,” she replies, quickly and finally. “Now come on, let’s go! We wanna be there when it opens!” She looks him up and down. “if you can keep up that is!”
And before Whiz can even formulate a reply, she's off again at a hundred miles an hour. Any other person would probably fume at her for leaving them panting in the sodden back alley streets like that, but Whiz just sighs, bearing it with a sort of humble patience, and simply follows after her at his usual lolloping jog.
***
After a cup of coffee -okay, perhaps several cups of coffee, but who’s to judge?- Shannon decided that perhaps she can face the world today, and she’s feeling decidedly better about her impending meeting with Mara. With five minutes to go she heads back to her post, ready to talk to the girl before she starts doing anything too strenuous.
She hurries down the winding corridors, following the labyrinth of twisting and turning stretches of grubby chrome and faded metal towards room 11A. The minutes tick by and she picks up the pace, hurrying along, tugging up her skirt with threatens to slide down over her hips. She’s but a few meters away when the small metal device around her wrist beeps repeatedly.
She groans loudly into the echoing silence of the corridor and grinds to a halt by the nearest simulator room. She leans against the metal wall and lifts her wrist to her mouth, the offending item wrapped tightly around her wrist with a thin band of black, set into the skin itself, which emits a very faint buzzing sound between the loud, obtrusive beeps.
“Okay, okay,” she mutters at it, swiping her thumb across the surface of the shiny material, pressing and holding it against the centre of the band until the beeping stops.
Shannon coughs and straightens up. “This is Mole speaking.”
There’s a faint buzz before the voice emanates from the band, clean sand crisp. “Mole, we need you in room 62L; there’s been a fluid leak.”
Shannon can’t help the groan that escapes. “Again? Isn’t there anyone to deal with it?” She flicks down to her watch on the other wrist. Two minutes to go. “I’m on a tight schedule, and the L-Block is on the other side of the site...”
“Well then your schedule will have to wait, Mole,” the voice snaps at her and Shannon tries not to flinch. “You’re qualified, so you’re on the job.” Shannon slumps against the wall, resigned to her now obvious fate.
“Fine. But I can’t be too long.” she looks longingly towards room 11A.
“You’ll be as long as it takes.”
The communication cuts off and Shannon sighs, turning on her heel and promptly hurrying back the way she came.
Next Chapter>>