Old GE Plant - Warehouse
During it's tenure as a legitimate industrial facility, natural light would flood the workshop floor -- some thirty feet beneath the peaked roof -- by means of louvered skylights. In the transition into a gomi shrine, these have been long since sealed away beneath plaster and black paint: webbed over with extension cords and network cable. The sole artifact of the original facility -- an enormous iron cargo hook, suspended by an equally cyclopean length of chain -- supports the loft's dim noveau sun[1]: a sphere of gutted television screens some five feet in diameter.
Where oiled machines once crouched, muttering and grinding implacably along, new beings[2] now congregate in silent communion: gathered in dimly illuminated corners, their faces turned upwards to the flickering solaris. Mickey Mouse -- or, at least, a plastic facimile thereof -- is here, human-sized and cheerfully vacant eyed. Ronald McDonald[3] sits on a wooden bench, his injection-molded face fixed in it's familiar, eternal grin. They number in the dozens; the fading icons of commercial success.
Twin rust-colored cargo containers stained with graffiti[4] scrawl flank the loft's dominant space -- the wide expanse of open lucite[5] floor -- in a broad 'V'. Fat bundles of zip-tied cables pipe electricity and data down to and up from the consoles which dominate a raised platform atop each container: the left bearing slimline turntables and mixer, the right a complex array of patchwork electronics and monitors.
[Footnoted +views]
Contents:
Harrison
Obvious exits:
Fire Door
Harrison is standing by the entrance to the hallway. He spins around at the sound of the door opening.
***
Harrison:
The fourty-something man before you is a striking figure indeed. He stands about 6' tall, with a fit, barrel chested form. It is clear that this man is in very good shape for his age. His eyes are a deep chocolate brown, and he sports a neatly trimmed beard and moustache that matches his short 'salt and pepper' color hair.
His clothing is a bit odd, perhaps he's an entertainer or a hotel waiter. He's wearing black trousers, black dress shoes, a fitted violet waistcoat and a deep red cravat. The sleeves of his Victorian collared amd starched white shirt are rolled up exposing his muscular forearms. A diamond stickpin holds his cravat in place, and the chain of a gold pocketwatch dangles from his waistcoat pocket.
When he speaks, you detect an upper crust British accent. It's clear that he's 'not from around here' as he seems slightly unfamilliar with routine American customs.
***
The door doesn't open immediately. Before anyone else arrives, there is the sound of a luxury sedan -- glimmers of it are seen through the dirty windows and gaps in the walls -- rolling past the gate, winding around behind the building, and coming to a halt. The vehicle shuts off, and a man in a suit gets out. The driver's side door closes; the trunk is popped. The man takes something large and heavy-looking out of the trunk, then slams the trunk shut. The large object rolls unsteadily behind him while he walks towards the factory, the familiar *blip blip* of the car alarm arming a second later.
The man in the suit opens the fire door. He is smoking a cigarette and looks moderately aggreviated about something. The case behind him is one of those matte black metal operations that, in movies, usually contain nuclear weapons or other unpleasant things. When it hits the concrete, it makes a scraping sound as the wheels dig into the flatter ground and even the case's travel out.
He doesn't even look up as he trundles forward through the center of the factory floor, ash flicking off his cigarette behind him.
"You," he directs to Harrison, flatly. "You're trespassing. Beat it."
Harrison arches an eyebrow at the well dressed man as he slips a handheld device of some sort into his waistcoat. In a cultured British accent he replies, "Really? I was led to believe that I was welcome here. Though current experience seems to indicate otherwise."
The man wheels the case into the center of the room, orienting it up on its side using the handle. He smacks the handle against the ground, driving it into two conveniently available holes to keep it moored in place.
Keene takes the cigarette out of his mouth, ashes it, and looks over intently at Harrison for a few moments. He squints, takes another puff from his cigarette, and looks at something that isn't there behind Harrison before speaking again.
"Who invited you?" he asks. "What is your authorization here?"
Harrison says, "As I mentioned to your.....er....collegues..." He stumbles a bit, trying to find the right word to express his thought. "My name is Lord Harrison Wells. Of the Electrodyne Engineers. Does that answer your question, Sir?"
The annoyance fades from Keene's features slowly. Either the nicotine is starting to kick in, or he has some reason to expect visitors. He takes another few puffs from his cigarette, getting within polite conversational distance of Harrison.
"It answers one of them," he says. Keene reaches into his jacket, producing a pack of cigarettes. Tapping on the pack, he offers one of the cigarettes -- it's a pack of Merits -- to Harrison.
"You'll have to excuse my rudeness earlier. We're all a little jumpy from the circumstances that brought us here. My name is Steve. I'm promotions and public relations for the group."
Harrison extends his right hand in greeting, waving off the offer of the cigarette with his left hand. "No thank you Mr. Steve. And I do not know of the circumstances that brought you here, but I take it they were somewhat less than pleasant."
Keene fluidly returns the pack of cigarettes to his breast pocket while giving Harrison a proper, firm handshake. "I won't go into the gory details. Suffice it to say, we have become wary of unexpected visitors, especially when we haven't gotten to know the other people in our community yet. It is fortunate that nothing untoward has happened to you -- it's lucky I got here when I did. If you had set off any of the alarms ... well, those things are entirely automated, as are the countermeasures."
Keene ashes his cigarette to his side, with the wind, to knock the ashes away from the two of you. "So what brings you here, Lord Wells?"
WEATHER REPORT: The sleet begins to slow and then stops altogether, though the dark clouds still remain overhead.
Harrison chuckles, nodding in response to your comment about the alarms. "I suspected as much. I was in the process of calculating the likely location through the labyrinth you have set up here."
"I am here simply because I was hoping to meet a few like minded individuals. I too am new to Erin's Vale and I have yet to meet any associates."
That prompts a small, fleeting smile from Keene. "Yes. I imagine anyone in your position would be interested in locating comrades. I wish I could provide some assistance to you, but I have only just arrived in town this morning. I haven't even checked my e-mail yet."
He takes his cellphone out of his jacket, meddling with it for a while. Text messaging, it looks like. He paces as he does this, continuing to speak. "Tell me a little bit about yourself."
Harrison says, "Only arrived in town this morning? I do not mean to offend, but how do I know that you indeed are someone to be trusted? You have the advantage Sir and yet I have no assurance as to your intentions."
"May I remind you," Keene says, continuing to tap at his cellphone, "that on meeting me, you introduced yourself with your full title and affiliation without me so much as soliciting it. Now is not the time to be second-guessing yourself in terms of issuing trust."
He finishes tapping at his phone, hits send, and puts it in his jacket pocket while awaiting a reply. He looks back at Harrison. "Not to be rude, Lord Wells, but you are on our property demanding things of /me/. This is somewhat backward, wouldn't you say?"
Harrison nods. "Indeed. I simply extended the courtesy of an introduction. Evidently I will not be recieving one in return. If you wish me to leave, I will do so. If you wish to discuss matters of interest to both of us, I will also do so. What I will not do is subject myself to an interrogation when it should be obvious to you that I am who I say I am.
Keene reaches into his pocket when it vibrates, producing his phone. He looks at the readout, scrolling down through the message quickly before pocketing the phone again.
"No," Keene says, patiently, "nothing is obvious, Lord Wells. Since I don't have all of the information about who is who in this city, you could very easily be a disguised Technocrat, a robot duplicate, an intrusion clone of someone calling himself Lord Wells, or a hard-light hologram projected from an orbital platform that appears to be someone called Lord Wells. You could also be controlled by a vampire by some means, or otherwise not be entirely who you say to be."
He puffs on his cigarette, looking evenly at the foreign gentleman. "That I have not sounded the general alarm indicates that I have a small measure of trust in others. Said measure is all I have left after my experiences elsewhere in which several of my friends and colleagues were murdered without cause. Therefore, I would appreciate at least a small measure of patience from you? It is not as if I am asking you for anything more than a very basic statement about who you are and what you are interested in."
>> He had to leave, then.
