Dis*, Dis*position Options

[JavaLamp]

In a small corner of a Bishop Industries' Neural Graft Research and Development compound:
January 4th, 2060, 11pm

Through unlit white halls a single corner office remains lit, dampened even a slight bit from the heaviest smells of the antiseptic-drenched building. A pair of voices fight through the door, down the hall, into the reception areas and all through the open doors with the practiced efficiency of a dance.

“And yet you still claim some sort of trending here? A third of these results claim you're wrong, A full third!”
“We see the same sort of harmonic results in type-D5 weave, TN2s and 3s, and M1 leaf between revisions e and g3-”
“False reasoning, you're picking only supporting tests. If there's some sort of harmonic to this, TN4, D5 leafing and composite-”

'Professor' Laruss and Director Smitt were at it like normal. Rusty was keeping busy by keeping other people busy, his high, flutey voice barely a counterpoint to the argument across the room. It did pierce when he wanted it to, that being anytime he wanted to act like a superior in case someone was watching, but now was not particularly one of those times. For their parts, Koda was stroking his pepper beard, paying attention to the rising tones across the room and putting away data chips, Joe looking like a deer in the headlights of Rusty's train of 'correction' and Krista, her eyes were flicking back and forth, ignoring everyone else and doing, presumably work.

See, that's where you came in... Sent out to retrieve parts from TS-B/7/29/59, though why they wanted a half-year-old prototype was any guess but it didn't seem like you were going to get any answers now.

The calloused hand felt like sandpaper cleanly wrapped the way around your neck, you're pretty sure you're developing some bruises on your neck and back from the troll lifting you up and putting you halfway into the drywall, but the gun barrel drilling into your temple is helping you forget them a little.

For that one final moment of normality, a picture of your life was framed by that door.. or at least what was becoming of it.

Two Orks run in and spray bullets into the ceiling, it never quiets down, but everyone shuts up as you're taken in.

“Kane Laruss'mIrite?” The troll roughs out from behind you “Yer comin' with us, rest a ya's too, s'longas ya dun make t'much ofa fuss. Anybuddy makes-”

Rusty's horrified expression turns vile and one of the orks turns a vicious looking SMG on him, all decorated with feathers and bits of hair. Blood blossoms from his chest and neck and your ears are ringing.

“Or dat” The troll finishes.