Begin playback
assignment timecode: 001/001/283
"Holy crap! It's not working! Run! Run!"
"Heel! Heel, goddammit!"
- playback interrupt -
From a shadowy corner near the dark room's ceiling, a speaker crackled to life. Static flared, then died away, leaving behind a low buzzing noise. A voice blared from the speaker. Seemingly distorted, the voice sounded like it came from a giant bee, somehow possessed of the skills and anatomy to speak English.
"Heel, Hubriz?" the voice asked. Even through the distortions and the very anthropomorphic beeness of the voice, the sarcasm was blatant. Painfully so.
Other than a slightly more pronounced hunching of his shoulders, Hubris Jameson didn't even bother to respond. Seated in a straight-backed wooden chair, Jameson was hunched over with his head down, arms dangling loose between his knees. An angry, red welt stood out prominently on his forehead. A bandage, stained brown with dried blood, wrapped around his right hand. An orange Hawaiian shirt, covered with amateurish drawings of topless women riding surfboards, hung loosely from his chest. Its pocket hung on by only a few threads. What looked to be claw marks ripped down the back of the shirt. Jameson's horrifyingly loud plaid pants were frayed at the bottoms, ripped at the knees and seemed to have suffered through travails plaid pants were never meant to see.
A bare light bulb hung from a wire above Jameson, the harsh light picking out creases and wrinkles in his face. Grudgingly, he spoke. He did so in a near monotone, without directly addressing the buzzing speaker.
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
A droning sound buzzed from the speaker. If a listener had been charitable, more than slightly drunk, and an expert in long-dead languages, the sound might - barely - have sounded somewhat like laughter. On a very good day. Or bad day, depending.
"Really. Let'z review a bit more, zhall we?"
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