Literally, Orange

The Year: 2259

Location: Temple of Science Fiction

The Abductions and Outbreaks Quadrant

Sid was adept at his job. It was not a hard one. As a member of the Temple's custodial staff, his primary task was sweeping the lengthy hallway of the A and O Quadrant. The rooms were to be left alone, they didn't even trust him with a key to any of the multitude of locked doors. Not that he wanted one after listening to muffled screams and gun fire day in and day out. A and O was a rather violent section, he usually worked with his sound node on, listening to the screeching vintage classics of 20th century British Punk Rock. He was quite fond of the music, though he had the unfortunate habit of randomly erupting into a rousing session of broom guitar.

A session which the Quadrant's head Ambassador stumbled upon during his rounds.

"Recruit, about face!"

Sid dropped his broom, frantically flickering at his sound node as he turned to the irate Ambassador, eyeballing the filled in W, outlined in blue, tattooed on the man's forehead. Embarrassment burned the back of his neck as he felt the scrutinizing glare of the ambassador appraise his own tattoo. Five years in temple service and Sid was still a mere 'Outliner'.

"Show me your profile plate!" The man snapped, holding out one chalk white hand. Pasty complexion, the sign of the upper crust, the big wigs that raked in the high counts, and never saw more than a few seconds of sunlight a month.

Cringing, Sid yanked on the chain round his neck, lifting a plate slightly bigger than his hand that contained all the important details of his existence. He handed it over to the Ambassador, bracing himself for the inevitable chuckle and demeaning appraisal.

Idiot, he should have known better than to start dancing around like a fool this time of night. Anyone passing by wouldn't have given him a second glance if he wasn't fondling his broom like a drunken lead guitarist.

"Hmmm, ah yes," the Ambassador squinted at the minuscule lettering. "User number 42385854..." He continued to rattle off a lengthy string of numbers. "Says here you have over 30 P.W.'s" He raised a brow, swiping a bony index finger across the plate. It whirred softly, slowly displaying the accumulation of Sid's life work. He winced at the whirring, he needed to bring the damn thing in for maintenance and a solid clean out.

The Ambassador made another show of squinting at the screen, before he gave a ragged sigh and slid a pair of thick goggles down from the top of his head to perch comically on his nose. The man must be blind as a naked mole rat.

"Ah, yes, here we are. Several single parts of thrash poetry, a few poorly updated attempts at extraterrestrial abductions. Goodness, these haven't been tinkered with in months. Barely a dozen views between them." His head snapped up. "Improper use of 'your' directly in the blurbs." He clucked his tongue as if Sid committed a hate crime rather than a mere misdemeanor. Still, he kicked himself, a grammar crime meant a night in the penalty box, editing boy band fan fiction. He shuddered, trying to come up with a pitiful story to soften the Ambassador's heart to him.

"My mum's been sick, sir, I've been pulling double shifts to keep her feed live." Sid dropped his head, praying his superior bought it.

"Well, see that you clean up that language, boy, or it's the box for you." The man's disdain was clear as he fished a massive ring of keys from the depths of his sky blue robes. "Now, if you would excuse me." He turned his back to Sid, flipping through keys outside one of the dozens of black doors. Not wanting to arouse another lecture or be punished, Sid resumed sweeping, glancing at the muttering Ambassador out of the corner of his eye. A few muffled laser blasts emitted from behind the thick door.

What could he possibly want from there? Sweep, sweep, sweep. It had to be one of the most violent entries in the quadrant.

"Ah ha," mumbled the Ambassador, at last selecting a key identical to the six dozen on the ring. Despite its identical appearance, it seemed to be the right one, unlocking the door with a click. Sid found himself unconsciously shuffling to the left.

"There we are," said the Ambassador, opening the door outward.

A flash of neon blue light flared outward. The man's head vanished in a fine red mist, his body still vertical holding the door propped open as an unholy roar poured into the hall.

Sid dropped his broom for the second time that day.

The Ambassador's body began to fall forward where it would wedge the door wide open. This was not in Sid's best interests as another roar vibrated the walls. A second flare of blue light flashed through, leaving a long burned gash in the opposite wall. Fantastic, now he'd have to paint tonight as well.

Snagging the headless corpse by the back of his blue robes, Sid heaved him out of the doorway, getting a glimpse inside. The sight made his intestines quiver. His bladder clenched, threatening to dribble in his trousers. He slammed the door shut before that thing got any closer.

"Don't think about it too hard, boyo," he told himself, ignoring the desperation in his voice. He glanced down to the far more pleasant sight of the headless body, wondering what the hell he would do now, other than get a mop. An accident report seemed a bit callous but the man was already dead.

Sighing, he yanked his profile plate up, impatiently tapping at it to pull up the message center to headquarters. Tap, tap, tap. He submitted his report, short, concise, to the point, and no visible grammatical offenses.

There was a problem posting your report.

The message flashed at him. His brow scrunched up as he repeated the effort, until the W tattoo was little more than a squiggle of frustration. After nine attempts, grinding his teeth, he pulled up the profile of his cousin, attempting to send a personal message. The man had a far cushier job in the Steampunk quadrant.

Verne2490: What is it Sid?

ViciousSid86: Ah yes, I seem to have a situation and the reports are borked again. Any advice for getting rid of a body?

Verne2490:....Your joking right?

ViciousSid86: That's an improper use of 'your'

Verne2490: RIGHT?

ViciousSid86: No, I am in a pickle cuz. One of the blue robes opened a door in my quadrant and is now quite dead. The report won't go through. I don't want someone to stumble on the two of us.

Verne2490: Are you sure he isn't just unconscious?

Sid glanced down at the headless corpse quietly oozing on his normally pristine floor.

ViciousSid86: Yeah, I don't think he's sleeping this one off.

There was a long pause before his cousin responded, making him sweat.

Verne2490: I'll be there in five minutes.

There was little more Sid could do other than put some distance between himself and the body. If anyone stumbled upon them before his cousin arrived, he planned to feign surprise.

Footsteps squeaked and thudded up the hall in a mad dash. He tensed, relief singing through his veins as Verne skidded around the corner, his jaw dropping at the sight of the Ambassador.

"Holy Tesla, what the hell happened?"

"Nice to see you, too," Sid jerked his chin in the direction of the murderous room. "He opened that one. Not for two seconds before his melon got blasted clean off."

Verne frowned. "What the hell would he want in there? It's the deadliest entry in this quadrant."

"I know, right!"

His cousin pulled his own profile plate up, tapping the screen. Sid leaned on his broom watching him, not all that surprised when he dropped it with a few colorful swears. "They must be doing another round of maintenance."

Sid pursed his lips. "Sure they are. Meanwhile, what the hell are we supposed to do with this guy?" He nudged the Ambassador with a toe, realizing he didn't even know the man's name. Gingerly, he squatted down beside the body, trying to find the profile plate chain without actually touching him.

"What are you doing?" His cousin snapped. "Are you trying to get yourself arrested? Or worse, banned?"

"Oh, don't get your suspenders in a twist, I'm looking for his I.D." Odd, the man had the massive ring of keys on him, but no profile? Did all the blue robes know each other on sight? There were thousands of them, despite all the modern upgrades and brain enhancements, no one's memory was that good. "Where the hell is it?" Sid was seconds from stripping the body when his cousin seized him by the shoulders.

"Come on, it's only a matter of time before another one wanders on down here." He started tugging Sid away from the scene, puzzled when he met resistance.

"I can't just leave my shift. They'll know I was here." Sid eyed the ring of keys. "We should dump the body."

"Are you out of your ever-loving mind?" Verne's shout echoed through the suddenly silent hall, as if the myriad of creatures behind the closed doors held their collective breath.

"This A and O, we have lasers, flesh eating plagues, ravenous undead, and questionable goo that dissolves anything it touches. This is the perfect place to vanish a corpse," Sid insisted, scooping up the key ring. He looked for any discerning markers to separate them, seeing the minute numbers etched on each handle. His cousin sputtered behind him, trying to come up with a counter argument. With the report system down, any authority figures bumping into them would mean Sid was well and truly boned. His punishment would make the penalty box look like a fevered wet dream.

"Fine," Verne grumbled, "which one should we stash him in."

"Let's try this one."

An hour later, Verne and Sid sat panting outside the last door they opened. Both men sported a variety of burns, scratches, cuts, and Verne sported a gangrenous looking bite mark on his left shoulder. They'd opened over a dozen doors, seen enough nightmare fodder to interrupt their sleep for weeks, and the body of the Ambassador continued to keep them company.

"You should get that looked at," said Sid, pointing to the bite.

"Oh shut up." Verne pushed himself to his feet, kicking the corpse for good measure.

"Oi!"

Both of their heads snapped up at the shout. A second blue robe gaped at them, his wide eyed gaze darting between them and the body.

"Oh sh-"

"Halt, by Order of the Watt!" The newcomer shouted, lifting his profile plate to push a small red button on the side. The normally low lighting of the hall flared, spotlights falling on Sid, Verne, and the deceased Ambassador. The two men clung to each other in full out panic as a combination of blue robes and figures in bright orange suits with white pinstripes poured into the hall, surrounding them. The suits each had a screen implanted in their forearms for immediate access to the mainframe, their eyes long ago replaced by computerized screens suited for their line of work. Sid watched them take in the scene, his body paralyzed by fear. Not just Ambassadors, they were surrounded by Admins.

"I'm sorry I pulled you into this," he whispered. Verne was too shell shocked to answer.

One of the Admins stepped forward. "What happened here, gentlemen?"

They were doomed. Sid refused to let his cousin take the fall for coming to his aid. He gently pried Verne's hands off his biceps, turning to face his superior, even if it was a bit difficult to look in those freaky eyes of his.

"Well you see," he said, picking up his broom. "It happened like this..."

By the end of his story, he was surrounded by a circle of stunned people, their tattooed W's scrunched up in a series of squiggles that would be comical if his life didn't hang in the balance. These were the people who could make his existence vanish in the blink of an eye, if they were so inclined. He finished, sweat now soaking his backside in a highly unpleasant manner.

The Admins glanced between each other and the body, clearly at a loss with how to proceed.

"We need to call the Big Guy," one of them finally piped up in an oddly subdued tone. There was a collective cringe between the suits.

"You know how he hates to be dragged out of the Pub this time of night," said another, "maybe we should just erase this idiot and be done with it."

Sid felt a trickle of urine escape down his pant leg.

Another Admin groaned. "That is far too much bloody paperwork, for him and us. Call him, this thing is already starting to stink." He gave Verne a speculative eye. "And maybe call a medic for this one. I think that bite's a bit infected."

"Oh gods, not another literary plague. It took us weeks to clean up the last one. Quarantine that bugger."

A pair of the blue robes hauled Verne away by the tips of his elbows, none of them looking too thrilled to touch him. He looked back at Sid, wild eyed and scared.

"Avenge me!" He squeaked, disappearing around the corner.

That left Sid alone with the cluster of his superiors. The lot of them shuffled about awkwardly, tidbits of idle conversation sparking and dying before one of them finally coughed.

"Here he comes, folks. Look lively."

As opposed to the corpse on the floor? Sid kept the thought to himself, immediately forgetting it as a damn legend knuckled into view.

There were whispered rumors he'd existed in the first days of the great W, before the rise of the Empire, before the genre temples, brain function downloads, and the unbreakable laws of grammar. He'd lived in a time before the true digital age, an ancient profile being their only guide when a new form was created to host his higher brain functions. However, unlike the simian inspiration of his form, the modern version of the Big Guy, like the W tattooed across his rather hairy chest, was bright orange.

Literally, Orange.

Coupled with the wisdom of ages in his eyes, the effect was settling.

Approaching the headless Ambassador on all fours, the Big Guy took in the grisly scene with a barely audible 'Ook', shaking his shaggy head in disgust. He glared at the group of nervous Admins.

"This is why I was dragged away from Trivia night?"

Sid blinked in surprise at the cultured voice, which still somehow fit the vessel it emerged from. The Admins proceeded to bob their heads in apology, all speaking at once. He silenced them with a wave of one hairy arm.

"Enough. You," he pointed to Sid, "explain what happened here."

Startled by the order, Sid did just that, performing the whole story from the first air guitar riff to the last open door fiasco. The Big Guy nodded sagely throughout the story, scratching his chin.

"I see. No profile plate you say?"

"No sir," yelped Sid, producing the ring of keys. "All he had on him were these."

A light of understanding flared in those deep-set brown eyes. The Big Guy plucked the key ring from Sid's unresisting hands.

Uncertain what would happen next, Sid clung to his broom, waiting for his sentence to be handed out.

"Why don't you cut your shift short tonight, ViciousSid86?"

He dropped the damn broom for the third time that night.

"Sir?" He stammered.

The Big Guy looked at him, the wrinkles doubling on his forehead. "Oh, you're free to go, lad." He lifted a hand to stifle the whining protests of the others. "However in the future, if you have trouble filing a report, try changing the format a bit before you call cousin Verne. Now, off you get."

Sid didn't need more encouragement, sprinting away with the songs of angels echoing in his ears. He'd never complain about his job again.

The Admins turned on the Big Guy with shuttered 'what gives' expressions, none of them quite willing to voice the question. He rolled his eyes.

"Oh for the love of--guys, it was Gerald. He was dismissed from his position this morning due to a massive conduct violation." The Big Guy turned to go.

"Wh-what violation sir?" One of the Admins piped up, quickly ducking back into the group to avoid being singled out.

"What else, another fucking rant book," said the Big Guy, "now if you will excuse me, there is a bowl of peanuts and a pint waiting for me. And get someone in here to clean up this mess." He tossed the ring of keys to the closest Admin, rapidly knuckling out of sight.

The group looked at one another.

"Should...should we call the janitor back in?"

The Admin pondered the ring of keys in his hands. "We could always try one of the doors."

The End