Automaton #4

I prodded the quivering lumpen thing on the plate before me. It smelled yeasty, like a maidens thunderfist.

What's this?

I asked the good lady who, judging by the clattering and banging of plates seemed to be in a foul mood.

Porridge drawer.

I studied her with a gaze heavily laden with detectivity.

And what would that be exactly?

She scowled blackly at me.

Well, you switched the power off at the mains so that "they" can't watch us. Now I can't cook anything. So there you have it. Porridge drawer.

I poked at it distractedly. I fervently hoped that the drawers in question were not the ones that the good lady wore over her Wallaby pouch.

Hmm. I might give it a miss?

She gave me a cold look which made the dim candle-light flicker around me.

You will bloody eat it.

If the years of battle in the fighting pits had taught me anything, they had taught me to know when to fight and when to back down. I gouged a little of the flubbery stuff on the edge of my spoon and gave it a taste.

Gaaar.

It was fetid. Like that weird fish that Norwegian's bury for a few weeks then dig up and eat for Christmas.

However, I couldn't let the good lady know her dish was pish. I proceeded to make appreciative noises so convincing that one of my cats went into spontaneous heat and started curling around my leg wantonly.

The good lady stood over me, arms folded grimly, making sure I ate every last drop.

I battled through, each mouthful bringing back abominable flashbacks of a vegetarian wedding I attended some years ago. I had thought those memories dead and buried but the full horror of that evening meal were hard to wipe away.

Eventually the task was done. I pushed the empty bowl away and she made a clicking noise with her cheeks as if someone was tapping a tambourine with an undercooked courgette fritter.

Wiping away a manful tear I staggered to the door.

Time to get back on the case, the sooner I could crack this one and get the power back on the better for everyone it seemed.

I swung into my seat next to Mikey. He was eating a roll and bacon. My belly grumbled out loud like strawberries at the first sight of rain.

Whatcha got for me Mikey?

I asked over the appallingly loud rumbling of my stomach.

What's that noise? The drains fucked again?

He looked around questioningly.

I waved a hand around as if fending off an angry Albatross with seaweed in it's beak.

Never mind the drains Mikey, what you got for me?

Mikey was in a feisty mood. He curled a lip up contemptuously at me before answering.

What have I got for you? In what respect?

I shook my head. It looked like he wanted to dance. Surely he should have learned by now? I wheeled my chair at him, banging it off his like a berserk Dalek chasing a Doctor.

Listen, Mikey. You ever shat in a sock?

What?!

That's right, Mikey boy. That's what they make boys like you do in Prison, shit in a sock.

Mikey tried to wheel his chair away but one of its wheels was expertly caught in mine.

That's fucking disgusting, why would anyone do that? You're full of shit.

I screwed my face up as if being tickled by a Welshman.

Not as full of shit as your socks are gonna be. Now spill, Mikey. Who's the big giant guy that has been sitting at my chair?

Sitting at your chair? Is this Goldilocks?

I stared at him impassively, he was always susceptible to a good old hard eye-pounding was Mikey. True enough, he folded.

A big guy you say? Like massive fat? That would be the new guy, Julian. He's Dev-Ops, you know, for the Automation stuff?

Dev-Ops.

I stated grimly. This was worse than I feared, I had worked with some shadowy Black-Ops before, in my line of work you had to sup with a long spoon at times. I was no stranger to a spoon supping. Dev-Ops though? This sounded like a whole other level of shit.

Well well well, Mikey. Looks like your socks are safe for the moment. Where can I find these... Dev-Ops?

Mikey's face contorted with something akin to fear, as if I had put lead weights in his saddlebags prior to the two o'clock race.

The 8th floor.

He whispered faintly.

I nodded. The 8th floor, of course. It always came back to the 8th.

I stood and with a flourish of my long coat left him, his face a picture of confusion and fear.

I stood outside the door that had led to my old office on the 8th floor where not so long ago, the doomed time travel experimentation had led me to inhabit a pale shadow-like future in which nothing had been right.

At times like these I wondered, had I really made it back? Was all of this just a random offshoot of a dark multiverse? How would I know?

Perhaps I would know by the very same queer fortune that led me back here. A place of shadow and doubt. I stared at the sign which had been clumsily attached over the old lemniscate sign of project's past.

A riddle, it reminded me of the Sphinx and the terror of its reign in humanity's dark past. Well, dark past for some. I still woke up at night sometimes, cold sweat and erections haunting my sleep. Mostly, thankfully, my own.

I pushed open the door and stepped in. Suddenly, I was falling, the floor rushing up to meet me.

Everything went black...