Oberan seemed strangely disappointed as Natalia decided to not go ahead without him after all. It stood out, especially when contrasted with the angry surprise he’d shown when she refused to input the code he’d dictated, and had declared she’d move faster on her own. There’d been an eagerness flaring up too, eyes alight and excited underneath the anger, grinning on the inside. Now all that was gone, he’d slipped back into indifference. Almost seeming bored. He gave a shrug, grabbed both Mark and Hilda by the forearm, and trudged across the room.
Leaving the two of them by Natalia, Oberan drew yet another set of symbols on the panel. It clicked open, he took a small can out of it, which he uncapped, then shook for a few seconds. Crouching next to Natalia, he wiped away most of the blood –though more kept spilling from her arm—and sprayed the wound. A thick white foam bubbled where the liquid hit her skin, thickening to a few centimeters, covering the injury completely. Exposed to air, the foam’s surface hardened to a solid crust. A numbness spread through her damaged flesh, pain gradually dying out until it didn’t even throb. But she could still feel, an itch plaguing that part of her arm instead as her cells formed new tissue at a rapid pace.
Without a word Oberan placed the can back in the panel, closed it, and headed for the door, pushing Mark in front of him. “Let’s go.” He didn’t wait.
They traversed the remaining tunnels with Oberan leading the way, picking his path with confidence and no time for doubts. Perhaps he followed the growing din of the crowd, but unlike when he’d let Natalia guide them through, he needed no time at crossroads and split hallways to listen, immediately turning whatever direction they needed to go. There were no misses, no mistakes where they had to retrace their steps and take a different path after all. Even when it seemed they moved away from the audience, the noise diminishing, a couple of twists in the tunnel put them back on track after a little while.
A couple times they passed patrolling guards, but weren’t stopped. Some of them gave a curt nod at Nat and Oberan, which Oberan returned without fail. For the time being, it seemed the disguise held up fairly well. Perhaps the tangible aura of Mark’s misery help too, body language projecting his feelings of self-pity and defeated resignation to his fate into the mind of anyone who laid eyes on it.
Eventually, they reached a set of ornate double doors flanked by a pair of armed guards. They cast a brief glance at the two prisoners, bashed the butt of their spears hard on the floor.
“You’re late,” one said.
“Better hurry inside,” spoke the other, “the Gamemaster awaits with impatience.”
The two guards pushed open the doors to let them pass. Mark whimpered at the creaking hinges, starting to breathe faster. Oberan tightened his grip on his arm to make sure he didn’t try to run off, and forced him into the room.
There could not be a starker difference between this and the environment they’d navigated to get there. Up until now everything had been functional in its design. Bare walls of lifeless grey stone, floors and ceilings cut from the same. Doors simple and sturdy; thick slabs of wood held together and by bands of steel. Heavy, preventing unauthorized individuals from forcing them open. The tunnels were mostly empty, and –in absence of the ruckus created by the audience in the theater—silent. However, this room was the opposite.
Though fashioned from the same dull stone as the rest of the labyrinth, the walls here were covered with a beige wallpaper decorated with golden swirls. The chamber was divided in different sections, all crawling with many attendants. One with empty holding cells, the doors ajar. One had a the wall lined with mirrors, chairs in front of it as well as small tables on wheels. On top stood all sorts of bottles and containers of cosmetics. Another area was filled with steaming tubs and all sorts of cleaning products, heavy-duty brushes at the ready. The last consisted out of a desk with several tubes around it, running up to disappear into the ceiling. An overly stressed clerk held one in place against their ear with a shoulder, and spoke into another they held to their lips. With their free hand they reached for a cone-like instrument and barked an announcement through. “Ad break is done in twenty seconds! The prisoners are standing ready in the wings. Estimated time until we need to send up the next few is five minutes!”
“Five minutes! That’s not nearly enough time!” a rotund man in fancy garb exclaimed, curled mustache twitching in indignation. He waddled laps around all areas in quick succession, shouting instructions to the staff who stood idle, mostly telling them to clean up their workspaces if they didn’t have anything else to do, and to doublecheck if everything was ready for the next set of prisoners. “Most important thing is to get them looking clean. We can skip the maquillage if need be, depending. Maybe only conceal the ugliest blemishes. Don’t bother with tidying their hair, it’ll take too long. Where are those damn priso--”
He noticed Oberan and company then, rushing over instantly, his bulk jiggling back and forth under his shirt. “You’re late!” he snapped, wagging a finger. “Way too late! We’re in a real pickle right now, a real pickle! Where’ve you been? Who’re you? You’re not one of the escort teams I sent, are you?” He glanced over his shoulder and snapped his fingers. “Marci! My clipboard!”
Within moments a woman in a three-piece suit appeared at his side, thrusting the item in his hands. He browsed the papers clipped to the wood –timetables and checklists of all sorts of things—thick finger following the position of his gaze. “Ah, here we are. Two hours ago, Linda and Carl to go pick up a pair of prisoners from the dungeons. Special request for--” he squinted “--one fiery tempered booyah babe to make the audience go wild.” Casually he threw the clipboard aside, right into Marci’s waiting hands. Oberan was certain she’d not been standing there before.
“You don’t look like a Carl to me, not like a Carl at all,” the man spoke, frowning at Natalia. His gaze shifted to Oberan then. “And you’re certainly not a Linda. Who’re you? Are you one of the other teams I sent in the interim? Hm? Are you? Where's my clipboard? Marci!”
“Sorry mr. Gamemaster, sir,” Oberan said as Marci reappeared, handing over the clipboard. “I’m Gregorio Natalias, this is ehm--” he shot a frazzled look at Natalia, signaling with his eyes to come up with some alias. “Carl got dusted by the Grid, sir, Linda was putting him through the wringer and--”
“Three minutes!” the tube-clerk yelled.
“Three minutes?!” the Gamemaster echoed, waving his hands around his head. He pointed at Oberan. “You, stop talking. I don’t want to hear it, it’s not important! Not important!” He clapped his hands a couple times, waving over the personnel from the bathing area. “Get these two cleaned up, quick! Dunk them in the bath for a few seconds, get rid of the worst stains if there’s any, and make sure they’re dry! Make-up team, only the noticeable blemishes! Hair team, only a quick brushing if there’s still time! Chop chop, get to work! Hurry, hurry!”
But it was still very amusing to me. I enjoyed how Natalia took charge of the siutation with assertiveness, at least it worked to get their attention.