goddamngrenades | Voicemail 2.0

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voicemail

Voicemail 2.0

You have reached the voice mail system of Officer Taylor Murray.

When you are finished recording, just hang up or press pound for more options.

To request a locksmith or report a crime, press one.

To hear these options in Spanish, press dos.

To send a verbal confirmation of a written command, press three.

To send a written confirmation of a verbal command, press four.

For delivery options, press five.

To page this person, press six.

To locate your nearest operator, press seven.

To leave a call back number, press eight. 

To repeat this message, press nine.

Press zero for other options.

To mark this message as urgent, press eleven.

Thank you for calling, have a nice day.

BEEP

Threaded | Flat

He's not well. Well, he had a good run there, but it was only inevitable that he'd get sick again. Although the dry rash spots are new; hasn't seen that since flying into a very unfortunate part of space leaving dry cracks 'like old oil paintings' he'd heard... The itchy eyes make him think allergies, and lord, that would be terrible if they'd made a return.

It's worrying, but it certainly isn't keeping him in bed. Malcolm hates being inactive even when sick. Besides, lunch won't just make itself, and he's not about to have York go get something for him. Just whip something up, pop it in the oven...no big deal. He's still got an appetite. Even if it still isn't for meat.

The problem starts with the sticky oven door. He's been meaning to get that greased up and seen to since before heading down into the sewer, but, well, then the sewer happened. Damn thing doesn't want to open. And takes a good deal of tugging to wrench open.

When it persists on sticking, he lets out an exasperated sigh, thinks he should just go get a little oil, and--

--something else takes over, something mindless and aggressive and willing to take out such aggression on the first annoying thing it sees. The oven door? Gets a robotic leg through it. Sweeps an arm across the nearest counter, knocking spices, a container of to-be-baked goodness, a knife rack to the floor. Cabinets get ripped open, fragile plates and glasses grabbed and thrown. Whatever is inside him is angry, but at what, nobody could say. Stepping on the broken shards doesn't help any when it beats the toaster into submission, or when he goes a little nutty at the shiny fridge and the reflection in the chrome surface. Whatever it is is about to take a good swing at the fridge and start making their food situation pretty nasty when--

--grease that damn door up. ...Wait...what...just happened...?

I'm joining the mission to find the cure. We leave in the morning.

How is Malcolm doing? How are you doing?

hey is this the police

I have an emergency

[ They're still a few hours out when word is passed back that they're finally in reach of the outermost signal towers, the ones that still send and receive signals with the Dome.

Tired and achy as she is, Carolina hasn't been able to settle, to rest. So now is as good a time as any to see if she can send a message with news. ]

Objective complete. No casualties, some injuries. Homeward bound, should be back soon.

At Carolina's. Open invitation. We are drinking; you don't have to, but company provided whenever you can get off.

[ She spent the morning talking with Malcolm. Took an hour to think through what she wanted, what she needed to do. York was at work when she'd stopped by, but she didn't want to leave a message. This was something she needed to do in person. ]

Hey.

I need to talk to you. When's a good time?

York.

[there's a pause, filled with shuffling, with a faint mewf in the background, and a slow breath being taken.]

..Taylor. It's done. Delta thinks we've been successful in locating and isolating the trigger for whatever compliance was done to me. We'll be doing some follow-up checks, making sure it holds, but.. I just wanted to let you know.

Threaded | Flat

Day 222 - afternoon - action