Hm. +Cali Lewis
asks "what would I do with one of these things if I had one?"
You asked for it, Cali. XD
+ + +
The musty smell of age-old cigarette butts permeating the walls of the no-star motel room mingled with the dull aftertaste of blood and Jack Daniels' as he awakened. Though familiar to him, the combination of the pair always seemed to make him want to vomit, lay down and expire already. Just as always, he barely resisted the urge and gamely fought to gain full consciousness.
The man struggled to a sitting position, wincing as he remembered the stab wound he received last night. The encounter replayed involuntarily in his head - the loss, the chaos that ensued, the director of marketing coming after him with the letter opener that caused the new scar he was about to receive. The sharp, searing pain made him feel like an animal momentarily; wounded and confused, ready to destroy all he saw in a fit of terrified rage. What happened to the files?!
The thought still paralyzed him with ignorance. He did everything he was supposed to do. He couldn't control The Cloud. If The Cloud ate the TPS reports, then it was The Will of The Cloud. They were all at its divine mercy.
The last made the wounded junior executive chuckle mirthlessly, the motion causing a new wave of pain to wrack his body and jolt him back to the reality of his situation. He had to find a better way to protect the TPS reports, to protect the sales projections and blueprints and projects and even that all-important stash of porn the IT department let him keep hidden on the servers...
A sharp knock at the door snapped the man's attention into focus. A shadow, then another under the door, placing a small package. He quickly, quietly got off the bed and moved to the wall, bracing himself against it as he hid behind the dresser, his breathing silent, almost nonexistent as he waited.
The figures left. The small package, however, could be seen under the door.
An eternity passed. Then another. A third for good measure. Then the man crept toward the door, fully expecting to be hurtled backwards by an explosion or assaulted by a drunken Lindsay-Lohan-In-The-Box - the preferred "layoff" technique of the feared Human Resources division within his company. Remaining intact as he gingerly gripped the doorknob, he steeled himself and turned it.
So far, so good. The box didn't explode in a sea of fire or inebriated, washed-up child actresses. A card depicting a stylized blue logo of a bespectacled, square-faced geek wearing headphones, eyebrow permanently raised as if to eternally quiz what it saw, stared up at him from the top of the box.
For once in the man's life, he felt a glimmer of hope. They had heard him. They had sent... The Transporter.
+ + +
And there you go!