A.N.: I'm no writer. This is probably not that good, but there needed to be Killing Floor fanfics. 8(
and a reason for me to goof off in psychology, hurr hurr
Prologue – Just an Average Day
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"That'll be 14 pounds for the trip, sir."
The suited businessman grunted a little in acknowledgement, digging his hand into his pocket to pull out his old, worn wallet. He counted off the colorful bills once before handing the correct amount to the taxi driver, stepping out of the car. He straightened his loose tie a little as the taxi drove off, shuffling lazily down the road.
He needed a drink.
After a long, hard day of pushing papers, dealing with irritable bastards over the phone, and getting yelled at by his pompous superiors, some relaxing was in order. The man stops in front of a bustling door, people constantly pushing by him to go inside, shoving past him to stagger out the door, drunk and laughing. He glanced lazily up at the sign above the door, though he already knew what it read; "The Source Below"
Before too many people can push him out of the way and down the road, he pulls open the door to head inside. The room was fairly dim, but lit well enough as so to not trip over various bits of furniture and people. Most of the lighting was surrounding little tables, the main bar, and of course the stage for musicians wanting to perform or brave (or drunk, for that matter) souls who wanted to try their hand at the public karaoke machine to be judged by everyone. A brief smile formed on the man's lips as he watched a young couple sing together up on the stage. Out of tune, he noted, but he supposed it didn't matter to them if they were already drunk enough to get up there. Noticing that he was beginning to irritate people attempting to wander into the bar by blocking the doorway, the man finally moved away towards the interior of the room, heading over to the main bar to pull up an empty stool and slump down in it.
"Foster!" a loud voice laughed, "Good to see you here again!"
Well, at least the bartender was pleased to see him. The man, Foster, was already digging out his wallet from his pocket when a cold drink was placed on the table in front of him.
"The usual, I'm assuming?" the bartender coolly asked. Foster simply nodded his head, tossing a few bills onto the counter before reaching over to take his glass and chug down about half of the drink in one go. The bartender sighed, shaking his head. "Long day then?"
Foster sighed, setting down his glass. "I guess you can say that... but not really. It's just the same bloody bullshit as usual. Bates thinks that since he's in a sodding higher position than the rest of us that he can just up and do whatever he damn well pleases. Bloody pillock..." he grumbles to himself. He lazily swirls his drink around in its glass, some droplets nearly spilling out over the top. "I bloody need a better job..."
"Hey now," the bartender butted in, idly cleaning a dirty mug, "Jus' keep at it, huh? Move on up, show that wanker how to really get things done, eh? It'd be brilliant if you could be the one to call the shots around him."
Foster shakes his head. "I don't even know anymore." He lifts up his glass to take another small sip. "I've just about had it up to here with all those bum rags and I've had enough of that sodding job."
The man behind the counter just laughed, setting down his mug and dish cloth. "Hate to break it to ya Foster, but I just don't think you'll be getting' nowhere with that novel of yours. As much as I like you, I can't give ya free drinks, so you better keep that job o' yours if you wanna keep comin' here."
Foster grunted a little, running his fingers through his short, messy hair before getting to his feet and taking a step away from the bar.
"Up for karaoke already Foster? Only had one drink so far." The bartender asked, a look of surprise on his face. The man just shook his head.
"No, not tonight... I'm just not feelin' up for it tonight" he sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
"Oh, come on, Foster. This'll disappoint the crowd. Don't get all glum jus' because a few people don't care for your books."
Foster just waved the man off and turned on heel, heading over to the door and wandering outside, breathing in the fresh air and briefly enjoying the lower sound levels. He made his way over to the intersection, but paused for a moment when he felt the splash of something cold and wet hit his nose. He automatically looks up at the dark clouds above him and groans. It was about ready to start raining. Foster looked down both ways of the road he was walking down.
Not one cab in sight.
"Of course there's no bloody cab... that would be convenient." He grumbles to himself as he hurries across the street to a still open convenience store for shelter, the rain already beginning to pour down. He shakes off some of the droplets of water that were dripping down his hair as soon as he got under some cover and opened up the door.
"Right, looks like I'm walking tonight. Now where are the umbrellas...?" he mumbles to himself, heading down a cramped aisle to the back of the store. Almost immediately, he finds his path blocked by a woman with a shopping cart and her child, distracted by god knows what and taking up most of the aisle. The lady appears to have been watching a news program that just came up on the television in the back of the store, mesmerized by the screen which was babbling something about some "Biotech" nonsense. Either way, Foster didn't care much about current events, and cared even less that this woman was between him and a cluster of colorful, cheap umbrellas. He begins to tap his foot impatiently on the tiled floor, crossing his arms over his chest, but the woman took no notice, still transfixed with the television.
"Lady," Foster finally spoke up, irritation clear in his voice, "If you don't move your fat arse sometime this century..."
That got her attention.
The woman whirled around to face him, anger on her face with both hands on her hips. "I beg your pardon?" Foster cringed a little. Her voice was akin to nails dragging down on a dusty old chalk board. He shakes this off however, and keeps his arms crossed over his chest.
"You're a bloody roadblock. Now beat it and let me through or I'll sodding get stuck in your gravity trying to squeeze past your enormous body. And take that damn brat with you, too." He bitterly spat out, giving the wide eyed child a quick, irritated glance as well. With an indignant scoff, the lady grabbed her son's hand and roughly shoved past Foster, knocking him into the shelf and causing a few cans to loudly clatter to the floor. He breathes a soft "tche" as she vanished down the end of the aisle and turned around to continue to the back of the store, abandoning the cans of soup that had fallen on the floor. He quickly bends down to grab the cheapest umbrella he could find and goes back to stroll over to the front of the store.
Oh. Right. That lady needed to buy things as well.
Foster sighs to himself as he moves to wait in line behind the woman and her child so he can purchase his umbrella, lazily glancing around the store. It was raining harder now, he noticed. Just his luck. Lacking anything else to keep himself occupied as he continued to wait, he happened to spot another television on the front counter and began to watch the news being broadcasted. It was the same story as what was being discussed a few minutes ago. The name "Horzine" continued to be flashed on the screen and discussed by the news reporters.
Horzine. Foster's heard that name quite a lot lately, come to think of it. His coworkers would often exchange rumors about this company in hushed voices over their lunch breaks, or he'd hear the name mentioned on the radio every day with increasing frequency. Mr. Foster did not know what this "Horzine" was, or what about it had people talking about it constantly, but it hardly mattered to the man. Before he knew it, he was standing at the front of the counter and snapped out of his daze to fish out the few pounds needed to purchase his umbrella, pushing all thoughts of Horzine Biotech out of his head. He nodded his head once at the man working behind the register after completing his transaction and moved to head out the door, opening up his umbrella and beginning his long walk home.
Whatever this Horzine was, it was none of his business.