So I have been unable to get into my account for ages, and being as they are playing with email notifications, if you have left a review in the last six months I don't know about it so am unable to say thank you.
I have been reliably updating elsewhere, under the same name, and will continue to here as long as I'm able. Though who knows how long this site will last.
But because I have been absent you get lots of chapters today - hooray!
Sitting up, coughing, Gordon runs a quick hand over his head, body and limbs. No blood, nothing broken. The ballroom is filled with a low murmur of moans which means not everyone's been so lucky.
He clicks a subtle button the side of his watch, activating a live comm link to the island. "Gordon to HQ, you read?" He pulls one lady to her feet – she's shaken, ornate hairstyle fallen loose and one dangling earing missing - but not visibly hurt.
"We read Gordon." Scott's voice comes back immediately, calm and sure, just like it always is. "We've picked up some sort of explosion at your location."
"Yeah, that's about right." He brushes the worst of the dust out of his hair and off his face.
"Situation report. Injuries?"
"I'm fine, a little dusty and this shirt is ruined, but fine. We've got a lot of people up here though who are going to need evacuation."
"Virgil and Alan are already on their way so triage for now, but stay put until we've assessed for structural damage. And John?"
John.
"I... I don't know. He wasn't with me."
The lights flicker on. Half the bulbs in the chandelier have shattered, casting a mottled and uneven light onto the ruined opulence below.
Gordon leaps onto a nearby table that looks at least half stable, to get a better view of the room. There are people everywhere, but none of them have the distinctive build and hair of his brother. The lights go off again, and a disheartened groan rises up from the stirring mass of partygoers. Gordon's heart sinks.
Where did you go?
"I don't see him."
John is sitting cross legged in the centre of the elevator – keeping as much space as possible around him in all directions – when a sudden burst of static startles him from the semi-meditative state he's been trying to maintain. The flashbang of a small supernova irradiates his eyeballs. Or the small status light on his watch turns on.
"John? John, can you hear me? Respond." The signal is distorted and a little tinny but Scott's voice is a salve to his soul.
"I can hear you." John doesn't hide his relief, and neither does his brother, which means the situation must be bad out there to crack Scott's confident façade. John's hands itch to help, to know.
"Are you alright? Hurt? Give me a situation report. Why haven't we heard from you?"
"No injuries. I am trapped in an elevator though. Have been for a while now. All controls are off line and my watch has been too. What happened out there?"
"Do you know what floor you're at?"
John was barely paying attention at the time, so gives his best guess, blinking frequently and heavily to let his eyes adjust to the shocking light. "Somewhere between five and ten."
"Hmmm, think I've located the shaft you are in, looks like from the preliminary scans there is some debris up above you that's caused the problem."
It's been many years since the last serious elevator accident. Layered safety features make it almost impossible for them to fall, even the newer designs that have horizontal and diagonal movement. The ability to quote decades of data should comfort John, but there's something about the word 'debris' that makes his shoulders itch.
"Above? Is Gordon ok?" Now his eyes are accustomed, his watch casts a dim glow around the space. Not enough to see clearly beyond his own nose, but enough to define the space, reveal the walls and stop visions of endless blackness.
"Fine. Organising the evacuation. We're not sure what actually happened yet so we're being cautious and waiting for Virgil and Alan to arrive, they should be landing in the next few minutes."
"Right. Makes sense." It does make sense, it's what he would do if he was running dispatch. Collect information, assess the situation, deploy the correct equipment. "I don't suppose you have an eta for my extraction right now?"
"Not at the moment, not until we get the injured out the building." Prioritise . Scott's doing it by the book and any other time John would be ecstatic that Scott was keeping to the protocols they'd spent literally years putting together, instead of haring off and doing his own thing. John rolls his shoulders and uncrosses his legs to ease the cramp from being in one position for – probably - hours.
"Just don't take too long."
"Don't worry, I won't mess with any of your programmes." He can hear Scott's smile, which is uncalled for as he's not that particular about it. There are many different ways that you can organise the dispatch screens. If you are comfortable being wrong. "You just relax. I can even count this as part of your downtime if you like."
"Relax? Very funny." John pushes himself back to lean against the wall and rest his head back. "Nothing very relaxing about being stuck in a metal box in an uncomfortable suit." The shirt label is rubbing against his neck again, and it's too tight through the back. "You could always play me an audiobook? Scott?"
"Sorry." Scott's distracted. "I've got some readings here that – hang on." The line goes silent.
Huh, that's what it feels like to be put on mute. It turns out he doesn't like being out of the loop all of a sudden. Maybe he shouldn't do that quite as often; it's become his stop gap solution for when he really needs to concentrate. Or swear. Hearing dispatch frustrated does nothing to inspire confidence on a rescue, and they definitely don't need to hear what comes out of his mouth when it all starts to go wrong. The hairs on the back of John 's neck stand on end and his stomach shrinks, a terrible sense of foreboding clutching his throat.
"John, brace!" Scott's voice crackles with urgency. "You've got incoming, debris shifting down your elevator shaft."
"Brace? How am I meant to do that there's nowhere - " John scrabbles to his feet as a thunderous rumble mutes the conversation: a horrific clatter of metal on metal.