M.I.N.I.O.N.S
(by me)
25 Multitudinous Industrious Neophytes
Interning On No Salary slouch over their workstations in Production
Room 534. The sound of hopelessness is interrupted only by the
Supervisory AI Timecard clicking through their attendance rolls. Our
Heroine's sidekick tries not to fall asleep.
BAM!
The workroom door launches across the
room, followed by a combat boot the size of a locomotive. It belongs
to Glori Von Brockson, head of MonoCorp security. His mountainous
frame squeezes, strains, and then bursts through the door, greeted by
the sounds of workers' eyes popping open.
“MINIONS!” Glori's voice hits them
like a tidal wave. “One of you is plotting against the
Corporation!”
A tree trunk finger points at each
intern in turn, blanching the color right out of their faces. It
finally rests on the intern next to Our Heroine's sidekick. The
boy's eyes practically wither right into his skull. He pees a little.
Von Brockson fixes him with the Head
Shake of Shame, and moves on to the next MINION, but lo and behold!
The pants pee-er has produced a tear gas canister! Salt-colored fumes
explode across the room, and the pants pee-er is through the door. He
flees to the stairwell in a flurry of pitter-patter terror. The
worker skips down to the bottom of the steps and flings the rear exit
door open, only to see Von Brockson blotting out the sun in front of
him
“How?” The pants pee-er squeaks.
The head of security simply points
upwards. Window #534 is open, and the ground below it is cracked and
cratered like a meteor's landing pad. The pants pee-er whimpers. He
runs, and he is stepped on.
Ten seconds later the interns of #534
are holding to their workstations for dear life. Everything not
bolted down is hurled to the back of the room. Such is the
admonishment from Security Chief Von Brockson. You produce for
MonoCorp, you give of yourself to MonoCorp, but you do not take from
MonoCorp. These are the laws of MINIONS.
Our Heroine enters the room. We know
she is Our Heroine because she caries a huge fucking sword, and
because there is a streak of inexplicable sapphire in her raven black
hair.
“Late!”
The word crashes against Our Heroine's
back while she flows to the space between her sidekick and pants-pee-er's workstations. Our Heroine's
sidekick prints off a note, and hands it to her. The sidekick's role
in this particular story is over. The sidekick fades into obscurity.
The note reads “Go time, baby.”
The signal is clear, and Our Heroine
revolves clockwise to face Glori Von Brockson, in all his screaming
glory. His face erupts in a grin, and his hands emerge from his
pockets clad in brass knuckles. The golden light from the knuckles
casts the room in amber. Our Heroine grips her sword, the H.F.S
Nightblade. Its inky depths reflect the fears of its holder. Right
now, it reflects nothing.
We do not root for Glori Von Brockson,
even though he is armed with knuckles against the H.F.S. Nightblade,
because he towers over Our Heroine. She looks up in defiance, eyes
dripping with the words 'I don't,' and 'give a shit.'
No shits are received.
The ensuing battle takes place like a
river fighting a mountain. Interns and the supervisory AI look on
stupefied, unable to understand the layers of combat taking place.
Finally Our Heroine lands a blow, and Von Brockson sails through
walls like they're made of tissue paper.
Our Heroine's sidekick wonders aloud
why Von Brockson went flying through a wall after being slashed by a
razor sharp sword. We tell said sidekick to shut the hell up, and
that when the narrator tells you to fade into obscurity, you better
not draw any damn attention to yourself.
Anyway, Our Heroine pockets a small
package from the pants-peer's desk, and turns. She heads to the
hallway, down which lays her prize, but she catches sight of Von
Brockson in the corner of her eye. She has knocked him clear into his
own office! She sees one of his mitts pound against a pulsing red
button.
Alarms sound as Our Heroine enters the
hall, and holes open up in the ceiling. Guardian Robots Under No True
Supervision rain down into the hallway, and in a shower of clicks and
hydraulic buzzing, they point their robo-guns toward Our Heroine. The
GRUNTS open fire. Their clips empty into the air between them and Our
Heroine, but she spins the H.F.S. Nightblade in a blazing fury. Ears
and security microphones both fill with the scream of steel against
lead. In moments the GRUNTS are empty, and only one shot has gotten
through. Our Heroine tenses and puts a hand to her abdomen. Her
fingers come away red. She grits her teeth and readies herself.
With a whir, the GRUNTS transform
their robo-guns into blade arms, and descend on Our Heroine. They
press and surround her with spinning blades, but Our Heroine swats
them dead like a cat with 100 little mice. The sapphire streak of
hair on her head grows muddy with engine grease and hydraulic fluid.
The blood of automatons.
The Huge Fucking Sword leaves the
robots a pile of sprockets and motherboards, and Our Heroine races
down the hall. She turns the final corner to see Von Brockson
blotting out the fluorescent lights in front of her.
This time the Security Chief is armed
with spiked metal boxing gloves, and their fight goes the full twelve
rounds. Every time Von Brockson lands a blow on Our Heroine, she
flicks her sword to collect the blood spray and fling it against the
wall. Time stretches around the fight and no single being can tell
you how long it lasts. Planets turn and little boys dream of glory,
while the melee of their fight eventually spells two words in
dripping red on the wall.
Von Brockson is sweating, near
collapse, and Our Heroine is growing pale. The Security Chief looks
at the wall and pants; “That? You came all this way, just for
that?”
Our Heroine nods.
“I will yield.” Glori Von Brockson
bows and withdraws to his office, leaving Our Heroine in front of a
nondescript door.
Our Heroine purses her lips and
exhales a tiny puff of air. It touches the door and the door bursts
off its hinges to shatter against the far wall. She enters and
confront a nervous dweeb in horned-rim glasses. His nametag displays
a series of letters that Our Heroine cares nothing about, but below
them is written 'Head of H.R.'
Our Heroine reaches into her pocket,
and horn-rim starts crying. She unwraps the package and produces a
contract, and a pen. Her mouth moves, and she utters two words.
“Paid Stipends.”
