Game, Set & Match #20
Monday morning brought huge crowds, all eager to see us in action. The sequencer puppeteered us on a near-continuous loop. The only breaks came when Jack or Fred switched a clone's control to 'neighbour'. This allowed discreet recovery of dropped props. It also puzzled the heck out of the techno-clued.
That was a long, hard day. We rarely stopped. We refuelled 'in flight'. We peed and were butt-flushed on the go. It was such a relief when Jack and Fred ushered out the last visitors, put our modules onto stand-by.
Our second day brought more of the same. If anything, the crowd was bigger, louder and more astonished. I could only imagine the hit-rate on social media as the smart-phones and cameras flashed like a firework display. I was very glad when the show closed for the night. I was so tired, I only ran my wriggler several times, drifted off into exhausted sleep...
===
The second 'cab' took our semi-trailer on a long, winding drive. The many mild twists and turns suggested our circuitous route went 'across country', avoiding motorways and their unblinking traffic cameras. Fortunately, our wet-suit's pee facility was still a simple, 'gravity' drain. I'd no sure way to reckon time, but I felt several hours had passed before our ride turned off onto slower, perhaps minor roads. After several stops and starts, we were reversed onto a bay. The trailer's rear doors opened, a ramp whined. One by one, our set modules were released, towed away. First in, mine was last off. I was feeling rather lonely until my module came to a halt indoors. From the slight echo, I was in a large room.
In the back-ground, a chain rattled, a padlock snicked shut. The chain rattled again. That third, bossy voice asked, "Oh, why couldn't you have come quietly, Mister Roswell ? You are fortunate we need you functional. You've ample chain on that ankle shackle to use your camping toilet, sleeping bag and office chair. There's bottled water in that cardboard box. There are packs of toilet and kitchen rolls behind the toilet's folding screen."
"Bastard !" Jack, Fred's lanky deputy, had a lid on his temper, but it was shaky.
"You can't escape; these padlocks are 'High Security'."
"Bastard !"
"Don't bother fishing for WiFi; the password is long."
"Bastard !"
"The Boss Man will come down and speak to you at dawn."
"Bastard !"
"And mind your manners unless you really want another beating."
"Bastard !"
"Now, I suggest you use the next hour or two to re-assemble the set."
"Why would I do that ?"
"We know where your parents live. We know where your sisters' families live. We know where their pretty children go to school."
"Bastard !"
"So, re-assemble the set, then keep a civil tongue for the Boss Man."
"Huh." Jack waited for 'Bossy Voice' and a silent, but heavy-footed companion to leave. He rattled his chain, sagged into his chair. As if talking to himself, he said, "Bastard ! Two Heavies jump me outside the hotel, force me into a car. Hood over my head. Hands cuffed behind my back. Zig-zag route. Change cars. That's when I fought. Landed a couple of good kicks, then those Heavies beat on me. I don't think anything's broken, but I'll ache for a week...
"Now, what have we got ? A very nice ball-room, I'd say. Double doors. Sprung dance-floor. Podium and picture windows at the far end. Tables folded, chairs stacked. There's one, yes, one CCTV camera on a bracket up in the far corner. Fixed, not 'pan, tilt, zoom'. Can't get near it with this chain, of course, of course. And would you believe they locked my chain to an outside tow-loop on the 'boss' module ?
"Huh. I'd better play along for a while. There's enough Moon-lit woodland visible through those big windows to hide a mass grave, never mind one shallow scrape..."
One by one, dragging his chain, Jack shifted our modules into precise alignment, jacked them stable, connected their cables. He sprawled into the office chair, said, "Okay, bringing up the work-station. Module status, all greens. Support systems active. Better give them five, no, ten minutes to settle after all that shifting."
That was kind. I really, really needed a long drink. Hydrated, I took the opportunity to pee, to run a butt-flush. All this would show on my module's status window, of course. Jack clicked between various windows, checked sundry parameters before he resumed talking to 'himself'. "That bossy bastard was right. The WiFi's well locked. And there's no GPS signal, so those big windows must be screened. Hmm. I'd better check these modules' animatronics work okay..."
One by one, he ran each module through its paces, puppeteering us with basic moves. Then he ran us as a set.
"Looking good. Huh. I'd better get my head down for a while. Things could get very interesting when their Boss Man arrives. Okay. G'night, my darling goblins !"
I stayed awake for a while, but the long, hard day and ebbing adrenalin combined to let me doze, albeit fitfully.
Game, Set & Match
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
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Game, Set & Match #20
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1781
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Game, Set & Match #21
Game, Set & Match #21
"Good morning, Mister Roswell !" The speaker was 'Rich Gulf', from the soirée. I shuddered. I hadn't told the others about that conversation, so only I knew he wanted to buy our set and, presumably, ship it home.
"You !" Jack had recognised him, worked through the logic. "We said this was a prototype ! We said it wasn't ready to tour ! We said we could do you a 'Bespoke Limited Edition' of the Mark Two !"
"But it would not be this extraordinary prototype, Mister Roswell." I could almost hear his head-shake at Jack's naivety. "And what I want, I get. Now, have you re-assembled the set ?"
"Yes. Your goons managed not to damage anything..."
"How fortunate for them ! Play it."
Jack woke the sequencer, ran us through our paces.
"Again ! Again ! Again !" 'Rich Gulf' walked around the set, repeatedly stroking and petting us and our 'clones'. "Extraordinary ! If I did not know better, I would swear these were trapped Djinni !"
"Just animatronics, Sheikh Mohammed," Jack grumbled. "Just animatronics..."
"Just so ! Now, you have a choice. Fly out to the Gulf with this set, teach my Mumbai techs the workings, be home in six weeks. Or not."
"I-- Fred and I don't have 'Administrator' access..."
"What ?"
"Standard security for a show. Precaution against 'visitor input', fumble fingers and outright sabotage."
"Ah. Yes, that is logical. Is the password non-trivial ?"
"Twenty pseudo-random characters. Hard as a product key."
"Would your team yield it to protect you ?"
"I-- I suppose..."
"Then your lack is of no consequence." The Sheikh strolled around us again, brushing our bodies, our limbs, our masked faces with his big hands. "Extraordinary !"
"We could have done you a very bespoke 'Limited Edition' of the Mark Two."
"It would not be the same."
"I-- I suppose..."
"I will take breakfast, watch these wondrous robotic Djinni perform again, then be on my way. You will travel dressed as a disgraced woman, wearing a full burqa over a gag, a straight-jacket and other restraints. Do not make a fuss."
"Understood." Jack waited for the Sheikh to get clear before saying, rather loudly, "So that's the situation, my darling goblins ! Ha ! If this was an Anime, a team of diminutive Ninjas would spring from hiding to kerb-stomp that rich rat and his goons. Are you up for it ?"
'Click.' Anna gave her vote.
'Click.' Bryony seconded the motion.
'Click.' Marianne made three of five.
'Click.' Ellen would not be denied.
'Click.' I made it unanimous.
"Okay..." Jack's voice trembled. "Let's do this !"
His dancing fingers accessed a hidden menu, woke our 'Big Reveal' scheduled for late Saturday. As our plumbing and electrical connections disconnected, Jack began tearing multiple sheets off those rolls of paper towels. We were supposed to dance and prance around our set, astonish our audience. Here and now, our wonderful costumes and augments were a dangerous hindrance. We had to strip, and fast.
Anna and Ellen began tugging at each-other's masks and 'Hobgoblin' skins. Marianne tackled Bryony who, like me, was functionally blind beneath her mask's powerless augments. Unmasked, she helped me. Out of our skins, we shucked our 'wet suits' and body stockings, hastily wiped slippery lotion with those paper towels. Now butt-naked, it was 'Do or Die' time.
"Good morning, Mister Roswell !" The speaker was 'Rich Gulf', from the soirée. I shuddered. I hadn't told the others about that conversation, so only I knew he wanted to buy our set and, presumably, ship it home.
"You !" Jack had recognised him, worked through the logic. "We said this was a prototype ! We said it wasn't ready to tour ! We said we could do you a 'Bespoke Limited Edition' of the Mark Two !"
"But it would not be this extraordinary prototype, Mister Roswell." I could almost hear his head-shake at Jack's naivety. "And what I want, I get. Now, have you re-assembled the set ?"
"Yes. Your goons managed not to damage anything..."
"How fortunate for them ! Play it."
Jack woke the sequencer, ran us through our paces.
"Again ! Again ! Again !" 'Rich Gulf' walked around the set, repeatedly stroking and petting us and our 'clones'. "Extraordinary ! If I did not know better, I would swear these were trapped Djinni !"
"Just animatronics, Sheikh Mohammed," Jack grumbled. "Just animatronics..."
"Just so ! Now, you have a choice. Fly out to the Gulf with this set, teach my Mumbai techs the workings, be home in six weeks. Or not."
"I-- Fred and I don't have 'Administrator' access..."
"What ?"
"Standard security for a show. Precaution against 'visitor input', fumble fingers and outright sabotage."
"Ah. Yes, that is logical. Is the password non-trivial ?"
"Twenty pseudo-random characters. Hard as a product key."
"Would your team yield it to protect you ?"
"I-- I suppose..."
"Then your lack is of no consequence." The Sheikh strolled around us again, brushing our bodies, our limbs, our masked faces with his big hands. "Extraordinary !"
"We could have done you a very bespoke 'Limited Edition' of the Mark Two."
"It would not be the same."
"I-- I suppose..."
"I will take breakfast, watch these wondrous robotic Djinni perform again, then be on my way. You will travel dressed as a disgraced woman, wearing a full burqa over a gag, a straight-jacket and other restraints. Do not make a fuss."
"Understood." Jack waited for the Sheikh to get clear before saying, rather loudly, "So that's the situation, my darling goblins ! Ha ! If this was an Anime, a team of diminutive Ninjas would spring from hiding to kerb-stomp that rich rat and his goons. Are you up for it ?"
'Click.' Anna gave her vote.
'Click.' Bryony seconded the motion.
'Click.' Marianne made three of five.
'Click.' Ellen would not be denied.
'Click.' I made it unanimous.
"Okay..." Jack's voice trembled. "Let's do this !"
His dancing fingers accessed a hidden menu, woke our 'Big Reveal' scheduled for late Saturday. As our plumbing and electrical connections disconnected, Jack began tearing multiple sheets off those rolls of paper towels. We were supposed to dance and prance around our set, astonish our audience. Here and now, our wonderful costumes and augments were a dangerous hindrance. We had to strip, and fast.
Anna and Ellen began tugging at each-other's masks and 'Hobgoblin' skins. Marianne tackled Bryony who, like me, was functionally blind beneath her mask's powerless augments. Unmasked, she helped me. Out of our skins, we shucked our 'wet suits' and body stockings, hastily wiped slippery lotion with those paper towels. Now butt-naked, it was 'Do or Die' time.
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
-
Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1781
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Game, Set & Match #22
Game, Set & Match #22
Back at the 'boss' module, Jack had reached careful fingers into the recess behind its slide-out keyboard tray. Finding twin latches, he'd released the module's secret 'pan' drawer with its tool-kit.
"Wire cutters." Jack handed them to me, pointed at the far corner's CCTV camera. Anna and Bryony got there first, linked hands, made a step, gave me a boost. I grabbed the bracket left-handed, braced myself, snipped the cable. What the operator made of that close-up of a wild red eye before the feed failed, we'd never know.
Jack fitted a hex-drive bit to the tool-kit's torque wrench, stooped, broke the 'grab' on his chain's tow-loop's four Allen bolts. Removing the bit, he handed the long wrench to Marianne, a slim screw-driver to Bryony. Calmly, he fitted his hex-bit to the kit's cordless drill/driver, began un-screwing those long, long bolts.
Marianne reached the doorway as the first goon came through. His surprise on meeting a diminutive, naked Ninja let her break his right wrist with her first strike, then whack him across the head. He went down as if pole-axed. She hit his nape as a precaution.
"What the--" 'Bossy Voice', the Sheikh's ruthless facilitator, had an 'out of context' problem.
Bryony jabbed her screw-driver at his eyes. He raised his arms in reflex. She kicked his crotch. He folded with a howl. She broke his descending nose with a left heel-hand to further distract him. She kicked his nape as he curled to a mewling ball. Then, she got serious. Dropping the screw-driver, she grabbed his impeccably groomed hair with both hands. Banging his head on the floor, she chanted, "You threatened children ! You threatened children ! You threatened children !"
Crack ! Marianne's crouching swing knee-capped the next goon. As he fell, she hit him across the scalp to be sure, to be sure. He lay where he fell.
"B," Ellen mentioned, "Your guy's bleeding from the ears."
"Oh." Bryony gave his head another, milder bang, then looked up as the Sheikh and two Heavies burst into the room.
Crack ! After knee-capping her winger with surgical precision, Marianne whacked his skull. Astonished, the other winger managed to fend off Anna en-route to Jack. This time, the rules were different. Scything at knee height, end-weighted by its big padlock and the freed tow-loop's strong plate, Jack's swung chain wrapped the Heavy's legs. A hard man, he made a fair break-fall, began to kick clear. Ellen pounced with that screw-driver. She sank it to the handle in his thick nape. The Heavy spasmed like a pithed frog, gasped thrice and died.
The horrified Sheikh could have turned, could have run. Wide-eyed, he wasted vital seconds shrieking, "Djinni ! Djinni !"
I swarmed him like an ape, clawed for his eyes. He batted at me with those big hands. Marianne slammed her wrench against his right calf. Dead-legged, he toppled, howling. I pushed off, landed like a cat. Jack took a turn of chain around his throat, snarled, "Game over !"
The Sheikh gasped, "I have Diplomatic Immunity ! You can't--"
Jack anchored his trailing chain with a foot, heaved hard.
"Uh !"
"D'you think I care ?" Jack spat. "Your fucking goons snatched me off the street, then beat me up ! Your fucking facilitator threatened my parents and my sisters' families ! D'you think I care a fucking whit about your fucking diplomatic status ?"
Clawing at the chain tightening on his throat, the gagging Sheikh was now bright red in the face, had despair in his eyes. Jack was very, very angry, perhaps beyond reason. Doom loomed.
"Steady, Jack," Bryony warned, with an icy, icy edge to her usually sweet voice. "Sheikh Mohammed, you will waive your immunity. You will admit to receiving stolen goods. You will express profound remorse for hasty words which your facilitator mistook. You will condemn his excess of zeal, apologise to Jack, offer restitution."
"But-- But I have Diplommm--" When Jack eased the chain and he'd finished gasping, the Sheikh admitted, "There-- There is great merit in your words..."
"Too right," Jack snarled, giving a cautionary tug on the chain. "So, where's the nearest phone with an outside line ?"
"D-- Down the corridor. On a table by the planter. Press-- Press nine."
"My call." Bryony's voice was cryogenic. "Charley, you're with me. M, if the Sheikh makes trouble, cripple him."
"With pleasure."
Back at the 'boss' module, Jack had reached careful fingers into the recess behind its slide-out keyboard tray. Finding twin latches, he'd released the module's secret 'pan' drawer with its tool-kit.
"Wire cutters." Jack handed them to me, pointed at the far corner's CCTV camera. Anna and Bryony got there first, linked hands, made a step, gave me a boost. I grabbed the bracket left-handed, braced myself, snipped the cable. What the operator made of that close-up of a wild red eye before the feed failed, we'd never know.
Jack fitted a hex-drive bit to the tool-kit's torque wrench, stooped, broke the 'grab' on his chain's tow-loop's four Allen bolts. Removing the bit, he handed the long wrench to Marianne, a slim screw-driver to Bryony. Calmly, he fitted his hex-bit to the kit's cordless drill/driver, began un-screwing those long, long bolts.
Marianne reached the doorway as the first goon came through. His surprise on meeting a diminutive, naked Ninja let her break his right wrist with her first strike, then whack him across the head. He went down as if pole-axed. She hit his nape as a precaution.
"What the--" 'Bossy Voice', the Sheikh's ruthless facilitator, had an 'out of context' problem.
Bryony jabbed her screw-driver at his eyes. He raised his arms in reflex. She kicked his crotch. He folded with a howl. She broke his descending nose with a left heel-hand to further distract him. She kicked his nape as he curled to a mewling ball. Then, she got serious. Dropping the screw-driver, she grabbed his impeccably groomed hair with both hands. Banging his head on the floor, she chanted, "You threatened children ! You threatened children ! You threatened children !"
Crack ! Marianne's crouching swing knee-capped the next goon. As he fell, she hit him across the scalp to be sure, to be sure. He lay where he fell.
"B," Ellen mentioned, "Your guy's bleeding from the ears."
"Oh." Bryony gave his head another, milder bang, then looked up as the Sheikh and two Heavies burst into the room.
Crack ! After knee-capping her winger with surgical precision, Marianne whacked his skull. Astonished, the other winger managed to fend off Anna en-route to Jack. This time, the rules were different. Scything at knee height, end-weighted by its big padlock and the freed tow-loop's strong plate, Jack's swung chain wrapped the Heavy's legs. A hard man, he made a fair break-fall, began to kick clear. Ellen pounced with that screw-driver. She sank it to the handle in his thick nape. The Heavy spasmed like a pithed frog, gasped thrice and died.
The horrified Sheikh could have turned, could have run. Wide-eyed, he wasted vital seconds shrieking, "Djinni ! Djinni !"
I swarmed him like an ape, clawed for his eyes. He batted at me with those big hands. Marianne slammed her wrench against his right calf. Dead-legged, he toppled, howling. I pushed off, landed like a cat. Jack took a turn of chain around his throat, snarled, "Game over !"
The Sheikh gasped, "I have Diplomatic Immunity ! You can't--"
Jack anchored his trailing chain with a foot, heaved hard.
"Uh !"
"D'you think I care ?" Jack spat. "Your fucking goons snatched me off the street, then beat me up ! Your fucking facilitator threatened my parents and my sisters' families ! D'you think I care a fucking whit about your fucking diplomatic status ?"
Clawing at the chain tightening on his throat, the gagging Sheikh was now bright red in the face, had despair in his eyes. Jack was very, very angry, perhaps beyond reason. Doom loomed.
"Steady, Jack," Bryony warned, with an icy, icy edge to her usually sweet voice. "Sheikh Mohammed, you will waive your immunity. You will admit to receiving stolen goods. You will express profound remorse for hasty words which your facilitator mistook. You will condemn his excess of zeal, apologise to Jack, offer restitution."
"But-- But I have Diplommm--" When Jack eased the chain and he'd finished gasping, the Sheikh admitted, "There-- There is great merit in your words..."
"Too right," Jack snarled, giving a cautionary tug on the chain. "So, where's the nearest phone with an outside line ?"
"D-- Down the corridor. On a table by the planter. Press-- Press nine."
"My call." Bryony's voice was cryogenic. "Charley, you're with me. M, if the Sheikh makes trouble, cripple him."
"With pleasure."
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1781
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Game, Set & Match #23
Game, Set & Match #23
The phone was exactly where we'd been told. Pressing nine gave the promised outside line. Pressing nine thrice more, Bryony was quickly answered by the efficient operator. "Emergency; which service do you need ?"
"Police and ambulance, plus 'Fire & Rescue' to remove an ankle shackle."
"What is the nature of your emergency ?"
"My name is Bryony Weston. My sisters, cousins and I were kidnapped from the NEC FX exhibition last night. Jack Roswell was also kidnapped. We have subdued our captors, but more may arrive. Time is of the essence. Please trace this call; we do not know our location beyond a mansion set in wooded grounds. We dare not explore."
"Thank you... We have your location. Help is on the way. Please stay on the line."
"Understood." After a moment, Bryony added. "And bring body-bags. Lots of body-bags."
First up was a police helicopter. It came in very, very low, noisily went to and fro, then circled warily. Many sirens converged. A succession of loud thuds followed by an expensive crash told of a big door's demise. Multiple 'armed response' teams entered, shouting dire warnings ahead. By now, Bryony and I had taken out our crimson contacts, were sat on the floor, arms wide, hands open to present least threat. Our corridor's scary fire-team bid us stay, went on, was greeted by cheers.
With the site secured, a bemused paramedic wrapped us in rustling foil 'blankets', led us back to the body-strewn ball-room.
Several paramedics were patiently certifying most of the goons as 'Dead at Scene'. Two burly fire-men were slowly, slowly ratchetting long-handled bolt-cutters through the hardened staple of the big padlock on Jack's fetter. The Sheikh, guarded by two 'armed response' officers, sat to one side and smirked.
"Have you read him his rights ?" Bryony snapped at the police team.
"And you are ?" The Incident Commander was not impressed by her demeanour.
"Bryony Weston. I called this in--"
"He's claimed Diplomatic Immunity !" Anna called across the room.
"You rat !" Bryony rounded on the Sheikh, who shrank from her cold fury. The room temperature seemed to dip a dozen degrees as they locked eyes and she hissed, "You will so waive your immunity ! You will admit to receiving stolen goods ! You will express profound remorse for hasty words which your facilitator mistook ! You will condemn his excess of zeal, apologise to Jack Roswell, offer restitution !"
After nearly a minute, white as a sheet, he dropped his gaze, muttered, "I-- I waive my diplomatic immunity. I-- I wish to make a statement."
The Incident Commander raised an eloquent eye-brow, but waved an officer forwards to formally warn, "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
Bryony kept her icy gaze on the broken Sheikh until he'd said his lines and been led away in hand-cuffs. His facilitator could not object; with a 'Glasgow Coma Score' counted on one hand, he was barely alive. In my experience, he'd not survive the week. Still, given he'd threatened children within Bryony's hearing, he was fortunate she hadn't shanked that screw-driver up his nose or down an ear-canal.
Clunk ! Proceedings were punctuated by that hardened lock's staple finally yielding.
"Thank you," Jack whispered into the silence after his big shackle fell free. "Thank you..."
After directing that chain, locks and shackle be bagged as evidence, the Incident Commander turned to Jack and asked, "Mr. Roswell, are you fit to give a statement ?"
"Hell, yes," Jack replied, rubbing his bruised ankle. "For your information, the Sheikh was going to fly me out bound, gagged and dressed in a burqa. I doubt I'd make it back."
"Ah..." The Incident Commander nodded slowly, then glanced at the iPad shown to him by an aide. He did a double-take, beckoned Bryony closer, quietly asked, "Ms. Weston, were you the 'Witness B' who went under-cover and broke that Pedo ring in--"
"Yes." Bryony nodded once. "Rolled them up like a rotten stair-carpet."
"How did you hide your 'wire' ?"
"Don't even surmise."
"Ah..." The Incident Commander took a shaky breath, turned to our set. After studying the gaps and the tossed FX, he asked, "So, you five are the 'Wyrde Sisters' stunt team ?"
"Yes."
"And, some-how, you've been part of this set since Sunday afternoon ?"
"Yes."
"My nephew was at the show on Monday. He said your, uh, 'Hobgoblins' were so life-like, they took animatronics to a new level. But, if you five were--"
"Yes," Jack stated. "A technique we call 'meat puppetry'."
"You drive people like robots ?"
"Or prosthetic limbs," Jack allowed. "It's weird, it's scary, but these heroes can hack it wholesale."
"We're stunt players." Bryony gave our stock reply. "We just wear the FX."
"And now your show's ruined..."
"Perhaps not," Jack reckoned. "If we could get these modules back to the NEC today, we'd be 'business as usual' tomorrow."
"Think of the PR value," Anna prompted. "Excellent police work, a crucial lead, a dawn raid, the kidnap victim freed from a heavy shackle, the priceless set returned under armed guard ?"
The Incident Commander's eyes widened. He asked, "What do you need ?"
"A ten-pallet, tail-loading truck or short 'semi' with cab," Jack listed. "Four good banksmen."
The Incident Commander glanced to his aide, who suggested, "There was an 'Eddie Stobart' depot about ten miles back. They may have something..."
They did.
The phone was exactly where we'd been told. Pressing nine gave the promised outside line. Pressing nine thrice more, Bryony was quickly answered by the efficient operator. "Emergency; which service do you need ?"
"Police and ambulance, plus 'Fire & Rescue' to remove an ankle shackle."
"What is the nature of your emergency ?"
"My name is Bryony Weston. My sisters, cousins and I were kidnapped from the NEC FX exhibition last night. Jack Roswell was also kidnapped. We have subdued our captors, but more may arrive. Time is of the essence. Please trace this call; we do not know our location beyond a mansion set in wooded grounds. We dare not explore."
"Thank you... We have your location. Help is on the way. Please stay on the line."
"Understood." After a moment, Bryony added. "And bring body-bags. Lots of body-bags."
First up was a police helicopter. It came in very, very low, noisily went to and fro, then circled warily. Many sirens converged. A succession of loud thuds followed by an expensive crash told of a big door's demise. Multiple 'armed response' teams entered, shouting dire warnings ahead. By now, Bryony and I had taken out our crimson contacts, were sat on the floor, arms wide, hands open to present least threat. Our corridor's scary fire-team bid us stay, went on, was greeted by cheers.
With the site secured, a bemused paramedic wrapped us in rustling foil 'blankets', led us back to the body-strewn ball-room.
Several paramedics were patiently certifying most of the goons as 'Dead at Scene'. Two burly fire-men were slowly, slowly ratchetting long-handled bolt-cutters through the hardened staple of the big padlock on Jack's fetter. The Sheikh, guarded by two 'armed response' officers, sat to one side and smirked.
"Have you read him his rights ?" Bryony snapped at the police team.
"And you are ?" The Incident Commander was not impressed by her demeanour.
"Bryony Weston. I called this in--"
"He's claimed Diplomatic Immunity !" Anna called across the room.
"You rat !" Bryony rounded on the Sheikh, who shrank from her cold fury. The room temperature seemed to dip a dozen degrees as they locked eyes and she hissed, "You will so waive your immunity ! You will admit to receiving stolen goods ! You will express profound remorse for hasty words which your facilitator mistook ! You will condemn his excess of zeal, apologise to Jack Roswell, offer restitution !"
After nearly a minute, white as a sheet, he dropped his gaze, muttered, "I-- I waive my diplomatic immunity. I-- I wish to make a statement."
The Incident Commander raised an eloquent eye-brow, but waved an officer forwards to formally warn, "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
Bryony kept her icy gaze on the broken Sheikh until he'd said his lines and been led away in hand-cuffs. His facilitator could not object; with a 'Glasgow Coma Score' counted on one hand, he was barely alive. In my experience, he'd not survive the week. Still, given he'd threatened children within Bryony's hearing, he was fortunate she hadn't shanked that screw-driver up his nose or down an ear-canal.
Clunk ! Proceedings were punctuated by that hardened lock's staple finally yielding.
"Thank you," Jack whispered into the silence after his big shackle fell free. "Thank you..."
After directing that chain, locks and shackle be bagged as evidence, the Incident Commander turned to Jack and asked, "Mr. Roswell, are you fit to give a statement ?"
"Hell, yes," Jack replied, rubbing his bruised ankle. "For your information, the Sheikh was going to fly me out bound, gagged and dressed in a burqa. I doubt I'd make it back."
"Ah..." The Incident Commander nodded slowly, then glanced at the iPad shown to him by an aide. He did a double-take, beckoned Bryony closer, quietly asked, "Ms. Weston, were you the 'Witness B' who went under-cover and broke that Pedo ring in--"
"Yes." Bryony nodded once. "Rolled them up like a rotten stair-carpet."
"How did you hide your 'wire' ?"
"Don't even surmise."
"Ah..." The Incident Commander took a shaky breath, turned to our set. After studying the gaps and the tossed FX, he asked, "So, you five are the 'Wyrde Sisters' stunt team ?"
"Yes."
"And, some-how, you've been part of this set since Sunday afternoon ?"
"Yes."
"My nephew was at the show on Monday. He said your, uh, 'Hobgoblins' were so life-like, they took animatronics to a new level. But, if you five were--"
"Yes," Jack stated. "A technique we call 'meat puppetry'."
"You drive people like robots ?"
"Or prosthetic limbs," Jack allowed. "It's weird, it's scary, but these heroes can hack it wholesale."
"We're stunt players." Bryony gave our stock reply. "We just wear the FX."
"And now your show's ruined..."
"Perhaps not," Jack reckoned. "If we could get these modules back to the NEC today, we'd be 'business as usual' tomorrow."
"Think of the PR value," Anna prompted. "Excellent police work, a crucial lead, a dawn raid, the kidnap victim freed from a heavy shackle, the priceless set returned under armed guard ?"
The Incident Commander's eyes widened. He asked, "What do you need ?"
"A ten-pallet, tail-loading truck or short 'semi' with cab," Jack listed. "Four good banksmen."
The Incident Commander glanced to his aide, who suggested, "There was an 'Eddie Stobart' depot about ten miles back. They may have something..."
They did.
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
-
Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1781
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Game, Set & Match #24
Game, Set & Match #24
Wearing our 'wet suits' for modesty, the five of us accompanied Jack to the Oxfordshire police incident centre in a crew-bus. If we seemed a bit giggly, it was partly relief, and partly because our up-standing wrigglers gave us a mild frisson on every bump and turn. After giving our statements, a mini-bus ran us to the FX team's hotel at the NEC complex, where we were smuggled in through a fire-door. When the team's hug-fest abated, we took turns in the wash-rooms, enjoyed long, long showers, then raided our second big suitcase for the 'Hello Kitty' smalls and sweats we'd worn travelling South on the Saturday. Casually dressed, we demolished a tray-meal apiece for brunch.
While most of the FX team re-assembled the set in its NEC gallery, two inspected and tested our body-stockings. We'd peeled them with scant concern for re-use but, happily, we'd done no lasting harm. A few pick-ups replaced, we were good to go.
Dinner time brought more tray meals, which we demolished. Pleasantly full, we lounged about for several hours watching 'News 24'. The NEC ram-raid, Jack's kidnap and rescue were still top of the UK news. The Incident Commander and his delighted boss, the Deputy Chief Constable, gave a brief press conference explaining how excellent police work plus a crucial lead had prompted a dawn raid, freeing Jack and recovering the stolen set.
Later that evening, when the FX show had closed for the night, the hotel lent three big 'laundry basket' trolleys to smuggle us across the service road to the adjacent NEC gallery. Body-stockinged, 'wet suited', goblin-skinned, gloved, masked etc, we were settled onto our modules and run through our paces.
It felt so good to be doing our stuff again. It felt so good to have the sequencer drive our limbs and augments through those familiar moves. All was well. The team put our dust covers in place, dimmed the gallery lights, locked up. We took our supper feeds, enjoyed a leisurely pee and butt-flush. Maintenance complete, we 'waggled our wings' several times before settling down for the night. Knowing armed police were patrolling the NEC let us sleep soundly.
Wearing our 'wet suits' for modesty, the five of us accompanied Jack to the Oxfordshire police incident centre in a crew-bus. If we seemed a bit giggly, it was partly relief, and partly because our up-standing wrigglers gave us a mild frisson on every bump and turn. After giving our statements, a mini-bus ran us to the FX team's hotel at the NEC complex, where we were smuggled in through a fire-door. When the team's hug-fest abated, we took turns in the wash-rooms, enjoyed long, long showers, then raided our second big suitcase for the 'Hello Kitty' smalls and sweats we'd worn travelling South on the Saturday. Casually dressed, we demolished a tray-meal apiece for brunch.
While most of the FX team re-assembled the set in its NEC gallery, two inspected and tested our body-stockings. We'd peeled them with scant concern for re-use but, happily, we'd done no lasting harm. A few pick-ups replaced, we were good to go.
Dinner time brought more tray meals, which we demolished. Pleasantly full, we lounged about for several hours watching 'News 24'. The NEC ram-raid, Jack's kidnap and rescue were still top of the UK news. The Incident Commander and his delighted boss, the Deputy Chief Constable, gave a brief press conference explaining how excellent police work plus a crucial lead had prompted a dawn raid, freeing Jack and recovering the stolen set.
Later that evening, when the FX show had closed for the night, the hotel lent three big 'laundry basket' trolleys to smuggle us across the service road to the adjacent NEC gallery. Body-stockinged, 'wet suited', goblin-skinned, gloved, masked etc, we were settled onto our modules and run through our paces.
It felt so good to be doing our stuff again. It felt so good to have the sequencer drive our limbs and augments through those familiar moves. All was well. The team put our dust covers in place, dimmed the gallery lights, locked up. We took our supper feeds, enjoyed a leisurely pee and butt-flush. Maintenance complete, we 'waggled our wings' several times before settling down for the night. Knowing armed police were patrolling the NEC let us sleep soundly.
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
-
Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1781
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Game, Set & Match #25
Game, Set & Match #25
Thursday brought a very big crowd, hardly surprising given all the publicity. Friday, the numbers doubled. Saturday, with the NEC packed to the rafters, the show stewards had to work a strict queuing system.
At last, two hours before the judging panel sat, it was time for our 'Big Reveal'. Our shaken sponsor had arrived, leading the show's FX VIPs, who'd been promised 'Something Special'. Two police officers had brought the cuffed Sheikh.
Fred signalled to Jack, who duly ran that hidden routine to disconnect us. Without warning, Anna leaped from 'his' rock, began hooting and beating 'his' chest. Marianne stood, saucily wiggled her butt at 'him', led her now-priapic Alpha Male on a merry chase around the 'cave'. Bryony and I began squabbling over a bone, our 'push and shove' quickly escalating to a vicious fight. Ellen scampered across the set, stole a juicy calf-bone from Anna's cache, gnawed hungrily.
"Djinni ! Djinni !" The Sheikh's hysterics were lost to the rising roar from our astonished audience.
As planned, Fred let us rôle-play for a while, then cued Jack to still the set. Clapping his hands, Fred waved us forwards. He turned to our audience, shouted, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the 'Wyrde Sisters' !"
It was a 'coup de théâtre'. Our 'Hobgoblin Cave' scooped awards in multiple categories, then took 'Best in Show'. The FX team collected 'Special Commendations' for both 'Innovation' and 'Integration'. Still in costume, though minus tusks, the five of us bestrode the podium and left laden.
Rather late that evening, still buzzing, the five of us, the FX team and our delighted sponsor were sitting around in our suite when a call came from the constable in the corridor. We had a visitor. Though his pat-down proved clear, our armed guards waved us to cover before easing the door open.
"Uh, hi !" Our unexpected visitor was one of the FX VIPs, famous for his work on several block-buster movies. "Hi, guys ! You're doing wonderful work ! Your themes ? Inspired ! Your 'Blobs' ? Astonishing ! Puppeteering people ? Who'd have thought ! That 'Big Reveal' ? Wow ! May I license the tech for my next project ?"
"Y-- Yes," Fred managed to gasp into the room's sudden silence.
Then our visitor pulled several, much-folded sheets of paper from an inside pocket, carefully opened them. Rather diffidently, he asked, "Could your team help me with this ?"
It was a Big Idea-- No, it was a Very Big Idea.
It was bold. It was scary. It would take our FX team's work to a new level.
It was 'Game, Set & Match' to us 'Wyrde Sisters' !!
--
Nik_Note: That 'Big Idea' ? Not a clue, I wasn't 'Read In'...
Thursday brought a very big crowd, hardly surprising given all the publicity. Friday, the numbers doubled. Saturday, with the NEC packed to the rafters, the show stewards had to work a strict queuing system.
At last, two hours before the judging panel sat, it was time for our 'Big Reveal'. Our shaken sponsor had arrived, leading the show's FX VIPs, who'd been promised 'Something Special'. Two police officers had brought the cuffed Sheikh.
Fred signalled to Jack, who duly ran that hidden routine to disconnect us. Without warning, Anna leaped from 'his' rock, began hooting and beating 'his' chest. Marianne stood, saucily wiggled her butt at 'him', led her now-priapic Alpha Male on a merry chase around the 'cave'. Bryony and I began squabbling over a bone, our 'push and shove' quickly escalating to a vicious fight. Ellen scampered across the set, stole a juicy calf-bone from Anna's cache, gnawed hungrily.
"Djinni ! Djinni !" The Sheikh's hysterics were lost to the rising roar from our astonished audience.
As planned, Fred let us rôle-play for a while, then cued Jack to still the set. Clapping his hands, Fred waved us forwards. He turned to our audience, shouted, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the 'Wyrde Sisters' !"
It was a 'coup de théâtre'. Our 'Hobgoblin Cave' scooped awards in multiple categories, then took 'Best in Show'. The FX team collected 'Special Commendations' for both 'Innovation' and 'Integration'. Still in costume, though minus tusks, the five of us bestrode the podium and left laden.
Rather late that evening, still buzzing, the five of us, the FX team and our delighted sponsor were sitting around in our suite when a call came from the constable in the corridor. We had a visitor. Though his pat-down proved clear, our armed guards waved us to cover before easing the door open.
"Uh, hi !" Our unexpected visitor was one of the FX VIPs, famous for his work on several block-buster movies. "Hi, guys ! You're doing wonderful work ! Your themes ? Inspired ! Your 'Blobs' ? Astonishing ! Puppeteering people ? Who'd have thought ! That 'Big Reveal' ? Wow ! May I license the tech for my next project ?"
"Y-- Yes," Fred managed to gasp into the room's sudden silence.
Then our visitor pulled several, much-folded sheets of paper from an inside pocket, carefully opened them. Rather diffidently, he asked, "Could your team help me with this ?"
It was a Big Idea-- No, it was a Very Big Idea.
It was bold. It was scary. It would take our FX team's work to a new level.
It was 'Game, Set & Match' to us 'Wyrde Sisters' !!
--
Nik_Note: That 'Big Idea' ? Not a clue, I wasn't 'Read In'...
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.