Quoted By:
>Chillax
A-OK? Gil could be injured right now, or kidnapped, or murdered, and you're not certain you appreciate Casey's breeziness. ...But on the other hand, you are tired, and hot, and inexplicably thirsty, and a cold beverage sounds phenominal— and also, Gil abandoned you, so if he got kidnapped he was kind of asking for it. Not that he is kidnapped, positive thinking. He's probably fine. What's the worst he could run into in a glorified office?
"Okay," you say tentatively. "Do you happen to have... pink umbrellas?"
—
Due to some miscommunication, your lounge chair is parked under the cooling shade of a large pink umbrella, but you did manage to decorate your fruit punch eventually. (Even if you had to suffer through Casey's bemusement.) Though between the umbrella, your Headspace-brand sun visor, and the punch's enormous ice cubes, you've plummeted straight past 'uncomfortably hot' into 'uncomfortably cold': you rub your sleeves to keep from shivering. Glenn, Iris, and Allan all departed with little fanfare, only brief, stilted goodbyes: you couldn't tell if they were awed by your presence or by Casey's, whom all of them (even Allan) handled like a hot stove. You've been alone for a solid half-hour, watching Casey grow increasingly manic— though he's left you be, thank God, and directed his attention alternately at the beleaguered rescue crew and his squawky earpiece.
You should be beginning to get worried, you feel, but mainly you're just drowsy. Richard hasn't said anything in a long time. The air smells like dust. It is hot outside, even if you're chilled. It is late afternoon. Your fruit punch is mostly empty, and the ice cubes clank against the sides of the glass. You can feel yourself slipping, in a terribly banal kind of way, toward shallow sleep.
You don't make it that far.
"Ow! What the fuck! Get <span class="mu-i">off—</span> this is not how you treat a fucking valued guest, are you listening? I'm going to— <span class="mu-i">ow!</span> I'm going to take note of— fuck!" Madrigal's upper body flops over the edge of the sinkhole, by which you mean Gil's— Gil's upper body flops over the edge, and after some wriggling and wrenching of pulleys he works his legs out too. His job is made more difficult, you realize after a second, by his bulky harness— and by his hands, which are bound together by zip-tie behind his back.
(1/2)
