Quoted By:
>Press your luck
If only Rudy were less wary! Rather than getting an eyeful of the people you've heard so much about, you're forced to witness the dirty stuff of eating: the mush is chopped and greenish-brown, and with every scrape oily liquid pools behind it. What luck it apparently tastes like nothing, rather than how it looks; what luck <span class="mu-i">taste</span> isn't a sense you're plugged into. Your only reprieve is the occasional flick upward, just long enough to process Management's latest location (they are zigzagging in your direction), then back down to the table and plate and spoon.
You know something's happened when there's a chorus of scraping: everybody at the table is pulling their chairs in. Dirty napkins are hidden under plates. Rudy, to your auditory displeasure, scarfs down the last of his mush, wipes his mouth, hides his napkin, looks up.
They don't need introduced. Management, here, is three people: two women, crisp and dark; one man, sleek and nigh-albino. Their suits and pantsuits and pencil skirts are white and black and the grey of coal. The man's tie is solid red.
Facially, they all look the same: not identical, but something like first cousins. Their noses are slight, their ears small, their lips thin, their chins moderate. You can discern little of the top halves of their faces, because all three are wearing mirrored sunglasses. From what you can see, their expressions are neutral.
"Mr. Keene, Mr. Mariscal, Ms. Ly, Ms. Boykin. Mr. Doheny." The Management man's voice sounds oddly processed. "How does this evening's meal please you?"
Everybody, Rudy included, mumbles that they're very pleased.
"Mr. Keene?" the left-hand Management woman says.
Okay, not everybody. Not Howard, who picks up an unused fork and runs his thumb against its tines. The rest of the table looks down or sideways. After another moment, he hunches his shoulders.
"It's fine. Good."
"How agreeable," the right-hand woman says, as exhales are taken. "It has been formulated to fulfill all nutritional requirements."
"You can taste it," Howard mutters. The Management man speaks over him. "Mr. Doheny."
Are you becoming attuned to Rudy's physical state, or was it your stomach that dropped? It's not that you're concerned about being caught— of course you're too clever for that to ever occur, positive thinking— it's basic conditioning. The way the man delivered Rudy's last name is <span class="mu-i">exactly</span> how Richard says 'Charlotte Fawkins.'
"...Yes?"
Despite the sunglasses, it's blatant that all three of them are staring at Rudy. "We were appraised of a medical incident you suffered earlier this day. How has it progressed?"
"..." Rudy clears his throat. "It was passing. I received a clean bill of health afterward."
Silence from Management. Silence from the group. Silence from Rudy, who is scritching the underside of the table. <span class="mu-i">Are</span> they staring at Rudy? You prickle.
(1/3)
