#arverse

The story takes place from before to the moment when Megatron has turned to the ‘evil’ side, abandoning his friends for his own decisions.

The story takes place in the time the videos are published.

The story is based around Jay — The main protagonist/character going through the tapes he got from his friend Alex, who worked on a movie called ‘Marble Hornets’. In doing so, he uncovers a horrifying convoluted story that he might regret dragging himself into.

Breathe.

In, out.

In... Out...

The rain makes it hard to think. Thmp-thmp-thmp in my ears.

Breathe again. C'mon, think.

Flexsteel windows are supposed to withstand acid rain and concussive wind blasts. The glass cutter in my hand might leave a scratch.

What do I do? What do I do?

Crackling comm in my ear tells me Zig is waiting to hear that I've gotten inside the building. Impatiently waiting. Use your brain, zadrota! Breathe!

My left hand digs around in the burglar's bag slung cross-ways over my chest. Where's the blin cutter? Blast it, it was just here--

"What's taking so long?"

I cut my finger on something sharp and I draw away my finger, glaring at the offending crimson drop at the tip.

"What's taking me so blasted long is fumbling with the stracking cutter!" My muffled voice echoes against the storm-coated flexsteel for a moment before it's choked by the murky air and hissing rain.

The only answer I get are the too-evenly-spaced words in too-cool-of-a-tone: "What was that?"

I almost swear. I could strangle him for all the help he is. I shove my hand back in the bag with a vengeance. When I yank out the streamlined cutter, feedback screeches its all-encompassing fury as if it were planned.

I fight the urge to scream abuse at the voice in my ear or to yank out the comm and throw it down to the ground 126 stories below. Instead, I seethe: "What the strack, Zig, you psikh?" If there was a growl or three in there, well... who could blame me? My ears are still ringing.

"You weren't responding to normal communication. I thought, perhaps, you were experiencing difficulty with the frequency of your comm." Yeah, and I thought you were experiencing difficulty being an insufferable-- "What is your status?"

I heave an inward sigh and turn my head upward, squinting in the mildly acrid downpour. It isn't dangerous... so long as you don't mind your outermost layer of skin peeling away. With little effort, I imagine Zig's face up at the top of the building. In my mind's eye he grudgingly manipulates the winch and pulley that lowered my agitated self to the 109th floor, wearing a smirk in place of his indomitable poker face. Probably laughing. Probably at my expense.

"My status is... complicated."

"Explain."

"Your intel," I reply, raising my voice over the crinkle-crackle of our comm-static and the cutting rain. "It's flawed." Silence fills the radio waves, and I would have laughed had it not been so devastating to our plan. Through the comms, he mutters something angry-sounding in French. "Zig, talk to me."

"Which part of the intel?"

"The glass isn't glass. It's flexsteel." I wait a moment and smack the flat edge of the glass cutter against my leg. Hard. "Ideas? Or are you going to stay silent?"

I can hear the weight behind Zig's sigh when he deigns to answer. "What grade is it? Can the cutter scratch it?" A quick bzzt with the cutter answers the question. A diagonal line a hairsbreadth wide bisects the flexsteel.

"Looks like B-grade. The cutter can scratch it, but just so."

"Score it with the cutter in an 'X.'" I murmur my assent and brace both feet against the bottom corners of the window. I stick a supporting hand on the window, gripping it best I can with nothing to grip. With only the slightest of grumbles, I begin cross-hatching the window. Scree... bzzt.... scree.... bzzt...

"That'll give you a point to aim for."

Whoa, whoa, whoa... I stop cutting, hand trembling with the effort. What was he saying...?

"What am I aiming at?" Another thought hits me and I give my rucksack a cursory glance. "And what am I aiming with?"

Silence for one wind gust... two wind gusts... Then Zig's reluctant voice: "After you score the window, kick off from the center. As you build momentum, your force will build also. You can split the faux-steel."

I steady myself on my cable, gripping it with only slight annoyance. I hook the cutter in a belt loop and massage my forehead until my Zig-related headache begins to subside. But only a bit. After prodding the dual-incision I'd begun to make with a healthy dose of skepticism, I heave a sigh. It gave a millimeter. Maybe two. "No way this works."

"If it does, I'm buying drinks." Oh. Well. That settles it then, doesn't it?

||

A half hour later, I'd hawed, hacked, sawed, sliced, and the 'X' mark began to wobble with barely enough motion to make me rethink this being a good idea - Oh wait! I didn't ever say this was a good idea!

I page Zig's comm to remind him thusly, but before I can, I am interrupted from above: "You should have penetrated the outer layer of flexsteel by now."

The rain dissipates along with my last remaining ounce of patience. I clench my fist hard enough to draw blood through my friction gloves. Adjusting my goggles, I plant both booted feet on the glass plating smack in the center. This is going to be messy.

Before I can taste the regret, or my annoyance, or the bitter resentment that I hadn't thought of the stupid idea first, I kick off the window plate and slam through the window.

Shattering sounds split the stagnant night air, as shards of acrylic fracture against the floor. I land inside a dark room. It's so dark that when I wave a hand in front of my face, I get the distinct imagery of being sucked into a black hole. I stifle long-dead feelings of claustrophobia and slip off the filtration mask to hook it to my belt.

Shaking like a dog, I edge forward in a crouch inch by inch as my eyes adjust. I reach out with both hands and brush against a door knob. Easing it open, I crawl in sans sound. Within a few moments, I can see I'm inside... not an office building. I also see I'm not in an empty room, either.

Military-style bunks line all four walls arranged in three rows, effectively blocking my view of half the room. Unfortunately, the room isn't empty - and neither are the beds.

I stand upright and almost collide forehead-to-chin with a guy wrapped in a towel from the waist down. His dark hair was dripping wet, like he'd just gotten out of the shower. Electric blue eyes shine back at me in shock. We both jerk, but only I do so effectively. He wheels back, lunging for his bunk. He comes up with a very nice-looking stun gun. The haloed 'A' on the hilt marks it as ArmaTech.

Towel-Guy takes aim, but I'm already moving away. I whip around the first row of bunks, merging with other shadowy forms milling about trying to find the intruder. The only difference distinguishing me from them is that I'm looking for a door.

Towel-Guy shouts: "Hey, stop!" and then everyone who wasn't already awake is up.

The shadows around me thrash as I push and pull; they don't yet realize that their ranks are infiltrated. Those that don't jump out of their beds with a gun or a knife have one within easy reach. One woman pulls out an impact slug rifle from the rack above hers and aims it - all without leaving her bunk. At least eight laser sights paint my chest red. About a dozen others range around the room, shifting from head to chest to leg before the guns' owners realize they had inadvertently target one of their own.

Regardless of their confusion, their reaction time is extremely impressive. I can't help the thought that maybe this wasn't the kind of resistance I was expecting, so I don't stick around.

The fact that no one has taken a shot at me tells me these are professionals. Any kind of shot would end with not just my own injury (or death), but two others, at least. The quarters are too close, but the moment someone decides hand-to-hand combat is the way to go, I'm sunk. I don't like the odds, so I duck under rifle butts and sig sauers and about twelve other types of firearms. There are a few knives in there too, though no one makes a move when they can't distinguish between friendly or hostile.

Unfortunately, Towel-Guy still tracks my movement. I can see his eyes squinting at me between racks, flickering in the black. I finally latch onto a doorknob and twist. The laser targets wink out of existence as I tumble into the hallway. It's gray like the rest of what I've seen of the building, but it's blissfully empty. I kick up and force myself to move. No one has made it outside the makeshift barracks yet, so I crouch to blend with shadow.

"Hey, what's happening? Are you still there?"  Zig's voice startles me and I hiss indignantly. I can't risk talking now, so I run in a half-crouched position down the next hall, shooting quick glances behind me. I see a dark head poking out from the room, but I whip around the next corner before it can make me out. Ducking into a stairwell, I take the steps up two at a time. Only once I make it past four flights into a group of cubicles do I stop to breathe.

My pulse is roaring and gulping in my ears. Adrenaline makes me feel cold and hot at the same time, a combination I'd be more okay with if it didn't mean sweating and shivering simultaneously.

I lean my head back against the wall and just breathe. Four big breaths, and I'm ready to speak. "Zig, I busted into a barracks packed full of armed security with inhuman reaction times. Wanna talk my way out of this one for me?"

The comm crackles in my ear for what I know must be minutes and minutes, but when I check my wrist, it's been 8.5 seconds. Blin.

"That's a problem," replies the enigmatic idiot atop the roof.

"Yeah, net neuzheli!" I growl back, silencing some choice words as I hear guards run past my floor.

He responds soon enough: "Firearms - what do they have and how skilled are they with them?"

I run through the long and short of it - the startled towel man, the excessive weaponry, and the fact that they are likely on my tail. He whistles softly when I finish and collects his thoughts far too slow for my liking. "The ArmaTech weapons are highly unusual. They aren't cheap, and only the best private security firms contract them. Ex-military carry them, too. You're dealing with professionals, here."

I groan and suppress an additional growl.

Zig continues as if I were sitting safely beside him, and definitely not hiding behind a secretary's desk where defensive measures consist of a stapler, 37 paper clips, and twenty reams of paper. "They can't be guarding the offices, or even the bank level. Either our package is worth more than we're getting paid, or there's something even bigger in there."

Footsteps echo dangerously close. I turn and skulk alongside the wall towards a fire exit. "What do I do, Zig?" I mumble into my wrist, muffling the noise in my sleeve. "Job on? Or abort?"

Silence for a solid second before Zig answers again: "Finish it out if you can. Make your way to the vault level. If you're compromised, abort." Silence for another few moments and I wonder if he's signed off. Then a hushed voice whispers so softly that I half think I've imagined it: "This is bigger than both of us."

I squint in suspicion upward, where I know Zig waits. What does that mean?