Okay, this is more for me than for everyone else, so I can grip characters properly, but you might like to see it. But, I'm better at drawing than writing
As you might have guessed, it's about my character Cal's work-related accident at Vykkers Labs. A wee bit o' coarse language, so be warned. The characters I have here are, of course, Cal, he's an Intern working at VL. Grumpy, anti-social, and addicted to prescription drugs, he's pretty much the same as all the other Interns.
Pens (real name Luke) on the other hand, is happy-go-lucky, mischeivous, and laid back. Also a bit rebellious, and Cal's roomate. Cal... hates him.
And without any more ado:
‘Hey, wake up.’
He could feel someone poking him.
‘Dude, you’ll be late for your shift. Wake up!’
Cal mumbled something, and turned over. He liked sleeping. He didn’t get to do it very often.
‘Sigh.’ He heard footsteps walking away from him, followed by the faint sound of running water. Then-
‘BWAAAUURGH!!’ Cal screamed in shock, jumped clumsily out of bed, and landed face first on the floor, blankets entangled in his awkward legs. His roommate was laughing hysterically.
‘Shaddap, Pens.’ Cal glared at his attacker, nicknamed ‘Pens’, who had just poured a glass of freezing water all over his face.
Getting up, he looked into the cracked and dirty mirror across the room. Pulling out a drawer from under the sink, he looked inside, and took out a small box, labelled “Chill Pill”.
‘Hey, Pens...’ Cal stared into the box, which was empty.
‘What?’
‘I’m outta Chill Pills, can I borrow some of yours?’
‘Git y’own.’ Pens replied blankly, sitting on the upper bunk of the bed. ‘You gotta be the worst user of them things, y’know? I mean, not even the Interns from room #64 are that bad, and you know how-‘
‘Oh,
shut up.’ Cal was already peeved, and not having any anti-depressants to start the day with was even worse. Fishing around for some substitute, he found some random generic-brand goo in a tube and squeezed it into his mouth, found his headphones under the chair (‘The hell are they doing there?’), and opened the wardrobe to look for his ‘uniform’ (you couldn’t really call it that, but he did because all the Interns in Vykkers Labs did) - purple-and-yellow striped speedo’s, and matching baseball cap.
‘Mmkay... when’s your shift? Isn’t it the same as mine?’ Cal looked back at Pens, who was relaxing on the bed.
‘Nah. I got someone to cover for me.’ replied Pens, grinning smugly. Cal sneered, and turned to step out the dormitory door.
‘Don’t forget to stitch your mouth.’ Pens hollered in a teasing, sing-song voice.
‘Ah, ****-!’ Cal darted back and began a frantic search for a roll of surgical thread and needle, then haphazardly started to sew his mouth shut. The reason this was done is because the Vykkers hated to hear Interns whistling, which they often did when listening to the tunes on their headphones. To most of them nowadays, stitching and unstitching your own mouth at the beginning and end of each day was as regular as brushing your teeth.
Once that had been taken care of, Cal made his way to the Main Work Hall. Looking around, he could see he was definitely late. Vykkers, Interns, Mudokon Scrubs, the whole shebang was already there. Hurrying to the reception desk, he signed in and received his work papers.
TUESDAY:
6:00
Fuzzle testing – lab #347
7:30
Fuzzle testing – lab #296
8:00
Chemical research – lab #54
9:00
Fuzzle testing – lab #13
Cal looked down his timetable, and saw that it went on like this for a good 16 more hours- most of it being fuzzle testing. Sighing heavily, he turned to the left of the reception desk-
‘Hey, it's Cal right?’ one of the inferior Vykkers stepped out from behind the desk. ‘Humphrey wants a fuzzle delivered to his lab, number 13. You’re passing by there aren’t you? I saw it on your table somewhere.’ He said, shoving a small cage into his hands. Cal rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest.
‘He’s doing something to a gabbit in there, I think it’s surgery, so be careful you don’t stir him.’
Number 13. He finally found the damn room in this damn maze of a damn laboratory. The automatic doors opened with a swoosh, a he strode in. Humming off-key to his music, he walked to the central operating pit, and realized something was wrong.
Wasn’t there supposed to be a gabbit in the holding chair? Cal looked around, wondering if he was in the right room.
There, backed in a little corner, was the gabbit, surrounded by about four or five fuzzles. All looked at each other, apprehensive. Then Cal scowled, as if to say
“alright punk, get back in the chair, or someone gets slappy-punchy.”
Oh, he could never have imagined what would happen next...