Leaving the Scientist’s place, it was later than she expected, and still dark out. It was already too late to get home and too soon to go to work, so she decided to take the initiative by via the riskiest available method of transportation; taking one of the shadowy fliers known as Night-Jaunts.
Before doing so, she ate the Rarebit beforehand so no one could see. As a result, she was already feeling lightheaded when she ventured into the lair of the Night Jaunts, a team of mischievous shadowy faceless imps who propelled a trackless trolley car, ramping it towards crowds of people for statistical inevitability. The more people they threatened to run over, the higher their chances of success. This should’ve put them in violation of numerous offenses of traffic security, but this was made difficult due to the fact that technically speaking, they were a theoretical entity, and didn’t actually exist.
They talked via highly pitched sounds that were practically impossible to perceive unless you were paying attention. Also, they were notoriously finicky and insisted on being referred to with a hard ‘G’ instead of a ‘J’, which everyone kept getting wrong because of the spelling.
“I’d like to employ the services of you Night Jaunts. I mean, Night Jaunts. I mean, Night Jaunts.”
The Girl wallowed in embarrassment as the confused imps watched her, then tittered in amused union. They’d never been regarded and then self-corrected three times in the proper pronunciation before.
“Can you drop me off at the Building?”
___~~~~~—__-~~
“No, I’d like the scenic route.”
The noise the Head Night Jaunt made was a screechy wail filled with disappointment.
“I don’t know! Take whatever path you want!”
She wrote down the time and address she was expected to arrive, hoping to get some well-deserved shut-eye. The Rarebit was already starting to affect her, and the constant shaking in the carriage wasn’t helping matters much.
She started to nod off as the Night Jaunts drifted off, sprouting wings and knocking the trolley carriage higher into the sky. There were the expected sounds as the car was jostled towards numerous houses, stone walls, trolley cars and the crunching of bones through its undeterred madscape path. Pressing her head against the window, the violent rocking motions were soothing as she
found herself back at the beginning of the room. She weaved her way through the obstacles again, only this time, she found herself being less enthusiastic than before. The path that had once seemed so easy was now much more problematic, and she wound up getting caught in some of the traps.
When she reached the end, the Archeologist told her, “Not good enough. Try again.”
She found herself back at the beginning once again, and this time, she didn’t even get to make it halfway before succumbing to the litany of traps. But even the release of death was denied her. She was back at the beginning of the room again.
“Plan ahead. The timer starts as soon as you leave that plate.”
Memorizing the methods of the traps was an exercise in futility. They presented no clear pattern. She just started blindly blazing her way through, trying to get the ordeal over and done with. She already did well enough the first time. Why did she have to do this over and over again? She tried asking the Archeologist, but whenever she reached the end, he kept telling her, “Not good enough. Try again.”
It was an exercise in frustration, and after the umpteenth unsuccessful attempt, she decided not to try again. If nothing she did was going to be good enough, and she was going to wind up back where she started, why bother?
From the other side, the angry voice of the Archeologist could be heard. “What are you doing? Get over here!”
“I’m just saving you time.”
“You just need more practice.”
“There’s so much repetition involved!”
“You’re getting better.”
“I shaved off a minute, and it still wasn’t fast enough for you. If you want a good time, why don’t you do it yourself?”
“That’s not how it - hang on. Just stay right where you are.”
“I have no intention of moving.” She defiantly sat down in direct opposition of his orders. As long as she didn’t budge from this spot, the timer wouldn’t start. Then she noticed the tile she was sitting on was beginning to move. It started to lift up in mid-air, and she held on to the wobbling platform, trying to keep from falling off as the Archeologist manipulated previously unseen controls on his side. She sat petrified as she just barely dodged needles, stakes, flames, axes, spears, darts, pitfalls, crushers, boulders and moving walls that narrowly grazed her shaking form as the tile made its way across the room.
When she was laid to rest on the opposite side, having held her breath the whole time, the Archeologist proudly claimed, “Hah! 00:00:00! Beat that!”
And then she woke up.
She exited the battered trolley car, which had racked up numerous arrowheads, drenched seaweed, scorch marks, bodily fluids and other unmentionables. Where DID they take her around overnight? No matter. She was outside the Building an hour ahead of schedule, and made her way inside.
She wound up being five minutes late.
“You’re late!”
“I... I...” she stammered, looking back, trying to figure out how she could’ve lost so much time in the brief interval between going through the door and inside.
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