Smooth jazz.
It was directionless, dreamlike, and messy. Everything Marcus Fortune hated in music, wrapped up into one genre. For some inexplicable reason, it just… put him on edge.
And, of course, of all the elevators, this one played smooth jazz. The only sound that rivaled the music in terms of volume was the screeching of the rustic car as it descended uneasily. He looked at the control panel. 52 blinked slowly.
Marcus wasn’t sure if he wanted to get there faster or slower than his current speed was taking him. At this rate, either would be preferable. It was a slow enough trip for him to create terrible scenarios of what he might find, but too quick for his mind to calm the anxieties.
Abruptly, the music cut out, replaced by a jarring buzz, followed by an enthusiastic female voice.
“Now passing basement level 45!”
The music resumed ungracefully, directly cutting in to a saxophone and piano screaming at one another. He groaned, tapping his boot impatiently on the tread plate. Putrid, half solidified fat shook out from the grooves in the sole. For a moment, Marcus caught a glimpse of his reflection in the door. A young man of 22 years old, calmly covered in the gore of his enemies. His lime green polo was ripped to shreds at the left shoulder, almost completely soaked in grease. The worn denim jeans didn’t fare much better. His right knee burned with pain, but he knew that if he felt it, he would feel the crack in the bone. For now, he shifted his weight onto his left foot instead, minimizing the distraction. It never fully went away. He'd need to make up a good excuse for the limp he'd have walking into economics tomorrow.
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What have I become? He thought.
“Now passing basement level 50!" The voice brought him back to the moment. Not long now.
Marcus flipped the small hiking pack from his back to his front, then opened it, inspecting the contents. Inside was a clear spray bottle of cleaning fluid, filled with a green, bioluminescent liquid. The bottle’s trigger had been tied back with a thick rubber band, so none of the liquid could escape. Duct taped to the bottle was a small handheld phone. The old dot-matrix display didn't light up on its own, so Marcus couldn’t tell if it had a charge unless he either removed it from the bag to shine in the elevator’s light, or he pressed one of the keys himself. While it was safe in theory, his gut prevented him from doing either of those things. Just having it in his bag, with nothing but thin cloth separating it from his body, was enough to make him weary. He inspected the bottle for cracks one last time, before returning it back to the bag.
“Arrived at basement level 52. Have a nice day!” Marcus braced himself, ready for the doors to open.
Without warning, he small light above him popped, showering him in darkness and glass. Reacting quickly, but startled from the event, Marcus reached through the darkness, clawing to find the small crack between the elevator's doors.
A sharp hissing noise blasted a cloud of gas from somewhere behind his head. He drew a sharp breath in surprise, and the sterile-smelling substance rushed into his nostrils, colder than ice. He continued to feel for a hold on the doors, trying not to panic. It wasn't possible. Not here. He was too far.
His eyes drooped involuntarily. All energy seemed to drain from his limbs at once, preserving only his mind. Falling flat on the diamond plate floor, he could still hear the hissing. The elevator chimed one last time. The voice had degraded significantly, crushing and robotic.
"WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR POSSESSIONS IDENTIFIED?"
Everything went dark.