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damned_lounge2010-10-31 08:49 pm
falseblack) wrote in damned_lounge2010-10-31 08:49 pm
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Oktoberfest '10: The Case of the Intercom System by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
psyches
Title: The Case of the Intercom System
Author: Psyche
Beta: Good ol' Jax
Word Count: 2307
Rating: PG-13 for language. Bad language.
Character(s): Dr. Martin Landel, Head Nurse Lydia, Nurse Janet, Dale, Bob, two Pauls, and an automated recording of a female
Pairing(s): Landel/Hold-time
Summary: The circumstances surrounding a situation are not always so clear. In the case of the new intercom system, they are.
Notes: I regret nothing.
Static and unintended feedback had become commonplace in the intercom system of Landel's Institute, like ten-year-old mold left to fester in Tupperware at the back of the refrigerator. It was an eyesore (or earsore, as the case may be) more purposely overlooked than attended to; it was the man with spinach obtrusively stuck between his front teeth as everyone skirted around the detail with wary discretion. It was an annoyance, and it was quickly becoming an everyday matter. At every hour of every shift, the instant the familiar jingle chimed overheard, patients and staff alike absentmindedly held fingers to their ears, their face grimacing on habit. Dr. Landel was beginning to suspect no one even knew what part of the announcements was unwanted; everything about them had become so garbled and terrible. Even at night, they ignored the vague hints, the less-than-subtle threats, the suspicious breathing, the deranged laughter--hell, they had even closed their ears to the thinly-veiled noises accompanying paperwork.
This had to stop. His announcements could not be anything below clarity, below perfection, lest the poor souls beneath him miss out on what exactly the hospital was about. What he was about. Martin was a man deserving of acknowledgment and fear from everyone else. He could not accomplish this without a working intercom system.
Thus, when the doctor realized no one had noted the clever usage of "Nintendo" and "Super"--twice in a single sentence, even--he summon Nurse Lydia for a high-priority, ultra secretive administrative staff meeting.
-----
The only ones who cared to show at his office was Lydia, the current supervisor of the front desk nurses, the in-house IT guy, and Bob the janitor--the last of whom Dr. Landel quietly dismissed after realizing the futility of grunt staff in offering helpful suggestions. No, bleach and ammonia would not help undo the failures in the intercom system.
He cleared his throat as Bob disappeared from behind the doorway. "As you all very well know," Martin began, "the intercom system has been experiencing a few...bugs as of late. You can say the place has been crawling with them, actually."
He allowed a brief pause as the pun sank in. Only the supervisor managed a forced giggle. Everyone else simply stared at the Head Doctor with a blank face.
"...Regardless," he continued, looking somewhat disappointed, "the quality of the system has deteriorated rapidly in the past few days. I can't even say a sentence without static interference." A sigh. "Therefore, we will be overhauling our intercom system within the next hour. During that time, all of you are to act accordingly to Code ID-10-T. Lydia."
The Head Nurse stiffened. Martin paid that no mind. "Please see to it that the nurses and orderlies keep everyone in the assigned rooms," he said. His eyes then turned to the young woman beside her. "Janet. We are not accepting visitation from anyone until next shift."
The addressed raised her forefinger as if to object. As a matter of fact, she had quite a list of exceptions to consider. "What about--"
"No."
"Then--"
"Sorry."
"But surely Mister--"
"No one." Once again, he cleared his throat. "Please ensure all of this is carried out appropriately. Thank you!" The high-pitched ending to the gesture of appreciation was cue for the two to leave. Lydia did so without hesitation, dragging the uncertain subordinate with her. They would have a brief talk about insubordination and questioning authority, he was certain.
With no one else left in the room, Dr. Landel turned his attention to the remaining occupant, a tall, lanky man with vanishing brown hair and thick wire glasses. "Dale," he started. His tone took a noticeable turn for the grave. "Are you sure we can't just rework the wiring?"
"No can do, Doc," Dale replied. "The entire intercom system is outdated. Software, hardware... It's been that way for several years, in fact." He raised a ring finger to scratch his cheek, as if considering the horrendously outdated technology. "We're operating on a 0002-compatible system; we need to be up to at least Atsiv. You're looking at a month--tops--before sound capability goes out the window."
"Damnation," he muttered under his breath. "All right, fine. We'll get an Atsiv system--"
"Might be better if it was Seven. Then we'd be caught up."
"--Okay, Seven." It took patience to not grind his teeth to the gum. "But I need a company that can get this up and running within the hour. I have very important announcements coming up, and I need the patients' full attention." Silence. "Also, this has to be cheap. I can't sacrifice the entire budget for an intercom system." Even if it meant everyone would actually be listening to him.
"Right-o," the IT guy replied. "If you're looking for a speedy setup and affordability, Macrohard is your man. They're advertised to get systems to full capability in ten minutes for about half as much."
This held promise. Martin pressed his palms together, a certain hope flashing behind his concentrated gaze. "Great. Wonderful. Get them in here now."
-----
There were initial hang-ups during the sales pitch (Who needed a black box that stored previous recordings, anyway?), but the Head Doctor managed to contract the aforementioned company for the job. They would be in for ten minutes to revamp the entire intercom system, and it would only cost Landel's Institute $350. It was ideal--better, even, than what he had initially dreamed. Version Seven promised a plethora of new features: high-definition sound, the fastest boot-up available, improved security against unauthorized interference, etc. Furthermore, they would be finished before patients were required to put down their controllers from playing Donkey Kong Country. Everything about it was ideal, a situation of perfection; nothing could possible go wrong.
Of course, when the narrator says that nothing could possible go wrong, you're shit-fucked.
-----
The first in the series of unfortunate events to come happened quietly. Without fanfare. Without anything, in fact, as the Macrohard technician was late. Dreadfully late.
In the beginning, the Head Doctor paid the matter little mind. Five minutes was nothing compared to an hour. The technician could arrive ten after, and no harm would come of it. When the clock reached closer to 20 minutes, however, the man had to take stock of the situation. He grew noticeably nervous. Twenty was not terrible, but it was past common courtesy.
At half past the hour, he rang in to the hospital's front desk. As expected, Janet answered the call: "Landel's Institute, Nurse Janet speaking."
"Janet." There existed a rough quality to the Head Doctor's voice that sent shivers down the woman's spine. "Has anyone stopped by?"
Given the earlier discussion, she was quick to address this question. "No, sir," she said, albeit nervously. "We've kept to protocol as you've ordered, Dr. Landel."
"No one?" Something like a curse could be heard on the other side. "Are you absolutely certain? Not a single person?"
"Yes!" She wasn't liking these questions at all. "We've turned away every visitor, even the one in the coveralls who mentioned something about doing some kind of revamping."
"Ah, ah! This is no good--no good in the slightest! We need that thing up and ru--" There was a pause. A restless sort of silence. Then, backtracking as the horrible, horrible truth established itself in the recesses of Dr. Landel's brain. "Wait." He inhaled in anticipation. "Coveralls?"
"Yes. I think he was a Macrohard technician, sir."
The last sound Nurse Janet heard from her end of the line was a strangled cry, something close to death and its effects. Whether it would herald in her own or the Head Doctor's, she could not say. No, she couldn't say at all.
----
Finally, after 15 minutes of undoing a misunderstanding, the technician arrived and began the commissioned work. As advertised, he was finished in ten minutes' time, leaving Dr. Landel with five minutes to familiarize himself with the system. It shouldn't be difficult; they had promised, after all, that the intercom would have a similar interface to the last one. He was certain to be ready for operation by dinner.
Of course, when the narrator says that it shouldn't be difficult, you're shit-fucked.
-----
Like the one before, this intercom system required a password at boot-up. And like the one before, the password consisted of a simple, four-letter word only the Head Doctor (and perhaps Lydia on her bingo nights) would know to say. Unlike the one before, however, the reply was a very specific message:
"Invalid password. Please try again."
He tried again. And again. And at least 20 times more. Martin even resorted to using his mother's maiden name, the name of his old pet hamster, and the last four digits of his Social Security number, but the same message came up each time:
"Invalid password. Please try again."
Haunting words. They threatened to stick until the man's dying breath.
-----
On another day, Dale would take over and manage some miraculous way to get it to accept whatever damn word that happened to spill out of Landel's mouth. Today, however, Dale had gone home early, a reward for thinking up such an ingenious idea. Ingenious no longer, but truth was truth. The Head Doctor had to deal with his current situation.
The only avenue, then, was Macrohard's technical support line. A little bothersome, but compared to the alternative, it wasn't so bad. The technician who had come in was competent; the rest should be no different.
Of course, when the narrator says... Eh, you get the picture by now.
-----
Dr. Landel picked up the phone and dialed the appropriate numbers. Two rings in, he heard the telltale click of an answer. No, the answer to his problems. Four minutes and 39 seconds left until dinner shift, and everything was going to fall into place now.
Instead of a greeting, however, he heard music.
And the calming tones of a female voice. The contents of her message, however, and the artificial nature of her cheeriness gave the voice away as an automated recording. "Thank you for calling Macrohard Customer Support," she spoke. "Your call is very important to us. Please hold. One of our Macrohard representatives will be with you shortly."
He held as instructed, every ounce of patience going into the task. The catchy rhythm of the jazz-inspired synthesizer music and the soothing voice of the recording did little to ease the burden Dr. Landel held. In fact, it only served to infuriate him more by the second, as indicated by his flushed face and drumming fingers. From across the room, the Head Nurse gave him a vague look of sympathy, though she hadn't a clue as to why he was suffering from such a simple phone call.
"Please continue to hold. One of our Macrohard representatives will be with you shortly."
Yes, "shortly". Much like the time he had left. She was mocking him, this automated recording. Mocking him like the patients and the staff who refused to listen to his very important announcements--
There was another click, and from the other end of the line, a male spoke. "Thank you for calling Macrohard Customer Support. My name is Paul. How may I assist you?" His voice was rough compared to the previous while the accent was thick enough for some misunderstandings (and there was no way his name was Paul), but for once, the Head Doctor had no complaints. It was not automated. It would be welcomed.
"Yes, please," he began almost desperately. "I've been on hold for four minutes and nine seconds, and I need to get my password to my Version Seven intercom system." How those two related was up for questioning, but Martin did not care. Thirty seconds remained.
"Certainly," the other man replied. "Please stay on the line while I transfer you to our technical support."
"No! I need help now! Don't transfer me--"
There was a click. The music returned. So, too, did the recording. The only difference this time was the light sobbing; that was not present before.
-----
Fifteen seconds and six transfers had passed before another Macrohard representative answered the line. This time, the representative proved to be the real deal: an actual technician.
His name was also Paul. He, too, had an accent.
"VERSION SEVEN," the Head Doctor screamed. "PASSWORD. NOW."
"I can get that for you," the tech promised. "I just need to verify your account first. Do you have your customer number?"
He tried to process the answer in a coherent manner, but nothing intelligent spilled out of Dr. Landel's mouth. Too much hold time. "Bwuh, uh-- What?"
"Customer number. It is a six to eight digit number--"
"I DON'T CARE WHAT IT IS. I NEED MY PASSWORD."
"I'm sorry, sir. We require you to verify your account before we can give out your password," "Paul" said smoothly. He probably had said this a million times before. "Now, you said your name was Martin Landel, correct? So N as in November, A as in alpha, R as in Romeo--"
At this point, the hate and the impatience born in the pits of his stomach exploded, and the Head Doctor raged. And yelled and screamed and gnashed his teeth in despair. He cried for a supervisor, for fair legalities, for the technician's head on a platter. He frothed at the mouth and seethed, limbs flailing in hopes of conveying the absolute urgency of the matter. It was urgent because the patients were waiting. They were waiting for a speech that would never come due to red tape and hold time.
Macrohard was to blame.
At four minutes and 59 seconds, before Lydia could reach into her pocket and pull out her own set of syringes, Dr. Landel passed out on his desk, red-faced and froth-filled.
-----
It took patience, an illegal concoction of chemicals, a time-altering device, and a unicorn, but eventually, the patients of Landel's Institute heard a jingle. A different sort of jingle, but it was one, nevertheless.
"Hello, everyone," the Head Doctor greeted, "from our new and improved intercom system! We've had electronics rehauling our circuitry, and you can hear the result quite nicely! A whole bunch of improvement!"
Sitting rigid in his seat, the man shuddered. He didn't know why.
"Right, anyway..."
Author: Psyche
Beta: Good ol' Jax
Word Count: 2307
Rating: PG-13 for language. Bad language.
Character(s): Dr. Martin Landel, Head Nurse Lydia, Nurse Janet, Dale, Bob, two Pauls, and an automated recording of a female
Pairing(s): Landel/Hold-time
Summary: The circumstances surrounding a situation are not always so clear. In the case of the new intercom system, they are.
Notes: I regret nothing.
Static and unintended feedback had become commonplace in the intercom system of Landel's Institute, like ten-year-old mold left to fester in Tupperware at the back of the refrigerator. It was an eyesore (or earsore, as the case may be) more purposely overlooked than attended to; it was the man with spinach obtrusively stuck between his front teeth as everyone skirted around the detail with wary discretion. It was an annoyance, and it was quickly becoming an everyday matter. At every hour of every shift, the instant the familiar jingle chimed overheard, patients and staff alike absentmindedly held fingers to their ears, their face grimacing on habit. Dr. Landel was beginning to suspect no one even knew what part of the announcements was unwanted; everything about them had become so garbled and terrible. Even at night, they ignored the vague hints, the less-than-subtle threats, the suspicious breathing, the deranged laughter--hell, they had even closed their ears to the thinly-veiled noises accompanying paperwork.
This had to stop. His announcements could not be anything below clarity, below perfection, lest the poor souls beneath him miss out on what exactly the hospital was about. What he was about. Martin was a man deserving of acknowledgment and fear from everyone else. He could not accomplish this without a working intercom system.
Thus, when the doctor realized no one had noted the clever usage of "Nintendo" and "Super"--twice in a single sentence, even--he summon Nurse Lydia for a high-priority, ultra secretive administrative staff meeting.
-----
The only ones who cared to show at his office was Lydia, the current supervisor of the front desk nurses, the in-house IT guy, and Bob the janitor--the last of whom Dr. Landel quietly dismissed after realizing the futility of grunt staff in offering helpful suggestions. No, bleach and ammonia would not help undo the failures in the intercom system.
He cleared his throat as Bob disappeared from behind the doorway. "As you all very well know," Martin began, "the intercom system has been experiencing a few...bugs as of late. You can say the place has been crawling with them, actually."
He allowed a brief pause as the pun sank in. Only the supervisor managed a forced giggle. Everyone else simply stared at the Head Doctor with a blank face.
"...Regardless," he continued, looking somewhat disappointed, "the quality of the system has deteriorated rapidly in the past few days. I can't even say a sentence without static interference." A sigh. "Therefore, we will be overhauling our intercom system within the next hour. During that time, all of you are to act accordingly to Code ID-10-T. Lydia."
The Head Nurse stiffened. Martin paid that no mind. "Please see to it that the nurses and orderlies keep everyone in the assigned rooms," he said. His eyes then turned to the young woman beside her. "Janet. We are not accepting visitation from anyone until next shift."
The addressed raised her forefinger as if to object. As a matter of fact, she had quite a list of exceptions to consider. "What about--"
"No."
"Then--"
"Sorry."
"But surely Mister--"
"No one." Once again, he cleared his throat. "Please ensure all of this is carried out appropriately. Thank you!" The high-pitched ending to the gesture of appreciation was cue for the two to leave. Lydia did so without hesitation, dragging the uncertain subordinate with her. They would have a brief talk about insubordination and questioning authority, he was certain.
With no one else left in the room, Dr. Landel turned his attention to the remaining occupant, a tall, lanky man with vanishing brown hair and thick wire glasses. "Dale," he started. His tone took a noticeable turn for the grave. "Are you sure we can't just rework the wiring?"
"No can do, Doc," Dale replied. "The entire intercom system is outdated. Software, hardware... It's been that way for several years, in fact." He raised a ring finger to scratch his cheek, as if considering the horrendously outdated technology. "We're operating on a 0002-compatible system; we need to be up to at least Atsiv. You're looking at a month--tops--before sound capability goes out the window."
"Damnation," he muttered under his breath. "All right, fine. We'll get an Atsiv system--"
"Might be better if it was Seven. Then we'd be caught up."
"--Okay, Seven." It took patience to not grind his teeth to the gum. "But I need a company that can get this up and running within the hour. I have very important announcements coming up, and I need the patients' full attention." Silence. "Also, this has to be cheap. I can't sacrifice the entire budget for an intercom system." Even if it meant everyone would actually be listening to him.
"Right-o," the IT guy replied. "If you're looking for a speedy setup and affordability, Macrohard is your man. They're advertised to get systems to full capability in ten minutes for about half as much."
This held promise. Martin pressed his palms together, a certain hope flashing behind his concentrated gaze. "Great. Wonderful. Get them in here now."
-----
There were initial hang-ups during the sales pitch (Who needed a black box that stored previous recordings, anyway?), but the Head Doctor managed to contract the aforementioned company for the job. They would be in for ten minutes to revamp the entire intercom system, and it would only cost Landel's Institute $350. It was ideal--better, even, than what he had initially dreamed. Version Seven promised a plethora of new features: high-definition sound, the fastest boot-up available, improved security against unauthorized interference, etc. Furthermore, they would be finished before patients were required to put down their controllers from playing Donkey Kong Country. Everything about it was ideal, a situation of perfection; nothing could possible go wrong.
Of course, when the narrator says that nothing could possible go wrong, you're shit-fucked.
-----
The first in the series of unfortunate events to come happened quietly. Without fanfare. Without anything, in fact, as the Macrohard technician was late. Dreadfully late.
In the beginning, the Head Doctor paid the matter little mind. Five minutes was nothing compared to an hour. The technician could arrive ten after, and no harm would come of it. When the clock reached closer to 20 minutes, however, the man had to take stock of the situation. He grew noticeably nervous. Twenty was not terrible, but it was past common courtesy.
At half past the hour, he rang in to the hospital's front desk. As expected, Janet answered the call: "Landel's Institute, Nurse Janet speaking."
"Janet." There existed a rough quality to the Head Doctor's voice that sent shivers down the woman's spine. "Has anyone stopped by?"
Given the earlier discussion, she was quick to address this question. "No, sir," she said, albeit nervously. "We've kept to protocol as you've ordered, Dr. Landel."
"No one?" Something like a curse could be heard on the other side. "Are you absolutely certain? Not a single person?"
"Yes!" She wasn't liking these questions at all. "We've turned away every visitor, even the one in the coveralls who mentioned something about doing some kind of revamping."
"Ah, ah! This is no good--no good in the slightest! We need that thing up and ru--" There was a pause. A restless sort of silence. Then, backtracking as the horrible, horrible truth established itself in the recesses of Dr. Landel's brain. "Wait." He inhaled in anticipation. "Coveralls?"
"Yes. I think he was a Macrohard technician, sir."
The last sound Nurse Janet heard from her end of the line was a strangled cry, something close to death and its effects. Whether it would herald in her own or the Head Doctor's, she could not say. No, she couldn't say at all.
----
Finally, after 15 minutes of undoing a misunderstanding, the technician arrived and began the commissioned work. As advertised, he was finished in ten minutes' time, leaving Dr. Landel with five minutes to familiarize himself with the system. It shouldn't be difficult; they had promised, after all, that the intercom would have a similar interface to the last one. He was certain to be ready for operation by dinner.
Of course, when the narrator says that it shouldn't be difficult, you're shit-fucked.
-----
Like the one before, this intercom system required a password at boot-up. And like the one before, the password consisted of a simple, four-letter word only the Head Doctor (and perhaps Lydia on her bingo nights) would know to say. Unlike the one before, however, the reply was a very specific message:
"Invalid password. Please try again."
He tried again. And again. And at least 20 times more. Martin even resorted to using his mother's maiden name, the name of his old pet hamster, and the last four digits of his Social Security number, but the same message came up each time:
"Invalid password. Please try again."
Haunting words. They threatened to stick until the man's dying breath.
-----
On another day, Dale would take over and manage some miraculous way to get it to accept whatever damn word that happened to spill out of Landel's mouth. Today, however, Dale had gone home early, a reward for thinking up such an ingenious idea. Ingenious no longer, but truth was truth. The Head Doctor had to deal with his current situation.
The only avenue, then, was Macrohard's technical support line. A little bothersome, but compared to the alternative, it wasn't so bad. The technician who had come in was competent; the rest should be no different.
Of course, when the narrator says... Eh, you get the picture by now.
-----
Dr. Landel picked up the phone and dialed the appropriate numbers. Two rings in, he heard the telltale click of an answer. No, the answer to his problems. Four minutes and 39 seconds left until dinner shift, and everything was going to fall into place now.
Instead of a greeting, however, he heard music.
And the calming tones of a female voice. The contents of her message, however, and the artificial nature of her cheeriness gave the voice away as an automated recording. "Thank you for calling Macrohard Customer Support," she spoke. "Your call is very important to us. Please hold. One of our Macrohard representatives will be with you shortly."
He held as instructed, every ounce of patience going into the task. The catchy rhythm of the jazz-inspired synthesizer music and the soothing voice of the recording did little to ease the burden Dr. Landel held. In fact, it only served to infuriate him more by the second, as indicated by his flushed face and drumming fingers. From across the room, the Head Nurse gave him a vague look of sympathy, though she hadn't a clue as to why he was suffering from such a simple phone call.
"Please continue to hold. One of our Macrohard representatives will be with you shortly."
Yes, "shortly". Much like the time he had left. She was mocking him, this automated recording. Mocking him like the patients and the staff who refused to listen to his very important announcements--
There was another click, and from the other end of the line, a male spoke. "Thank you for calling Macrohard Customer Support. My name is Paul. How may I assist you?" His voice was rough compared to the previous while the accent was thick enough for some misunderstandings (and there was no way his name was Paul), but for once, the Head Doctor had no complaints. It was not automated. It would be welcomed.
"Yes, please," he began almost desperately. "I've been on hold for four minutes and nine seconds, and I need to get my password to my Version Seven intercom system." How those two related was up for questioning, but Martin did not care. Thirty seconds remained.
"Certainly," the other man replied. "Please stay on the line while I transfer you to our technical support."
"No! I need help now! Don't transfer me--"
There was a click. The music returned. So, too, did the recording. The only difference this time was the light sobbing; that was not present before.
-----
Fifteen seconds and six transfers had passed before another Macrohard representative answered the line. This time, the representative proved to be the real deal: an actual technician.
His name was also Paul. He, too, had an accent.
"VERSION SEVEN," the Head Doctor screamed. "PASSWORD. NOW."
"I can get that for you," the tech promised. "I just need to verify your account first. Do you have your customer number?"
He tried to process the answer in a coherent manner, but nothing intelligent spilled out of Dr. Landel's mouth. Too much hold time. "Bwuh, uh-- What?"
"Customer number. It is a six to eight digit number--"
"I DON'T CARE WHAT IT IS. I NEED MY PASSWORD."
"I'm sorry, sir. We require you to verify your account before we can give out your password," "Paul" said smoothly. He probably had said this a million times before. "Now, you said your name was Martin Landel, correct? So N as in November, A as in alpha, R as in Romeo--"
At this point, the hate and the impatience born in the pits of his stomach exploded, and the Head Doctor raged. And yelled and screamed and gnashed his teeth in despair. He cried for a supervisor, for fair legalities, for the technician's head on a platter. He frothed at the mouth and seethed, limbs flailing in hopes of conveying the absolute urgency of the matter. It was urgent because the patients were waiting. They were waiting for a speech that would never come due to red tape and hold time.
Macrohard was to blame.
At four minutes and 59 seconds, before Lydia could reach into her pocket and pull out her own set of syringes, Dr. Landel passed out on his desk, red-faced and froth-filled.
-----
It took patience, an illegal concoction of chemicals, a time-altering device, and a unicorn, but eventually, the patients of Landel's Institute heard a jingle. A different sort of jingle, but it was one, nevertheless.
"Hello, everyone," the Head Doctor greeted, "from our new and improved intercom system! We've had electronics rehauling our circuitry, and you can hear the result quite nicely! A whole bunch of improvement!"
Sitting rigid in his seat, the man shuddered. He didn't know why.
"Right, anyway..."
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Thank you! I am happy this is worthy of delicious food and/or children.
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I snorted. Really, really loud.
Thanks so, so much for this Psyche. I had wondered how the intercom was spruced up so much without anyone noticing. I would feel sorry for Landel, except... he's Landel. So, HA HA.
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Thank you!
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sldfkmds so much of laughter, thank you for this. The unicorn thanks you too. I love... the ending most of all. I'll never see that intercom post the same.
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Thank you, Jules! Thank you, Ms. Unicorn! ♥
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♥♥♥♥
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