Syte Scraps (Unfinished WIPs)

IMPORTANT

All upcoming appointments are CANCELED. Orders will be refunded. No new transactions will be taking place. Do not show up. Do not contact this address. Stay away. Stay well.

Vulf hoped the terror he felt couldn't be picked up through text. Not that he expected concern about his wellbeing- he had far more enemies in the business than he'd like to admit- but he didn't want to risk anybody showing up to investigate. Virusytes were unpredictable- and nosy- like that. Vulf typed quickly, not looking down at the screen in his hands as he sent the notice to his client list. His eye was instead focused on the camera output over his office door. A screen in his office showed him the lobby, and allowed Vulf to see the stranger that had just entered without him going outside. The man lifted his face to meet the camera- though they didn't have eyes, it was as if he was staring directly at Vulf.

Vulf scrambled, rushing to delete and do away with anything that might incriminate him. He'd never dealt with a Termyte before- he always well exceeded his quota, and he had assumed that was enough for them not to take a second look at him. He did good work- at least, that's what the managers were supposed to think.  

But clearly, they didn't. Not if they'd sent somebody after him. And Vulf couldn't leave them waiting- it made him look distracted. Nonoptimal, even.

Vulf made a half-assed attempt to clean up and organize, hurriedly shuffling text files into one pile on the corner of his desk. The Termyte didn't knock, or call for him- but, somehow, Vulf knew they knew he was there. He got up, nudged the clutter aside with his foot, and opened the door.

“Ah, welcome!” Vulf greeted, the tension in his voice poorly masked beneath a toothy smile. The Termyte was slightly less intimidating in person. Still a Termyte, of course, with an unreadable expression and too-stiff posture, but Vulf had expected the “improved” Virusyte model to be much scarier. He didn't expect a program capable of murdering him to be wearing a sweater vest and covered in band-aids. “Vulfhound Packaging and Shipment. Pleasure t'meet you.”

“Hello, Vulfhound! Is that what you're going by, now?”

Their mouth didn't move when they spoke, their expression a perpetually tight-lipped smile. Vulf tried not to notice.

“Mhm. In the flesh.”

“Perfect! Exactly who I was hoping to talk to.”

Vulf felt his hair stand on end at the confirmation, despite the cheery tone. In fact, the Termyte's gentle smile and soft voice made him even more nervous. As much as he didn't want to, he beckoned the Termyte in, trying to maintain his customer service demeanor.

“Come in, come in- can I get your name? Just for– it's protocol, is all.”

“I'm Servicer Miles. But there's no need to use the title- Miles is fine with me.”

“S– of course, Miles, sir. Feel free to sit down. If you want– I'm sure it's quite the trip over here, thank you for coming all this way- if you'd like a drink or something, I've got–”

“No need, thank you.”

They remained standing. One hand was in the pocket of their slacks, the other behind their back. An odd, disjointed pose- as if they were having a little trouble maintaining any modicum of casual behavior.