OC snippets

Polybuis; In which a change cabinet does not store change.

Through sweaty palms, she managed to jam the key in the lock and turn it. Ignoring the searing attentive glare settled between her shoulder blades, Leslie opened the door and clumsily found the light switch.

The simple array of halogen tubes flickered on at once, the single row with a broken blub sputtering slightly and emitting a fritzy hum-buzz. The small area was entirely cast in the ghostly off-white glow, illuminating the dingy space.

Ultimately in its construction, the back room wasn't that different from the employee break room. In fact, Leslie had heard somewhere that once upon a time, a time so distant you could count the number of people working at this place on two hands, it was a break room. She certainly believed it; the amount of mystery stains rivaled that of the arcade carpet, and there was a slight stench of tobacco that lingered no matter how much cleaning supplies you took to the place. All this suggested that this place had once been well-inhabited. Well loved, even. If you could call a linoleum tiled-room with unreliable lightbulbs lovable. All that considered, it was almost sad to see the state it was in now.

Scuffed tables lined with gutted electronics, arcade machines with smashed screens or dents in their sides, 'sorry, I'm out of order :(' signs plastered to their fronts and yellowed with age. This was the place where happiness went to die, and the sad beige wallpaper proved it.

The room, all in all, was tiny. There was a bathroom in the back that nobody had used since a rat crawled out of the sink drain and bit Anna and a window with blinds that never seemed to open, but other than that it was lacking anything that could reasonably be called a furnishing. They'd run out of space for places to sit once they started using it as a repair-slash-storage room (At least that's what Leslie had been told), which she supposed was why the only reason it could now be classified as a 'break room' was all the metal scrap that lined the tables.

A thin layer of dust settled over just about everything except a single item. An otherwise undamaged 'Ms. Pac-Man' arcade. This too had an out of order sign taped to it, though the permanent marker was not yet dulled with time and blind-filtered sunlight. The offending culprit.

Leslie watched as Beth walked up to it, squatting down in front of the change cabinet. She followed, wringing her hands, trying to wipe the sweat that had pooled inbetween her fingers away. She was glad to not be the subject of the woman's ire for once, but that came at the cost of having to watch her glare daggers into the poor metal box.

Beth frowned, and scrunched up her nose a little bit. She tapped the flat panel of the change cabinet with the head of her screwdriver, eyeing it with a suspicion Leslie had assumed adults reserved exclusively for whenever a teenager was being shady. She let out a short bull-like exhale and hummed a note of disapproval.

"Leslie."

She jumped about two feet out of her skin when the woman said her name, kicking up a small area of dust around her feet. Beth looked back, confusion hidden under the permanent look of tired distain she never seemed to shake. Leslie stumbled over in her direction, beginning to half mumble a response.. before it hit her.

There was the very distinct stench of raw meat leaking from the arcade machine.

Leslie choked slightly on the scent of iron, swallowing the bitter taste that had gathered in the back of her throat. Christ, had someone spilled water in the change cabinet? Had it rusted shut? Was that what was creating that awful smell? Beth continued to eye her, though her expression did not falter. If she'd noticed her little realization she did not say anything, only patiently waiting for the teenager to take her place beside her. If Leslie was paying attention, she would've seen the way her expression hardened. Just a little.