"Hey, uh, Mr. Librarian?"
The wanderer who spoke these words approached the Archivist's desk with somewhat-disguised trepidation, as if attempting to admit some great crime. His brow was slick with anxious sweat, and his hands shook the book he was holding in sporadic jitters.
The Archivist regarded them with mild interest, curious about what could cause such a stir in a patron.
"May I help you?"
"Oh, yes, I, er, noticed a, um.. typo, in the third chapter of this book."
They cracked the tome open, skimming through the work until they found the offending page. Indeed, on the fourth page of the third paragraph, the word "diligent" bore an extra L.
"I see."
The Archivist's demeanor turned from intrigue to boredom.
"I can tell what's on your mind, but no, we cannot correct it."
"But why not?" The wanderer's voice adopted an air of frustration. "It's clearly an error, and you guys are supposed to be about preserving knowledge in pristine condition!"
"It appears you misunderstand; the Library is devoted to preserving knowledge in pristine, untampered condition. We will not deface our collection over a minor discrepancy."
The Archivist moved their four slender arms in front of their chest, the fifth propping up their jawless cranium. "If that was your primary concern, I suggest you find a remedy elsewhere."
The wanderer opened his mouth again, as if to rebut the suggestion, but seemingly thought better of it, lowering his gaze with a sigh.
"Okay. Thanks for the advice, I guess."
The Archivist watched as the figure departed, before returning to their catalog.
And somewhere Other, an opportunist stirred.
Carter Clyde seethed in his favorite reading chair, his once-favorite series cast onto the standing desk in angry despair.
This marked the sixth time he had tried to enlighten the higher powers on their plight, and this also marked the sixth time he had trudged back to his quiet little cove in failure.
It frustrated him how they refused to acknowledge this plain & widespread issue, even when the proof was held in front of their faces.
After all, how was he supposed to enjoy these stories if typos were tripping him up like holes in a sidewalk?
Of course, there was always that one mental voice, who posited that maybe, disliking a story off grammar alone prevented one from seeing that story’s true worth.
Carter refused to let that voice find any footing in his mind, though; typos interfered in his reading experience, and thus they would have to be remedied.
Surely he’d find someone agreeable on the seventh trip…
beep
The elevator rumbles with instability as it descends, chiming every time a floor is passed.
beep
My grip tightens on my shotgun, its six-chambered barrel bulging from the pressure.
beep
I run the floor plan through my mind once more, internalizing the route I’m supposed to take until it becomes more instinct than memory.
beep
My client had said this guy was both crafty & lucrative, so I’ve prepared for the worst.
beep
I’m ready.
Probably.
ding
The rusted doors slide apart, & I am immediately greeted by the gleaming fangs of a massive landslug, its pale, rotting skin leaking a putrid odor as it plods forth on massive padded feet to sever my second ribcage from my inner hip.
A moment later, the viscera that once constituted its upper jaw coats the rusted-metal corridor behind it. Still, the lumbering carcass plods forth undeterred, which is why I aim for the small red lump in the very back of its throat next.
The soft, crimson flesh ruptures easily from the barrage of enamel shrapnel, and the behemoth falls still with an echoing moan, a deluge of toxic spittle spilling en masse from the cavernous wound.
I gingerly hop over the noxious corpse, kicking rotten mollusk-brain aside as I make a left down the corridor, then two rights, then another left, then right, then knuft, two more lefts, three rights…
A featherless ferret with blades for wings goes for my neck from a side room.
It soon finds a chitinous knife through its faceless skull.
A purple tendril snakes down from a vent, its six tips searing white.
Minutes later, I use said tips to melt through a door lock.
An ambulatory potted feta looses multiple flying spiders from holes in its withered form, each arachnid armed with bone-crushing mandibles.
I have the time of my sixth life plucking them from the sky like skeets, before bringing the shotgun’s butt down on the slab’s top side.
Finally, I reach what I assume to be their main lab.
A massive, beet-pink figure blocks the doorway in front of me, its blocky teeth dwarfed only by its clawed hands.
It swings, and I dodge under the massive fist. I fire twice, but the stakes barely faze the behemoth.
It moves to stomp on my prone form, and I roll away in the direction of the door, but I’m grabbed by my legs and pulled up to the monster’s face.
It glares at me disapprovingly, but before it can crumple me like paper, I aim my gun at its two biggest eyes.
The beast cries out & drops me, fumbling around as it grasps its head. I take the opportunity to sneak between its legs.
I enter a warehouse-sized space, packed with tables of wholly abstract scientific equipment, seemingly designed by blind, earless rats, judging by the branding.
Home-grown lab assistants pore over notes & adjust each gadget, their sixteen eyes examining whatever their thirteen arms hold.
At the center of it all, on a raised plinth, a |average man| sits upon a wireframe chair in a medical-blue shroud, watching its minions toil away as it clacks its |fingers| together in glee.
I walk to the plinth's base, and it finally notices my presence, its two |eyes| turning to face in my general direction.
"Oh. You lived."
It |pinches his nose| in apparent frustration, the deafening sound alerting their cronies.
"And here I thought I had gotten the elite of the elite. I swear, when I see Sarek again, I will.."
They calm their nerves, |combing back his hair|. I stifle the urge to look away.
So, what do you want? My death? My equipment? That's all you lot seem to be interested in."
"Nah, man. All my client wants.."
I gesture with my gun.
"..is a piece of your little throne, there. Says he's run out of the material, and no one's selling."
The |normal guy| regards me with undisguised contempt.
"Oh, is that all?"
A chuckle, cocky & unapologetic.
"Well, I suppose I should let you know that the only way you're laying a finger on my favorite seat.."
It |gets up|, the floor buckling slightly from the sudden pressure.
"…is by passing my |unmoving corpse|."
And with that, it leaps.
I barely roll out of the way as a |fist| whips into the ground behind me, leaving a conical crater in its wake.
It immediately follows with a barrage of skewering |kicks|, but I shout my word-shield, and the |feet| reflect off of it.
I bring out my knife and drive it into the closest |midsection|, and the ||{angry dude}}| howls in rage.
It swats me away with a |leg sweep|, and I crash against a silver box, the delicate machinery buckling under the impact.
I pull out the shotgun, and loose a few more spikes into each |femur|, but they can only embed so deep into the| ribcage|.
I dodge as another |punch| impacts, crumpling the metal where I formerly was like paper.
