Gallows Humour | Watty's 2023

The War Room

True slumped deeper in the office chair, arms crossed because they were taking the petulant child route. An impossibly shiny wood table sprawled out before them, the rest of the group gathered around it, too. The Doctor on one end, Valdivia on the other, and Jonesy squirming opposite True. He had taken care to put the table between him and True, so they were taking care to glare him into submission at every opportunity. They picked a rubber band from a pile they were hoarding on their lap and pinged it at him.

When everyone had settled, Valdivia stood. Her chair scraped, the wheeled legs tangled with her ankles when she moved away from the table. Her staff scuffed the hardwood as she caught herself. The echo sank into the rotted ceiling panels, five pairs of eyes fixed on the woman at the head of the table. Clearing her throat, she strode to the door and shut it.

The lock clicked.

True whirled, Radio along with them. A faint schick snapped True's attention right back across the table, to the pathetic pen-sized knife clutched in Jonesy's hand. The thin blade vibrated like a struck tuning fork. Jonesy's jaw worked, his eyes flitting over the people in the locked room. Over Eliza lazing with her elbows propped up on the table and her head lolling between the goalposts of her arms. Over Allsaint scowling at a yellow legal pad. Over Cal, with his arms folded over his chest. Over Valdivia, as she made her way back to the table with all the grace of someone whose joints had been springloaded. If True flicked her with a rubber band, she'd probably end up in the bushes outside.

No, they corrected themself, turning their rubber band on Jonesy, she would probably send them through the wall and into the bushes.

They couldn't help but notice how not surprised everyone else looked to be locked in.

"Care to explain what the hell is going on?"

"Thinking of jumping ship already?" Jonesy asked. True pinged another rubber band off his nose. Bullseye.

"Piss off, True," he snapped.

"Or what? You'll sell me to a factioneer?"

"Manners!" Allsaint snatched up his pen and set to scribbling furiously. True seized the distraction to prepare a rubber band. The table rocked as Valdivia slammed her palms flat on it, half rising from her seat. True clamped their teeth down on their next remark. She landed a well-practiced mom-stare full on them, daring them to try something. It was effective, in spite of the nasty bruise welding one of her eyes shut.

She settled back into her chair, jaw tight. When she wasn't looking, they aimed another rubber band at Jonesy's head with malicious intent.

"Thank you for your patience everyone. Patience for patients, patient care, we're here to discuss..." Allsaint trailed off. He nodded to each of them individually, his doll eyes skirting over their heads.

A frown slid over Valdivia's face. "If he doesn't know what's going on, he shouldn't be here," she said, dark eyes evaluating the doctor. She bristled, electric energy rolling off her.

"Oh, calm your tits, sis, he's fine," Eliza said.

The room held its breath for a long, exaggerated moment as it once again came down to a staring contest to resolve things. Big Valdivia with her mom-stare in full-effect, won. Sniffing, Eliza flicked a lump of hair out of her face and yielded.

"The others listen to him, he's the closest thing to a leader you're getting."

"He doesn't know what's going on," Valdivia repeated.

With a heavy dose of snark, Eliza kicked back from the table and delivered a curtsey. "Interpreter, at your service," she said, knees bent, "would you like to waste more time?"