Unusual Remediation

Honestly, I was expecting a lot more.

A far cry from the looming monstrosity of steel and glass I expected, the apartment complex before me was slouched and tired. For such a supposedly well-to-do neighborhood, all it amounted to was a few stories of brownstone and tired, dust-caked windows. Completing the sad picture, a single breeze blew by, rudely pushing by a faded signpost that could barely manage a small squeak in protest.

Thankfully, the interior at least looked freshly cleaned. My entrance is broadcast through the atrium, a pattern of footsteps lost in the monotony of blank concrete and plaster. It's not much, but it's enough to rouse the receptionist. In a single, well-rehearsed motion, he plucks the envelope from my person, somehow discerning it's exact location despite my continued absence of sound.

I guess he does have a point. Something tells me that everyone here is bathed in the soft, numbing glare of electric street lamps and office lights. I must look so out of place, covered in soot, body hidden under a layer of utility belts and tools.

He thumbs through a series of manilla folders, eventually pausing at a particular name. Giving it the briefest of glances, he produces a complex bronze key and inserts it into an opening I originally thought belonged to a mailbox. The wall whines as the key turns, shuddering in mechanical strain. Gears turn and click, and an electrical hum sounds, producing an elevator in a haze of hydraulic smoke.

"Floor 23, room 11. You best keep your manners proper around the lady, lassie."

I step on.

On all accounts, the elevator is more plain, featureless steel, well-worn from use. As the front desk puts away the paperwork, I notice that the slightly yellowed walls lack any buttons for floor selection, just an emergency stop and an intercom. The doors close, and it becomes evident that light was not an intended feature of my metal coffin. As the lift rises on its mechanical ladder, I feel my chest tightening, teetering on the edge of claustrophobia. Just as hysterics threaten to overwhelm my rationality, I reach my intended floor, and the elevator throws me out, retreating to whatever infernal lair it calls home.

Room 11 is not hard to find. All I have to do is follow the shouting. Although it started out soft, it gets louder and louder as I get closer.

At room 01, it's just the faintest trace of anger.

At room 04, there's the frustrated indignation of the cheated laborer.

At room 06, I feel the electrical tinge, the sign of a storm, one born of rising anger.

At room 08, something explodes.

At room 09, it gets louder.

At room 10, it dies down. There is silence.

At room 11, I hesitate.

It's still there. The rage, I can still feel it. The storm hasn't passed. It's just waiting.

The elevator is gone. I can't find it without the key. I don't know which lock to turn.

I grab the handle.

I twist.

Hm...

Oh.

I may have been overreacting.

I should not have asked.

I try my best to keep still. I mean, how is a person even supposed to respond to that level of anger? None of it's meant for me, but I take the brunt of it anyways. All this vitriol, this seething wave of raw emotion, it feels like she's been holding it in for weeks, and the flood will wait no longer.

I want to hide. I want to find an alcove and curl into a little ball, to make the world go away. I want to, but I can't. This apartment is the whole world now, and world is far too small.

She keeps screaming. I'm only dimly aware of Martinez. I don't know anyone named Arthur Abrams at all. Why do I have to know this? Why do I have to bear witness to this distorted visage of hatred?

Why...

Why...why is it...

Why is it so hot?

Something wafts into my eyes, making them sting in water. Through blurry eyes, I can see the lights on her chest panel flaring erratically, trying to warn their owner of impeding disaster. She remains oblivious to their alarm, continuing her fiery rant, unaware of a different fire building below.

Summoning a spot of much-needed courage, I force myself forward. At first, she's still blind to her growing predicament. However, her glare soon turns into shock, then genuine fear, as she looks down and registers the growing plumes of smoke rising from previously hidden seams.

Honestly, it may have been better for her to remain angry. I mean, it would've been terrible for my self-esteem, but that seems a small price to pay to avoid the presently unfolding crisis. Evidently, there was a good reason this particular model never made it into mass production because something in her chassis completely gives up trying to handle the rapid shift in emotions, surrendering to the inevitability of conflagration.

Yes, that was all it took.

A panel on her abdomen blew open, revealing a flickering ball of light and heat. Clutching at wires and circuit boards, tentatively at first, then with reckless abandon, the flame-wreathed maw begins to feast. Unable to deal with the beast within, she fell to the ground.

In a rare victory for lucidity in times of crisis, she manages to raise an arm, pointing to something and babbling in the tongue of electronical distortion and malfunction. It's hard to miss, with it's bright red paint standing in stark contrast to the monotonous pale color otherwise reigning over the complex. Evidently, this was not the first fire hazard, nor will it be the last.

I take the fire extinguisher and pull the trigger. Unprepared for the recoil, I had reflexively closed my eyes and missed the first blast. I take aim again, achieving more success. As the stream steadies, the thick foam does its work. The flame subsides, and disaster is avoided.

Well, mostly avoided.