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dearestdarling
something of a ne’er-do-well
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2011
The rules were simple: complete the task and don't get caught.
Bea had tried skipping this particular one, completing about a dozen more advanced tasks, but it seemed that she wouldn't be allowed to move to the next level of the game without finishing every last one in level 9. She was late to the game but had risen fast in the ranks, clearly a fan favorite, and the payout for both this individual task and finishing the level would be huge. She tried to focus on that, and not the fact that she would need to spend the entire night, closing to opening, in the most hellish retail store to ever grace the United States with its elevated Swedish sensibility.
Never mind the fact that she'd had chronic childhood nightmares about that exact predicament; well, except in her dreams it had been an Olive Garden, and not IKEA. She had never actually been to an Olive Garden and the whole thing had originated from a commercial she'd catch just as she was falling asleep in her mother's bed, back when that had been the only bed. The camera panned from the wildly-outdated logo over the doorway to the double doors swinging shut with a finality that would chase little Bea into the sanctity of her slumber. Did the gamemakers know of those terrible nightmares? She couldn't think how, but she did remember having to take several psychological tests before Taskom had accepted her as a member.
That it was IKEA added insult to injury. Gamemakers had untold access to things like personal information of each member, social media presence, security footage. It seemed likely that they knew about the breakup with Ash that had been precipitated by a really nasty fight in IKEA; this one, in fact. She hadn't been able to stomach lingonberry without thinking of the way he had lost it on her in the self-serve furniture section, accusing her of writing down the reference numbers incorrectly on purpose, so that he wouldn't be able to buy another damn kallax to house more of his pretentious vinyl. He didn't even own a record player. The fight had spilled over to the As Is section, leading to a lot of the furniture becoming even more "as is".
Still, at least it was a store she was familiar with, with food and beds and places to charge her tablet. They could've picked the Petsmart that she'd been dumped in. Or the Home Depot that she'd been taken to on a bad blind date. Or the 7 Eleven she'd been held at gunpoint in.
Thank God for online shopping.
She arrived about an hour before close, biding her time in the cafe. The clerk had forgotten to charge her for her Naked juice, but she corrected the mistake and paid anyway. It looked like puke in a bottle and tasted like the color green. She'd always thought that the more expensive something was, the better it would taste. Since the money from Taskom had started rolling in, it seemed the opposite was truer.
She finished it dutifully, ordered a slice of pink cake to make up for it, and when the clerk wasn't looking she snuck it out of the cafe area, plate and all. She needed to find a place to hide while the employees closed, somewhere hidden and comfortable enough to stay until she was certain everyone was gone. She hadn't packed much in order to avoid suspicion; a canvas bag hung from her shoulder with her toothbrush, pajamas, different clothes for the next day. She wore a baseball cap over her hair to shield her face from cameras, a hoodie over her customary tank top and leggings, seemingly the uniform of every other basic white girl oohing and ahhing over the sleek Scandinavian-designed countertops and appliances. Strip everything to its core, paint it stark white, and somehow they were more efficient than their clumsy American counterparts.
She was walking opposite of forced flow of the store, keeping a careful eye on the employees as they made their rounds, conveniently dressed in horrible-if-not-eye-catching mustard striped polos. It was easy enough to duck and hide as they tidied and restored the displays, her heart racing as it had when she played hide and seek as a girl, her hands flat on the cool linoleum as she pressed herself flush to the floor to avoid being spotted by a particularly meticulous employee. The thought of actually being locked in alone was starting to stoke her nerves, but it was just one night. She'd had the choice and therefore the control over the situation-- it wasn't nearly the same as that stupid Olive Garden dream... right?
Bea had tried skipping this particular one, completing about a dozen more advanced tasks, but it seemed that she wouldn't be allowed to move to the next level of the game without finishing every last one in level 9. She was late to the game but had risen fast in the ranks, clearly a fan favorite, and the payout for both this individual task and finishing the level would be huge. She tried to focus on that, and not the fact that she would need to spend the entire night, closing to opening, in the most hellish retail store to ever grace the United States with its elevated Swedish sensibility.
Never mind the fact that she'd had chronic childhood nightmares about that exact predicament; well, except in her dreams it had been an Olive Garden, and not IKEA. She had never actually been to an Olive Garden and the whole thing had originated from a commercial she'd catch just as she was falling asleep in her mother's bed, back when that had been the only bed. The camera panned from the wildly-outdated logo over the doorway to the double doors swinging shut with a finality that would chase little Bea into the sanctity of her slumber. Did the gamemakers know of those terrible nightmares? She couldn't think how, but she did remember having to take several psychological tests before Taskom had accepted her as a member.
That it was IKEA added insult to injury. Gamemakers had untold access to things like personal information of each member, social media presence, security footage. It seemed likely that they knew about the breakup with Ash that had been precipitated by a really nasty fight in IKEA; this one, in fact. She hadn't been able to stomach lingonberry without thinking of the way he had lost it on her in the self-serve furniture section, accusing her of writing down the reference numbers incorrectly on purpose, so that he wouldn't be able to buy another damn kallax to house more of his pretentious vinyl. He didn't even own a record player. The fight had spilled over to the As Is section, leading to a lot of the furniture becoming even more "as is".
Still, at least it was a store she was familiar with, with food and beds and places to charge her tablet. They could've picked the Petsmart that she'd been dumped in. Or the Home Depot that she'd been taken to on a bad blind date. Or the 7 Eleven she'd been held at gunpoint in.
Thank God for online shopping.
She arrived about an hour before close, biding her time in the cafe. The clerk had forgotten to charge her for her Naked juice, but she corrected the mistake and paid anyway. It looked like puke in a bottle and tasted like the color green. She'd always thought that the more expensive something was, the better it would taste. Since the money from Taskom had started rolling in, it seemed the opposite was truer.
She finished it dutifully, ordered a slice of pink cake to make up for it, and when the clerk wasn't looking she snuck it out of the cafe area, plate and all. She needed to find a place to hide while the employees closed, somewhere hidden and comfortable enough to stay until she was certain everyone was gone. She hadn't packed much in order to avoid suspicion; a canvas bag hung from her shoulder with her toothbrush, pajamas, different clothes for the next day. She wore a baseball cap over her hair to shield her face from cameras, a hoodie over her customary tank top and leggings, seemingly the uniform of every other basic white girl oohing and ahhing over the sleek Scandinavian-designed countertops and appliances. Strip everything to its core, paint it stark white, and somehow they were more efficient than their clumsy American counterparts.
She was walking opposite of forced flow of the store, keeping a careful eye on the employees as they made their rounds, conveniently dressed in horrible-if-not-eye-catching mustard striped polos. It was easy enough to duck and hide as they tidied and restored the displays, her heart racing as it had when she played hide and seek as a girl, her hands flat on the cool linoleum as she pressed herself flush to the floor to avoid being spotted by a particularly meticulous employee. The thought of actually being locked in alone was starting to stoke her nerves, but it was just one night. She'd had the choice and therefore the control over the situation-- it wasn't nearly the same as that stupid Olive Garden dream... right?
