B. Well, wasn't this the cherry on the shit pie? Kidnapped (Jorgmund's story of his rescue seemed a little too pat), electrocuted, time wasted by a bunch of bullshit interviews, and then the sole hope of the world couldn't even keep the elevators running. Armstrong scowls at the unhelpful box, then glances at the doors and ceiling, wondering just how much trouble he'd get in for just ripping the box apart and climbing up a floor. Where would the camera be, if this elevator had one?
Then again, he wasn't sure if his partner in captivity was up to that. He was a strong guy, a big guy too, but they, well. Even if they looked impressive, appearances could be deceiving. And it'd be awkward if he pulled things open just as the elevator got fixed. "Guess we're waiting."
F. At least the gym wasn't awful. Changes were still being made, obviously. But one thing did concern Armstrong. He was at the hydraulic press. In it, really. He'd meant it to be a light workout, starting off at a few hundred pounds, then working his way up to his usual max. But something about this-the machines must be off. He was peaking, hard, and the readout was just ticking over forty-four hundred pounds. He lets out a strangled noise of frustration and strain, working to push up against the increasing weight.
Two tons wasn't anywhere near his limit. He squatted that as a warm-up.
Sweat pours down his red face and his eyes dart about, trying to spot anyone who could lend a hand. He couldn't reach out and hit the abort button, not without risking getting crushed. But judging from the look on his face, Armstrong knows full well that's about to happen anyway. Especially as the readout creeps closer to five thousand pounds of pressure. He drops to a knee, heavily, the thud of it seeming to echo in the nearly empty room. Some destiny, he figures. Crushed by faulty weight equipment in another dimension. Who'd decided that a hydraulic press didn't need a cutoff switch in easy reach, anyway? No, the key to it was about two feet out of reach for him. No string for him to tug on. Even if he could reach out and grab it.
Kevin Armstrong/VIPER-X - Champions
Well, wasn't this the cherry on the shit pie? Kidnapped (Jorgmund's story of his rescue seemed a little too pat), electrocuted, time wasted by a bunch of bullshit interviews, and then the sole hope of the world couldn't even keep the elevators running. Armstrong scowls at the unhelpful box, then glances at the doors and ceiling, wondering just how much trouble he'd get in for just ripping the box apart and climbing up a floor. Where would the camera be, if this elevator had one?
Then again, he wasn't sure if his partner in captivity was up to that. He was a strong guy, a big guy too, but they, well. Even if they looked impressive, appearances could be deceiving. And it'd be awkward if he pulled things open just as the elevator got fixed. "Guess we're waiting."
F.
At least the gym wasn't awful. Changes were still being made, obviously. But one thing did concern Armstrong. He was at the hydraulic press. In it, really. He'd meant it to be a light workout, starting off at a few hundred pounds, then working his way up to his usual max. But something about this-the machines must be off. He was peaking, hard, and the readout was just ticking over forty-four hundred pounds. He lets out a strangled noise of frustration and strain, working to push up against the increasing weight.
Two tons wasn't anywhere near his limit. He squatted that as a warm-up.
Sweat pours down his red face and his eyes dart about, trying to spot anyone who could lend a hand. He couldn't reach out and hit the abort button, not without risking getting crushed. But judging from the look on his face, Armstrong knows full well that's about to happen anyway. Especially as the readout creeps closer to five thousand pounds of pressure. He drops to a knee, heavily, the thud of it seeming to echo in the nearly empty room. Some destiny, he figures. Crushed by faulty weight equipment in another dimension. Who'd decided that a hydraulic press didn't need a cutoff switch in easy reach, anyway? No, the key to it was about two feet out of reach for him. No string for him to tug on. Even if he could reach out and grab it.
Little help?