GENEVA LBZ/IF INMATE RECORDS

Name: Wolfgang Baumer
Place of Origin: Nordschwarzwald region, Western Europe
Birth date: Unknown
Height and Weight: ~155 cm, ~90kg
Criminal Record: Harboring a Fugitive, multiple counts of Grand Theft Auto, Grand Larceny, Money Laundering, Voluntary Manslaughter
Etc: Prisoner records are not to be destroyed by the order of the Wardens. Who we are and what we’ve done are not a secret, but also do not define us.

“Could you hand me the CH.Welder?”
I looked down at the hairy hand reaching out from underneath the truck with a bit of confusion, and then to the wide array of tools laid out on a greasy towel on the ground.
“Uh, yeah, sure… The CH.Welder… It’s…”
“About 25 centimeter long curved pipe with the cylinder on the bottom. Covered in a novel’s worth of warning labels.”
Ah. Of course. What else could it have been? I lean over and pick up the-
“Nah, the other one. Easy mistake to make.”
“...Right.”

Last week I was moved into a cell in the main holding building. It’s not really as bad as it sounds, since they had all of the bars removed and placed with a normal wall and a door that locked from the inside. It’s honestly way better than the shack I used to live in on the outskirts of the Solna LBZ, at least this place keeps heat reasonably well. Doc even recommended that I talk to some guys who love to build cottages, but I felt weird asking for favors already. After all, they’ve already got me working with Wolfgang because I apparently know which way to turn a socket wrench.

As I hand the device, I look down under the truck at my… manager? Co-worker? I still haven’t figured out how exactly this was supposed to work. He’s flat on his back, most of his face covered in a heavy-duty chargon mask, in case a gasket pops and he gets a face full of green and purple gas, but his giant salt-and-pepper beard sticks out from the bottom.
“Hey, should I be wearing one of those masks?”
“Nah, you’re probably fine. Just stay out of the way in case something pops.”
Cool. Glad to be useful.

As the short, wide Warden tinkers on the chargon drive of the truck, I absent-mindedly wander around the space. It’s not super clear if this massive garage existed before the revolution, because it’s clearly designed to service a giant complex with a fleet of vehicles, but for whatever reason, the only truck here was the one being worked on. There were also only a small handful of car lifts. What, exactly, was the point of this place?

I figure I might as well make my question known out loud in a way that Wolfgang might hear it. It takes long enough for him to answer that I almost repeat the question.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Don’t worry about it? I mean, if this is my new job, it seems like something I should worry about. Where are all the other trucks?
“I’m telling you not to worry about it because you don’t need to worry about it.”
For a second, I worry to myself that the Warden had already figured out my game. Grab a truck while he’s not looking, and hoof it to the wall surrounding this place to get the hell out. Don’t ask me how I’m planning on getting past the wall since I didn’t see any gates, I’ve always been good at thinking on my feet. Usually.

The Warden slides out from under the truck, the wheels on his sliding board making clanking sounds on the seams of the concrete.
“We have trucks. Lots of ‘em. But the thing about tools is that people like to use them, because that’s what they’re for. And if they want to keep using them, that’s fine too. There’s vehicles that have been borrowed for years, and I honestly don’t even know what happened to the guys who borrowed them. And if they need repairing, then they’ll wind up back here.”
It’s obvious that I’ve been on the outside for too long.
“Yeah. But you’ll figure it out. Just forget about stuff like pers-”

A loud klaxon suddenly starts blaring, the sound echoing off of the distant walls of the garage’s massive interior. What the hell…? Wolfgang clambers up to his impressive 1 and a half meters and speedily trundles over to a nearby intercom.
“What’s the emergency?”
He listens intensely, his face grimacing with each passing word from the other speaker. He looks around awkwardly, and makes quick eye contact with me.
“Okay, look, I got the newblood here. Fine, yeah. I’ll be out in a jiff.” He smashes a button on the intercom to end communication, and turns to walk towards me.
“Stand back, you’re about to get a hell of a show.” He then places his calloused hand on my arm, and points towards a door near the bathrooms that says Managers only.
“Take that elevator and head to the top floor, and mind the ‘old person’ smell. Whatever you do, don’t leave. I promise it’s the safest place on the continent right now.”

I’m clearly puzzled as the ground begins to rumble, and the center of the floor begins to slide open like a concrete grocery store front door. On a rising platform sits… a jet? But instead of being a sleek machine designed to dogfight, it’s built like a bulbous insectoid semi truck with wings and a massive translucent chargon battery for an abdomen. I’ve never seen a battery that big, and Wolfgang marches straight towards it. There’s no way in hell he’s actually going to get IN that thing, is he?!”
“Elevator! Now!”
My legs instinctively, obediently carry me towards the doorway opposite the room as the Warden climbs into the machine, and the strange device emits the telltale green and purple of a chargon engine’s exhaust. Crap, crapcrapcrap gotta get out of this room immediately! I slam the “up” button on the inside of the elevator, and watch the insectoid apparatus slowly take off from its launch bay. A woman’s voice comes over the elevator’s speakers, and speaks with a calm voice.

“Top floor: Dr. Ishikawa’s office.”

Art by https://x.com/menacing_marsh