Security I

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Transcript:

The Egg City Auberge sits aloft, alone, atop the edge of the Chalaza Ridge, near the outskirts of the city.

Originally a lodging place for the workers of the nearby, and now defunct, gabbro quarry, the site was transformed, via swift legislation at the turn of the century, into a respite for all weary and welcome travelers. It was a stark, if not looming, reminder of the hospitality the locals were proud to lay claim to. For however few venturers ever managed to stumble their way into said harbor, so complete was the accommodation, seldom fewer ever felt the need to leave.

This, of course, was back when Egg City was more of a destination than an origin, when the trains still ran like clockwork, and the clockwork still ran on sundials. Ever since, despite its casting a conspicuous shadow over the downtown each sunset, still acting a veritable gnomon writ large, the Auberge has remained mostly ignored, and even more vacant, staffed only by what would generously be considered a skeleton crew.

But now, on the precipice of its Quasquicentennial, the Egg City Municipality has gone all-out. By shifting enough funds around (and whether from overexcitement or elongated apathy, no one seems to wonder which taxes the budget has come from), they’ve transformed each room in the inn into a miniature vacation. No longer will guests be treated to a simple bed and breakfast affair; gone are the pale and bent plastic blinds, the starched-stiff seventy-six thread-count sheets, the clogged yet still leaky showerheads; each room has been equipped as an exquisite, exotic getaway - luxury suites as far as the nose can breathe. And breathe you will, because somehow – and this may be the most impressive feat of them all – they’ve even managed to remove that pervasive sulfuric smell that otherwise permeates the rest of the entirety of Egg City.

For the first time in what must be years, if not decades, the No on the Vacancy sign has been lit.

Inside the hotel’s halls, Security Cameras plaster the ceiling with enough frequency to seem decorative. One by one, they pan and scan the span of the floorplan, cascading with almost synchronized grace as they swivel their lenses from one side to the other. The blur of the tacky indigo and green wallpaper is all that divides the onslaught of seemingly endless rooms, each door dressed in a plaque announcing its unique theme. The cameras sweep across countless of these nameplates – Jungle Room, Boat Room, Moon Room, to eschew a few – before finally settling upon the last door on the left.

In what may arguably constitute an invasion of privacy, the security camera remains transfixed on this particular door.

Its plaque reads: Cave Room.

Directly underneath, there’s a typewritten note, affixed with adhesive tape, that simply reads, “Welcome to the Egg City Auberge. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

Who’s booked this room, and what do they want?