“This is unacceptable.” A cold voice cut through the warmth of a small cozy room. In a tall chair, sat a stone faced man, his thin lips drawn taught into a disapproving frown.
This was no other place than Boss’s room.
Boss’s room was, rather to the surprise of many, not fashioned like the modern apartment buildings of common area but more like a 19th century English room. The floor was covered in a deep dark red carpet that left slight imprints even with the lightest touch. The walls were decorated with maroon striped wallpaper and the ceiling with one single crystal chandelier. Old antiquated paintings hung against the walls, some portraits, some landscapes. But, there were no windows and the only connection to the outside world was a large windowlike screen on the far side of the room that flashed scenes from all over the Domes. In the corner there was a fireplace with holographic flames and a small radiator hidden cleverly behind them, emanating waves of heat just as noiselessly as the fire. An old Victorian desk sat next to the fireplace, made of deep red rosewood. Behind the desk was a large chair, strangely resembling the throne the King of England had once sat upon.
And here, sat Boss, staring harshly at his son.
“I sent you 50 men to deal with one woman and you end up killing all of them and causing a ruckus in the slums.”
“The emergency alarm was rigged to implode the building. No one knew about this until the building was destroyed.”
“You spent five years living with them!” Jordan’s father slammed his fist down on the table, “Is that not enough to know about the emergency alarm?”
“Five years to learn an entire society is harder than you think.”
“Bullshit!” Jordan winced at his father roared, his eyes bulging, spittle flying out of his mouth. “Five years! Do you know what I had to do in five years? I have to take over this entire goddamn place, learn how to manage it and how to deal with the slums. And you? I only wanted you to find a way to infiltrate into this place and gain the trust of the leader or kill her.”
“Those freelancers are smart.”
“And you’re a dumbass.” His father spat, leaning back into his chair. Jordan felt anger burn up inside him. He could be called names, a bastard, a son of a bitch, but he could not take an insult on his intelligence.
His intelligence was his pride, and anyone who insult his intelligence, was insulting his pride, and Jordan could not take such a blow.
Jordan slammed his hand down on the table, making is rattle slightly as he gave his father a long glared.
“You do not insult me like that.” He muttered through gritted teeth. “You can tell me what to do after you’ve been thrown into another world to survive in with nothing but your own wit. Those freelancers are not the dumbshits you deal with everyday arguing over what color the background of some stupidass preview should be. They’ve fucking starting their own society from scratch in a world where that’s close to impossible. If you think dealing with them is a piece of cake, then I suggest you go find a diaper before you go shit your pants from almost getting killed by one of them.”
Jordan’s father looked somewhat surprised. Jordan had never, ever talked to him like that before. Never. He’d talk back. He’d argue. But a diaper? Never.
“Jordan, this is no way to speak to you father.” His voice shook as he clench the armrest of his throne. “What did I teach you? Spend a few years away from here and you forget everything you’ve learned. I am disappointed in you.”
“You taught me nothing but bullshit.”
“Jordan!” His father stood up grabbed him by the neck. “Your father’s words are not to be insulted like that.”
He threw Jordan back and paced out of the room.
“Until you learn some sense, I’m taking away your title as commander. Garth will be replacing you.”
Then he turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
Jordan crawled up, rubbing his neck, wincing as he touched the red marks that had formed on it. He stared at the door for a while, his mind whirring with thoughts and a small smile creeped up his face.
That would be the reason for his revolt.