Chapter Eighteen – Flush Prime

Chapter Eighteen – Flush Prime​

“In 2034, rich tycoon and owner of Theracore, Wallace Everyman, discovered his London penthouse filled with a foot of untreated sewer water. It was an act of vandalism caused by some activists fighting against his new proposal that would tax employees based on the number of hours worked.

In 2047 it was discovered that Flush Prime never actually existed as anything more than a very expensive pipe dream.”

Excerpt from The Great Scams, 2052

***

Bob was actually pretty nice, I decided.

“C’mon,” he said once it became clear we didn’t have a clue what we were doing. The man turned and led us through one of the doors at the end of the room where an admin area was laid out. There were a few desks in neat cubicles and posters on the wall, mostly maps of the sewers or blueprints of some sewage plants, but there were a few nude women with spread legs and the sort of proportions that were only possible with extensive surgery, or in cartoons. Classy place.

The far end of the room had a few screens with the camera feeds overlooking what looked like a really complex command centre.

“Right this way,” Bob said. He opened a second door into a small office and plopped himself down behind a chair with a heavy thump. “Close the door, please.”

I slid in before Gomorrah, then found a spot by the corner. I felt like the world’s most boring voyeur.

Bob gestured to a grubby seat across from his desk. It was the only seat in the room not covered in papers or soda cans. Once everything was settled, he reached up and removed his helmet. “Now, what’s a samurai doing down here?”

“You knew I was a samurai?” Gomorrah asked.

“Kinda obvious, isn’t it?”

“And you’re not… worried?”

Bob shrugged. “Might’ve lied on a few reports here and there. Taken a bribe or two in my day. But I never did nothing worth that sort of attention. I’m responsible for making sure the three-odd billion tons of sewage getting pumped by here don’t explode and get processed well enough. It’s boring work, but the pay’s alright, and someone’s gotta do it.”

“I… see. You don’t mind the Sewer Dragons?”

“Them? ‘Course not. I run this plant, that’s it. The Sewer Dragons take care of their home. Mighty thankful for it too. No one else will do what they do.”

“And what’s that?” Gomorrah asked.

“Everything,” Bob said. “They know how every machine works, can tell something’s fucked by the noise or smell alone. They’ll dive in sludge to fix valves, and run down lines that’ll kill a normal man from the smell alone just to kick at a clog.”

“Huh,” Gomorrah said.

Bob nodded. “Folk don’t know it, but without the Dragons, this city would go to shit. So I don’t mind them, nor does anyone else up top. You wouldn’t imagine how much it would cost to replace them with “normal” folk. Billions, trillions, even.”

Bob gestured, and Gomorrah leaned back as she received a file. It was shared my way almost immediately.

I opened it, curious (and trusting Myalis that it wasn’t some virus-filled thing). The entire document was text. Thick, boring text, occasionally broken up with a wonderful graph that was entirely incomprehensible. “What am I looking at?” I asked.

A cost-analysis breakdown, done in 2050 by the city of New Montreal, estimating the cost of hiring civilian contractors and additional city workers in order to operate the sewer systems. The final tally is in the order of several billion credits. A month.

That… probably made some sense. No wonder the city was happy to keep the Sewer Dragons around.

“Interesting,” Gomorrah said. “Maybe you can assist me. I’m looking for a group of people that were abducted by the Sewer Dragons. We suspect they’re in one of these locations.”

I imagined that Gomorrah sent Bob a copy of the map. The foreman nodded along. “Alright. Most of ‘em are good enough folk. Weird, but not all bad. Might have a few bad apples here taking people off the street. It’s something they’ve done before.”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“Why?” Gomorrah asked.

“Parts, because they’re horny, because they need more hands working on the shit they do. Who knows?” Bob said.

I grimaced. Not the nicest reasoning, there. And how little he cared wasn’t pleasant either. Then again, most people wouldn’t give two shits about some homeless.

“Do you know how we can reach that section?” Gomorrah asked.