Clark adjusted the cap of his new uniform and leaned back in his chair. It was quiet, here, save for the humming of the fan on his desk and the faint whirs and clicks that his enhanced hearing picked up from the animatronics in various parts of the restaurant. The dull routine of a night watchman wasn't exactly Clark's ideal job, but until he either sold a story or got signed onto an actual newspaper, he needed to do something to pay the bills. As it happened, a pizzaria in the town he was staying in desperately needed a new security guard -- although not desperately enough to be willing to pay more than minimum wage, it turned out.

Clark frowned. He didn't so much mind the small pay-check, though of course more money would have been welcome, but something about this place's financial practices bothered him. On the one hand, they advertised cutting-edge technology in the singing robots which entertained the children, but elsewhere, they were all too willing to cut some major corners. His "training", such as it was so far, had been limited to an audio recording made by his predecessor, and Clark suspected this was more of an act of charity on the man's part than any official attempt by the company to educate him on his duties. He was also restricted in how much electricity he was allowed to use, since the company was practically counting pennies when it came to their bill. Clark thought that cutting back on the operation of the robots would have solved that problem, but instead, those had been prioritized over the security cameras, as well as the lights in his office. He sat in the dark, grateful for the superhuman senses that helped to compensate for these apalling working conditions.

A quick glance with his x-ray vision showed the robots wandering around. There was no sign of anyone else on the premises, so he got up to take a quick bathroom break. When he returned, he found that the pirate-fox robot had wandered in through the open door of the security office. (Really, the company could at least fix the doors so that they would stay properly closed, but that was surely too much to ask...) "Hey, little guy," Clark said to the animatronic, "what are you doing in here?"

It leapt at him.

Clark sighed as the clearly-malfunctioning machine flailed against his invulnerable skin. This was enough! Someone could easily get hurt working at this place, and if his bosses couldn't be made to see reason, then perhaps this was a job for the press. Perhaps he'd be selling a story, soon, after all...


~•~