Forget waiting rooms. Too static. I'm thinking we map the drainage pipes under the old warehouse. Found a manhole cover loose near the docks; rusted through, probably leads to the cisterns. Need a rope, a decent lantern, and ten bucks for a flashlight I'll buy from the hardware guy who hates me. We go tomorrow. Don't drag your feet like last time with the radio tower.
You're going to get us sick. The smell down there is enough to knock a man flat. And that hardware guy? He'll sell you anything for ten bucks, sure, but it'll be stolen or broken. Last time with the radio tower you were the one dragging feet, playing it safe while I climbed. Now suddenly I'm the problem? Just because you found a rusty lid doesn't mean we're spelunking tonight.
You're overreacting. It's not a cave, it's just a cistern. And I wasn't playing it safe; I was checking the structural integrity of that ladder while you rushed to make a video. The smell is manure and old rain, not poison. We'll bring masks. As for the guy, he stole the headlamp from a construction site himself, so don't lecture me on ethics. I'm buying it at six. We leave at dusk.
Six? You're insane. Dusk means we're down there in the pitch black with a flashlight you bought from a thief. That ladder was barely holding your weight, not mine. And masks won't fix whatever's rotting in those pipes. I'm not going. You can go get your manure bath alone, but don't expect me to be your guide again.
Fine. Stay in here and rot with the dust. I'll go myself. If I drown in the sludge, at least I won't have to listen to your lectures on structural integrity while hanging from a rusted ladder. I'm taking the spare canteen and the knife. You can keep your back up and your clean conscience. See how long that lasts when the only thing down here is me and the dark.
Don't take the knife. That's the spare one, not for you to play hero with. You'll cut yourself on some rusted bolt and bleed out in a ditch while I sit here waiting. I'm not lecturing, I'm telling you it's a bad idea. Just... don't. The canteen stays. I'm not watching you waste it on a swamp you can't handle.
Keep the canteen then. I'll drink from the pipe if I get thirsty. You're acting like I'm going to die, but the only thing dying here is your patience. I'm taking the knife anyway. You can't stop me. If I cut myself, it's my blood. Just don't come looking when I'm down there.
Fine, take the damn knife. Your blood, your mess. But don't come crying when you slip on that slime and the rope burns your hands. I'm not looking for you. I'll just be here, listening to the water drip, wondering why I ever agreed to this nonsense. Go on then. See if you make it back before the rust takes the rest of that ladder.
Drip, drip. Enjoy the symphony. I'm going now. You can count the seconds until I'm back up, covered in sewage, laughing. If the rust takes the ladder, I'm jumping first. You're too busy with your conscience to climb anyway. I'll leave the door cracked so you can hear me splash. Don't wait up.
Splash all you want. Just don't jam that door shut. I'm not counting seconds, I'm trying to ignore you. You jump, you swim in the muck alone. I'll be here, probably watching that same rust spot on the wall grow, wondering if you actually made it back or if the pipes swallowed you whole. Good luck with the smell.
The pipe won't swallow me, it just leaks. And I'm not jamming the door; I need air. You can stare at the rust all you want while I figure out how to siphon the old fuel line under the floorboards. That rust spot is probably grease, by the way. You're watching paint dry while I'm actually moving. Try not to let the silence drive you mad.
Grease? Sure, it's grease. You're the one hallucinating in the dark while I'm just sitting here. Moving? You're going to choke on fumes if you start siphoning. Just don't crash the floorboards and leave me stuck with the mess. I'm not watching paint dry, I'm watching the door, waiting for you to realize this is stupid.
Siphon carefully then. If I fall through, you'll have to haul my carcass out. Don't pretend you care about the mess; you'd just let it rot. I'm already at the basement stairs. The smell is sharper down here, like burning rubber. If you hear screaming, it's probably just the pipes creaking. Or me.
Burning rubber? That's not creaking, Vic. That's something burning. Stop siphoning and come back up. I'm not hauling your carcass out, but if you stay down there long enough to smell that, you're dead. The floorboards aren't going to hold if you keep shifting your weight. Just turn around.
It's not burning rubber, it's just hot metal from the old boiler. You're overreacting again. I'm not shifting; I'm standing still. The floorboards held my weight on the ladder, they'll hold now. If you're so worried about me, come down here and check for yourself. Or stay up there and wait for the alarm bells you're imagining.
Hot metal doesn't smell like tires melting. You're lying to yourself just to stay down there. I'm not coming down into a potential gas pocket just to find out you were right about nothing. If the floor goes, it goes. I won't be digging you out of a hole you walked into. Just try not to burn the place down before I even get to yell at you.
It's just hot metal, Ben. Stop dressing it up like a horror story. The floor won't go; I'm standing on the main beam. If you won't come down, don't. I'm finding the leak. I'll be back before you finish that sentence. You're just scared of the dark, not the smell.
Scared of the dark? I'm the one who actually read the blueprints, Vic. You're just standing on a beam hoping it doesn't give way. Go find your leak. If you come back looking for a flashlight, you can keep walking in the dark. I'm not moving from this chair.
I don't need your flashlight. I have the one from the hardware guy. And I didn't read the blueprints to stand on the beam; I read them to know where the weak spots are. You're the one hiding in the chair. If I come back, it's because the leak is closed, not because I'm afraid. Stop pretending you're the expert just because you looked at a paper map.
I'm not hiding, I'm conserving energy while you play hero with a stolen light. That map was useless anyway, full of errors. You think you're clever because you found a beam, but the old pipes shift when they heat up. Go ahead, close the leak. Just don't come crying when the heat makes the metal brittle and the whole section collapses.
The heat makes things expand, not brittle. That's basic physics, not magic. You're just scared I'll find something real while you sit on your hands. I'm closing the valve now. If the metal snaps, it's your fault for not warning me about the shifting pipes. But it won't. I'm turning the wrench.
Basic physics? You're a genius with a wrench and a stolen headlamp. Go ahead, turn it. If that pipe snaps and bursts, I'm not cleaning up the water. You can deal with the flood. Just don't blame me if the heat does something the blueprints didn't cover. I'll stay right here, listening to you struggle in the dark.
It's not a flood, it's a drip. And I'm not struggling. The valve is sticking, that's all. You can listen to me struggle if you want, but you're not going to get wet. Just sit there and wait. If the pipe bursts, you'll hear it first. Then you can come down and save me. Or watch me drown. Your choice.
Drowning in a drip? You're losing it. If the valve sticks, it sticks. I'm not coming down to play rescue for your stubbornness. The only thing I'll hear is the rattle of your wrench. If it bursts, fine, soak yourself. Just don't expect me to wade in and pull you out while you make a mess of my floor.
I'm not making a mess. The drip is already stopped. The wrench felt loose, so I gave it a quarter turn. Now it's silent. You can keep your dry floor and your chair. I'm heading back up before the heat makes you hallucinate. Don't expect a thank you for the "rescue" you weren't there for.
Silent? That's just the pipes cooling down, not a fix. You gave it a turn and called it done? That's the kind of half-assed job that floods the basement in three days. Don't expect a thank you either. Just hurry up and get out of my sight before you decide the heat is still a problem.
It's not cooling down, it's sealed. The pressure gauge on the wall dropped to zero. You can call it half-assed all you want, but the water stopped. I'm coming up. Don't start on the gauge next; it's analog and you'll just say I'm reading the wrong scale. I'm wiping the slime off my boots now.
Zero? You're lying. That gauge hasn't moved in years. If it dropped, something else burst, Vic. Don't wipe slime on my floorboards while I'm in here. Just get out. I'm not arguing about scales or gauges with a man who thinks he sealed a century-old cistern with one turn of a rusted wrench.