He blended seamlessly into the tour group, gazing up at the ancient temple's towering spires. His eyes, however, weren't drawn to the intricate carvings or the revered deity, Maha Vishnu. Instead, he noted aesthetically placed security cameras and the guards' repeated patrol routes.
Making their way into the temple, the group doesn’t notice him paying little attention to the guide’s voice.
Guide: The Padmanabhaswamy Temple is one of the 108 Divya Desams, which are sacred sites revered by Vaishnavites.
Nodding absently, his attention shifted to the layout. He committed every doorway, corridor, and chamber to memory. His gaze lingered on the sealed entrance to Vault B, adorned with serpent imagery and yakshi.
Guide: The temple's construction dates back to the 6th century AD, with later renovations by the Travancore royal family.
He discreetly snapped mental notes of the temple's ventilation system, potential entry points, and the positioning of the ante-chambers.
As they approached Vault B, the guide’s voice took on an exaggerated, warning tone.
Guide: Legend has it that this vault is sealed with Naga Paasam mantras, requiring a sage or saint to unlock it.
He glanced at his wrist, where a moth tattoo served as a reminder of his true purpose. His expression remained impassive, belying his racing thoughts as the guide pointed out the serpent imagery and yakshi.
Guide: These symbols ward off evil spirits and treasure hunters.
He pretended to take photos, capturing instead detailed images of the vault's door and its surroundings. He continued to gather intel, his mind already formulating strategies for a future, clandestine visit. The secrets hidden within Vault B beckoned, and he aimed to uncover them, undeterred by the whispers of curses and supernatural guardians.
Montague: Among all the new faces I’ve eagerly anticipated sharing the stage with, Gideon, you are perhaps the one I’ve desired the least.
Don’t take this the wrong way—I don’t dread our upcoming encounter because I’m sure it’ll be an easy victory. Some might glance at our names on the playbill and dismiss it as a predictable outcome—a swift, academic defeat at the hands of the Showman, nothing worth dwelling on.
But not me, Gideon. I see an opportunity here, one I simply cannot ignore. An opportunity to make a statement.
She trailed behind the tour group, her eyes fixed on the narrow passageway leading to the Gantenbrink Door. The droning voice of the guide echoed off the ancient limestone blocks.
Guide: The Great Pyramid's construction is estimated to have taken about 20 years, with a workforce of around 100,000 laborers! Current historians now speculate that the pyramids were not, in fact, built with slave labor.
Approaching the door, she noted the two large, eroded, copper pins. Perhaps remnants of a long-forgotten mechanism? Her gaze lingered on the limestone slab, wondering what secrets lay beyond. She mentally cataloged the door's dimensions, the copper pins' placement, and the surrounding stonework. Her wrist tattoo, a moth, seemed to flutter with excitement.
Guide: The Djedi Project discovered hieroglyphics reading '121' – which is the length of the shaft in cubits!
She committed this detail to memory. As the group moved on, she lingered, pretending to examine the door's surface. In reality, she was searching for hidden markings or weaknesses.
With a final glance, she rejoined the group, her mind whirling with possibilities. The Gantenbrink Door remained an enigma, but she vowed to uncover its secrets.
Montague: Gideon, your approach is as predictable as the ticking of a clock. Every match, every opponent—you treat them all the same, never adapting, never evolving. Your preparation is routine, your tactics remain unaltered, and you face each challenge with the same inflexible strategy.
That static method of yours—it’s stagnant, unyielding, and utterly foreseeable. It’s as if you’ve decided that the same old playbook, used time and again, will somehow yield different outcomes. It’s why your performances have been lackluster, why you’ve struggled to find any real success since you first stepped into this company.
You embody the very essence of stagnation, Gideon. Your approach is stuck in time, frozen in place, and resistant to change. And that’s where the danger lies—not just for you, but for UGWC as a whole. Without the dynamic influence of someone like me, this organization risks falling into the same rut you’re in, repeating the same mistakes, and failing to progress.
You represent everything I oppose. My technique is fluid, ever-changing, constantly adjusting to new challenges. It’s alive, breathing, and evolving. When we step into that ring, the flaws in your rigid methods will be laid bare for everyone to see. My versatile style will shine through, setting me apart, and making it unmistakable what true evolution looks like.
Unfortunately for you, Gideon, this means I can’t treat our match as just another day on the job. I have a duty to show, beyond any doubt, that your rigid, outdated approach is not only ineffective but a threat to the ongoing evolution and survival of this company. I’m compelled to crush you and everything you stand for.
And for that, I’m sorry. Truly, I am.
Lagging as the group rounded an upcoming corner, she studied the sealed doors nestled within Mount Shasta's rugged terrain. The guide's voice, growing fainter with each word, carried back to her through the cave.
Guide: Legend has it that Telos, the ancient City of Light, lies hidden beneath our feet.
As she approached the doors, she noted the intricate carvings and symbols etched into the stone. Her gaze lingered on the rusty hinges and the thick dust coating the doors, hinting at years of disuse. She pretended to take photos, capturing instead detailed images of the doors and surrounding area. Her mind whirled with possibilities, committing every detail to memory. The guide’s voice grew fainter, almost imperceptible.
Guide: Mount Shasta's unique energy draws spiritual seekers and UFO enthusiasts alike.
She lingered anyway, searching for hidden markings or weaknesses, her eyes scanning the doors and surrounding rock face. A fellow tourist, having also fallen behind, huffs and calls out as he passes her.
Tourist: Hey, you coming?
She nodded, tucking her camera away, her wrist tattoo – a moth – hidden beneath her sleeve. As she rejoined the group, she smiled to herself, her true purpose hidden. The sealed doors beckoned, and she vowed to return, prepared to uncover their secrets. For now, she blended back into the group, her eyes never leaving the doors, her mind already formulating a plan for her next solo visit.
