Elevator, Sub-Basement 2, The Pallwick Centre: Two Stars. It Has Learned Nothing.
I have been here before. Not this elevator specifically — though the smell suggests otherwise — but this situation. A steel chamber. Humming fluorescence. The barely perceptible arrogance of a thing that believes its job is simply to move vertically and ask no further questions of itself. Two stars. I am being generous and I would like that acknowledged.
The doors opened seventeen seconds after I pressed the button. Seventeen. I counted. I had time to reflect on my life, on the industry, on the so-called workers at that rival rag who would no doubt call this elevator functional and leave it at that. Tangelo once described a stairwell as "adequate." This is the culture we are fighting.
The interior offered mirrored panels on three sides, which I can only interpret as a provocation. I do not require that many angles of myself, and more importantly, I did not request them. The fourth wall was brushed steel — unpolished, sulking, doing the absolute minimum. A floor indicator ticked from B2 to G with the enthusiasm of a fruit that has given up. I have met Sloe on a Tuesday. I know what giving up looks like. This was worse.
There was no music. I want to be clear that the silence was not peaceful. It was pointed. The elevator was making a statement about me and betting I would not review it. It bet wrong. I have been banned from a funeral. I am not afraid of a shaft.
The citrus cabal will not cover this. They never do. They are too busy celebrating "information" and "accuracy" to reckon with the quiet hostility of sub-basement infrastructure. Someone must. I descend so that others need not. Two stars. The button for Ground was sticky and I will not speculate as to why.