-August- It's weird.

You'd think it'd be hard cooking for seven.

(None of us really eat anyways.)

You'd think it'd be hard keeping this landfill of a house clean.

(Victorian. Would be worth a small fortune if it were fixed up.)

You'd think it'd be hard keeping sane when your boss is constantly drunk off his ass and won't stop flirting with you.

(Seriously, Spence. Stop that.)

But somehow, we get by.

And Amanda, I realize my coffee tastes like a war crime. I'm sorry, okay? You try keeping up with the messes you people leave behind and cook and tell me how much time you have to perfect your soy cappuccino with extra foam, no cream.

Not that I mind, though. In all honesty I'm absolutely terrified of the brown, twitching messes of burnt starch and stingy beef you people called stew I first ate when I came here - and you still make when Spencer sends me to do the small deliveries.

Prep for the latest delivery is going well despite my protests and the fact that somebody has managed to decrypt our radio frequency and now communications are down. I guess it's back to cellphones and pig latin for us until we get a new one up and running.

Great. Looks like I'll be climbing and disassembling another radio tower tonight.

Wahh wahh let's complain some more, shall we?

In all seriousness, I do actually have to go get to work on that.

Boss says this deliver's pretty important so our back-up isn't an option. We're handling sensitive material so we've got to be sure we can't be tracked or overheard. We don't want a repeat of the DL-9 incident. The last thing we need is to pick up and move again; wreck or not, this house is ideal for people like us, and the cafe across the street makes a mean cuppa joe.

Maybe I should ask the owner about teaching me how to make a decent espresso.

I'm sure Amanda would appreciate it.