Sunday, 26 June 2011

-August- Radio Towers in Thunderstorms

Are not fun at all.

Went out to pull down that station we set up near the local radio station. We've got a bunch of waypoints set up across the US and everything transmits back to here for when we're cross-country.

It's called Slow Scan for a reason, but it's difficult to decrypt if you're not the one receiving the signal and even more of a bastard to trace back to the source.

And somehow, they still found us.

Well, whatever.

Normally I'd be fine with this, but normally I wouldn't have to scale a radio tower at 3 AM in the middle of a thunderstorm, and normally my SSTV stations aren't smoldering piles of electronics by the time I reach the scene.

I guess somebody didn't want us rebuilding anytime soon.

Anyways, it was three in the morning and absolutely freezing because of the storm whipping around the rain like tiny shards of glass. About 100 feet up in the air, about the last thing you want is the persistent shaking of your hands as you try and disassemble the tangle of copper wires and half-broken satellite of what used to be your transceiver.

I wasn't sure if I was shaking because of the cold, the height, or oh god was that lightning in the forest oh god oh god this ladder had better be insulated it's not insulated is it oh god oh god please don't strike here Thor, if you can hear me I swear I will take up a sledgehammer and use that to fight in your honor for the rest of my life if you keep your electrostatic discharge away from me and let me get out of here in one piece.

August St. Claire: professional crop circle maker and stalkee of men in suits everywhere. Death by lightning strike for a satellite that didn't even work that well in the first place.

If it's worth anything, I got it back.

But not before our little Arsonist found me on the way back down.

(Harharhar. See what I did thar?)

And now I sound like Spencer.

He was a big guy. 6'5" and build like a fridge on legs. Came lumbering towards me and shouting some cryptic garbage that I didn't really pay attention to, because by the time he was close enough to me that I could make out the lines of his mask.

Now, I don't like to kill people. It's just not in my nature. But when a medium-sized dresser on legs comes up to me and growls like a rabid dog, I know my 5'3" frame isn't going to take him on with favorable results.

Luckily I don't have to worry about being big when I can be fast.

There's hardly time for him to blink. A pivot and a step and I've plunged my knife (a leaf blade; think a roman sword crossed with a bowie knife) into both of his legs and he's down, writhing in pain and screaming bloody murder.


I leave him there, making sure he's watching and still on the ground while I gather up the supplies and burn everything that can't be salvaged.

And what does Spencer tell me when I get back and inform him of what happened to our country-wide communication network?

" ... Wha?"

He's drunk. Again.

It's actually easier to note the times when the boss isn't slurring his vowels and hitting on anything with two legs and the appropriate plumbing between them.

"Nevermind. I'll get it back up in three days."

I really don't have the patience for this. I'm cold and soaked to the bone and just want to go to sleep.

He mutters something about setting out in five days, and goes off to hide in the eastern wing.




Give me some of that bourbon.


  1. ....

    You. Did. WHAT?



    Look in the damn cabinet closest to yh'. Goddammit I need a drink.

  2. I took care of it, didn't I?

    We may have to take a couple detours during the next delivery and re-calibrate some of the stations to send and receive signals from the new location.

    Oh, beauty. Not as good as my bathtub gin, but it'll do. Speaking of which Spence, when am I cooking you up another batch of that?

  3. ...After the delivery is made? Sure. And whenever you want. Doesn't matter to me. Jus' be sure not to get proxy blood in it, because we 'ave one currently locked in the bathroom in the east wing 'cause I was too lazy to deal with it.

    So yeah.


  4. ... Oh, for the love of -

    Where's Sam? Get her to take care of it; I've dealt with one Proxy tonight already.

    Whatever. I'll take a day to hit up all the stations in this state and maybe a couple en route to the next delivery. Do we have any gas left, or will I be stealing used vegetable oil from the nearest burger joint?

  5. O'course we have gas! Though I'm thinking of using somethin' different this delivery...

    You got a leather jacket somewhere, kid? You're gonna need it.

  6. And where, exactly, are we going to procure seven leather jackets and the rides to accompany them? Or are we doubling up?

    I'll take the van with 'FREE CANDY' spray-painted on the side, thanks. I'll need the space for the replacement equipment. Speaking of the candy van, we really should do something it - people are starting to get suspicious and we can't drive it through residential areas anymore.

    Ugh. More stuff to do. We need to go find some more fresh meat and defer all of these stupid, remedial tasks to them.

  7. ._.
    I thought I told Steele to burn that van-


    As for where I'm procuring the rides? You'll see. In the meantime, you might want to start packing.

  8. Packing what? My knife and maybe an extra change of clothes in case we get too much blood on them?

    ... Come on, boss, I haven't unpacked from last time.

    I know you told him to burn it. I also know I need it for situations like these. Explain to me how we're going to fit a full PC and satellite onto a bike?

  9. ...

    Fine. You'll ride in the creepy van with Sam quaking in the backseat while the rest of us ARE AWESOME.

    Case closed.

  10. Sure, sure.

    And when you wipe out Just Another Fool style, we'll be blasting Queen and trying to out-do each other in VOCAL KOMBAT.

    We are the champions, bitch.

    Now go crawl back to your bourbon and get the fuck out of my bedroom I'm too drunk for this.

  11. But you're so cuuuuuuute when you're angry~!

  12. For the love of christ Spencer get the HELL off of me before I shank you.

  13. Leaf blade? What are you, a Legionnaire? Well, I suppose it explains the name. Ave, Caesar Augustus Sanctus Clarus, let thy chalice always overflow with vino and your feet always smell of garum.

  14. Garum?

    Fish ... sauce ... ?

    Are you trying to say something about my foot odor, Steele?

    And what of the leaf blade? I found it at the farm, thank you very much. It's served me well and it's sharper than half of the stuff you'll find laying around here.

  15. That doesn't say all that much about the blades in your domain, August.