-Spencer- Team, I know I said...

That I wouldn't be saying anything about The Loop.
(In less eloquent a motion, of course)
But the boss is drinkin' and in a talkin' mood now and now that the delivery is done it seems that 've calmed down a bit.

If I keep sain' that, do y'think I'll start to believe it?

Loops. I fuckin' hate them. If we live on pages of paper in a stack then Loops are that little bit of space in between each of 'em. And I'm not sure what everyone else's Loops are like, but mine are fucking weird (READ: Understatement)

The package got delivered, that's what counts. Don't really like these guys; they're a peice of work.

"You realize that if you weren't needed for your services...." Black suit numero uno looked at me, and I found m'self thinking that they really need to wear nametags.

"Well, it's a damn good thing we're needed then, isn't it?" I was grinnin', o'course; this guy was eyein' August and it was pissin' me off. I'm far from short and was almost chest to chest with this guy until he pressed the package into my hands, stalking off in what I could only assume to be an arrogant huff.

"How's the Zeke situation going, by the way?" I called, and he gave me a glare of seething anger before tossing me a rather large stack of bills.

Wowee. If I couldn't deal with these guys, I could certainly deal with their cash.

"It's a thin line that you're treading on, _________."

He's lucky that semi passed by just as he said that name, or else...

Let's not get into that. From there, it was into the loop and-
And...

Sam still hasn't recovered. not surprised, o'course; it was her first time and sometimes it can mess y'up in the head for days or weeks 'till you're back to normal. She'll be fine.

... Just don't get it. Jus'don't get it.

"Guys, wait up a bit, can't y'see I'm stuck in a crowd here?"

"...Spence?"

"What?"

"Spence, there is no crowd. We're all alone in here."

Ahahaha.
Ahahahahahaha.

Maybe they didn't know'em.
There were four more in the crowd since las'time.

Why won't y'let me forget, y'bastard?

And every time, it gets worse.

-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.

Wimp.

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.

...

Hey.

Spence.

Give me some of that bourbon.

-Doc- Getting This Out of the Way

I’m writing this blog post because Boss threatened to hide my favorite scalpel if I didn’t introduce myself. So I suppose I’ll get this over with, get my tool back, and resist the temptation to let him bleed out the next time he comes to me with a knife sticking out of his back. I’d forgive him for being drunk when he said that, but he’s drunk when he says anything. Especially when it’s about my tits.

But, enough about Boss’s shitty problems; I suppose I should introduce myself. Call me Doc. Don’t get me wrong, I’m by no means a real doctor. Had a few issues during my residency, one thing after the other, and I’ve ended up running packages and patching up these sorry sons of bitches when they don’t have the time or the cash to see a real doctor. It’s a bummer, but I still have my fancy degree papers to use as kindling the next time the power goes out, and fuzzy college memories to keep me warm when that doesn’t suit me.

Speaking of warm and fuzzy college memories, that’s about the time I started seeing the Tall Guy. Sophomore year, middle of winter, right after a big party: I was stumbling home drunk, alone like an idiot. I’m usually a big girl, I can take care of myself. Didn’t really prove my worth that night when I decided to wander home boozed up and wearing…well, let’s not be too graphic here and leave it at, “not nearly fucking enough to be wandering back to your apartment on a winter night.” If I remember, it started to snow while I was weaving between the lawns of the frat houses, trying to find a shortcut. God, it was cold. I eventually found my way to the city park, which was pretty far out of the way. I stopped to catch a breath, though it wasn’t a pleasant one. I was tired, and the icy air pierced straight through to my lungs, prickling and gouging every inch of my mouth and throat along the way. Hell, to be honest, I wonder if it actually was. I shuddered and coughed into the back of my hand, and to my shock, there was a bit of blood. The wind picked up a bit, and I looked back up again into the maze of trees on the outskirts of the park. For an instant, I saw a sickly white face gleaming in the moonlight: it sat on high shoulders, its eyeless gaze judging, seeming to pierce my mind. I screamed and ran back blindly between the frat houses, across the lawns, into the street, in front of a pair of blinding headlights.

That was a nice few weeks in the hospital. The doctors and nurses were all so kind, I felt inspired. I started studying to take my MCAT soon after. In a way, I guess I owe one to the Tall Guy for helping me figure out my career path, but that doesn’t make up for the rest of the shit he’s done.

I’ve made a long damn post for somebody who didn’t really want to say anything, but I guess once you start, you can’t stop. Not much else for me to say, but just to get the business notes out of the way here: if you need something delivered, fine, just pay up like the rest. But be aware that I don’t offer my medical services to anybody but these loons. Nobody else is (or at least, should be) crazy enough to let one of the Stalked anywhere near them with a goddamn knife.