-August- Three Hours Together After

A night of near-death experiences, mad hallucinations, enough black sludge to fuel every car in the US for a month, and Slim n' Trim himself...

And we're already back to squabbling like children.

You stay classy, team.

I'll deal with the mess in the kitchen (and I'm not just talking about the reminders of last night, either; these people eat like pigs when they really have to. And what can I say? My pancakes happen to be fantastic.) later, maybe see if Oxiclean can't get this black garbage out of my clothes.

But right now?

Right now, some sleep would be absolutely fantastic.

-Spencer- Let's see some team spirit!

... which we're going to need, because, ladies and gentelman, we are-

Wait wait wait. Let's slow down a bit, shall we?

So we arrived, on time, en route to downtown Detroit, AKA the creepiest abondoned urban space on this side of the state. Steele took care of the pickup, and we only needed to get through the empty streets.

It was the only thing between us and cold, hard cash.
(Because as far as I'm concerened, the bigwigs can afford it. Fuck 'em.)

Well, that was the plan.

It was strange. As soon as we got to the city (and, consequently, went on foot, as per the rules), something changed.

We haven't seen another person, Proxy or otherwise, in hours. And the streets all converge into the same places and the architecture is slowly turning into Salvador Dali on a acid trip.

So it goes.

Ladies and gentelman, welcome to the jungle.

All things aside, they're going to start coming out of the fog soon. In the downtime, I'm going to nap. Loop time is almost as bad as Valve time, but hey, what can you do? Ahaha. We got caught in it anyway, it seems. "Stay one step ahead."

And we just had to stop to help that Runner get on his feet after being knocked down by a Proxy.

To be honest? I'm not sure if we're going to make it out of this one alive. But that's half the fun, isn't it? We're in The Loop and we're going to have to fight our way out.

Keep together, stay alert, and for god's sake, don't get lost, because I'm not coming to find you if you do.


Showtime.

-Spencer- Team, we need to talk

No, I'm not breaking up with you, but yes, I am going to fucking shank you all if you don't stop fucking arguing like a bunch of five year olds just because you discovered the magnificent invention that is the fucking comment button.

... Boss things aside, keep it up. Fucking hilarious, that is.

Alright. Now to business. The delivery starts at seven 0' clock SHARP tomorrow morning. No later. You're all expected to be in proper uniform and have all your supplies packed, and the rides will be ready. Bring your own food and weapons and yadda yadda yadda; we're not stopping until we reach the city, that clear?

Alright. Some clarification:

This is for GOVERNMENT BIGWIGS TO OTHER GOVERNMENT BIGWIGS. I'd tell you more, but for god's sake, I'm not even sure what we're dealing with. Follow the goddamn rules and we'll be fine. Don't, and we all die horrible, horrible deaths. Amanda is on another delivery, and will catch up if she can. Crow, if you're reading this, August says to re-calibrate the stations on the way, or something. God knows what he means.

So the trip to Detroit won't be too long. Once we reach downtown, we continue en route on foot. We pick up the... whatever it is when we enter the city, cross the core, and drop it off at the next rendezvous point, which is on our way back home.

DO NOT. STOP. FOR. ANYTHING.

Review the rules in my second post. Or don't. But I'm not stopping my sorry ass to save yours. Complete the delivery and you get paid. Plain and simple.

Oh, and if anyone out there needs us? If you're on the way, no problem. Just give us a call.

As for posting? Whatever you fucking want. I really couldn't give a rat's ass. As long as you don't post about the package, type about whatever to your little heart's content.

(ItwouldbeniceifHestoppedwatchingmefortwogodamnseconds)

Now, if you don't mind I'm going to try and get some sleep.

Ahahahaa.

Fat chance.

Be ready.

-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.