Another day of breakneck confusion as 330 drags me into some unfathomable mess of chaos. This time with bikers.
It was just any other bar/restaurant hybrid thing in South Dakota. Not a big fancy place, but something good to stop at for a fast dinner. Wasn’t expecting anything to happen there.
We were waiting for our food when a horde of motorcycles descended on the parking lot. Moments later, dozens of loud, muscular, tattooed men in leather swarmed inside. I now know what a Viking raid looks like. Most of them went straight for the alcohol; two of them lifted the bartender up and threw him aside while the rest grabbed as many bottles as they could carry. Others went for the waitresses; couldn’t hear what they were saying to them over the shouting, but judging by the gestures it wasn’t exactly polite conversation. Lots of loud shouting, lots of people shoving each other, all one giant mess of chaos.
Didn’t take long for some of them to notice 330 and I sitting in the back. Two of them came over to our table, wide grins on their faces. One of them put a hand on my shoulder, and I panicked. Before he could say anything, I tried the first of the tricks 330 had taught me and tried to break his arm.
Had 330 been the one doing that, he’d probably have been on the ground crying.
With me, the end result was him yelping slightly and massaging his clearly unbroken arm. Shouted something like “stupid bitch,” and slapped me across the face.
330 was on him in a second. Might be my memory exaggerating, but I swear I think she punched him across the room. His friend tried punching 330 as revenge, only to get kneed in the groin. Others saw the scuffle starting and ran over to join in, resulting in several more people getting punched across the bar.
“What the fuck are you idiots doing.”
Whole place went quiet. A new man had entered the bar, wearing a black leather studded jacket with some kinda triangle pattern on a sleeve. He towered over everyone there; must have been at least a head above the next tallest person in the room. Surprisingly old, compared to the other bikers who had stormed inside. Had a big white beard which almost made him look Santa, if Santa lifted weights in his free time and had a face covered in a patchwork of scars. He was glaring at everyone inside, eyes demanding an answer.
Finally, one brave soul spoke up. “Well, you see, boss, Rick and Sam went over to… over to have a talk with those two fine ladies over there, and, um, they were attacked, completely unprovoked, and we were trying to help them defend themselves… against… against that one girl….”
No one spoke as the “Boss” walked over to 330. The two stared each other down; for all I could tell, neither looked like they were going to blink anytime in the next year. Finally, the boss pointed a finger at 330 and spoke.
“I remember your face. Winter of 1999, that battle at the Port of Boston.”
“Oh, you were there?” 330 grinned rather sadistically. “I didn’t realize I’d left any survivors.”
Brief moment of tension, where I thought the man was going to explode in violence. Instead, he exploded in laughter; a hearty “Ho ho ho!” which only further added to my belief that he was Santa’s evil twin.
“You kids better show this women here some respect!” He bellowed to the motley assembly. “She sent more people to the Archangel in one day than any of you likely will in your entire lives! Now someone drag the bartender out from behind that table, he has customers here to serve!”
The change in the bikers’ behaviors which took place was unbelievable. They were still loud, boisterous, and aggressive, but it was far more constrained than before. It was like watching a class of kindergarteners after the teacher walks back inside the room, and each one is trying to be on their best behavior, hoping that no one mentions all the crayon on the wall. Think I even heard one of them say “thank you” to a waitress after she brought them their drinks.
Their boss grabbed a seat for himself and sat down at our table. “Now, if I recall, the last time we met, we were too busy shooting at each other for much in the way of introduction.” He held out his hand. “Roy Makhno. I lead the Timberwolves in this area.”
330 shook his hand. “You can call me I-330.” Roy paused at the odd name, but didn’t seem too bothered.
“And who’s this lovely lady?” He said to me.
Struggled to find words. “Lisa Wells.” Tried to think of something else. How had 330 introduced me last time? “I once shot the Intrusion with a flamethrower.”
He burst into another round of laughter, and slapped me on the back. “That’s the way to do it! Never did like those bugs, anyways! Waitress! Get my friends here some drinks!”
As he was ordering for us, I whispered to 330, “What are the Timberwolves?”
“A gang that serves an unspeakably monstrous abomination which enslaves peoples’ souls.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Most of them aren’t this nice. First chance we get, we get out of here.”
That’s what she said the plan was. Then she got distracted. It would seem that 330 is never averse to people offering her large quantities of alcohol, no matter what dark masters those offering may serve. And of course there was no way she could leave after the arm wrestling contest started. Followed by the drinking sings, which I tried my best to hum along to. Hadn’t quite drunk enough to sing yet. When we left, a very inebriated Roy gave us a massive bear hug, slurring that we “were the best damn runner [he’d] ever met, and [he’d] be sure to kill us in an awesome way if we ever were to fight.” Which I think is his of giving a compliment… I guess?
And that was how I befriended an evil biker gang cult.
-Lisa
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Insert Training Montage Here
She really wasn’t kidding when she said we were going to fix my inability to use guns. Very next day, 330 drove us into a forest in the middle of nowhere and gave me an impromptu lesson on firearm use and safety, complete with a hastily made firing range.
“Aren’t I supposed to go to official classes and get a license before I do this?”
“Are you? Huh. I never did. Hasn’t been much of an issue for me.”
Starting to pick up the lessons on maintaining, disassembling, and handling a gun, but I still haven’t gotten really comfortable with actually firing one. And not just because the recoil of even that little pistol 330’s had me using was much worse than I expected. It just feels… weird. You watch movies and read books about people using them, but it always feels like something that’s in the world the world of fiction. Then I find myself holding one. It’s a heady feeling. When I fired that first shot, completely missing any of the bottles 330 had set up, it really hit me that I had something that could actually kill another person. And I’m not entirely comfortable with the giddy rush that followed that revelation….
More in my comfort zone, 330 offered to teach me self defense as well. Can’t say much for my abilities at it, and sometimes I doubt her encouragement that I’m getting better, but it’s actually surprisingly fun. Closest I’ve ever come to a sport, barring 330’s sadistic obsession with “raising my aerobic threshold and strengthening my core.” I’m pretty sure that the point of all of this is so that I won’t be completely useless the next time we get involved in something.
The bright side of this regime I’ve been undergoing is that I’ve found that 330 is much more talkative after she’s spent a few hours running miles or punching things. Managed to drag a few stories about her past out of her. I’ll confess, she isn’t a very good storyteller. Has a tendency to tell things out of order. Yet she makes up for it with sheer enthusiasm; when she talks about chasing someone over the rooftops of Victorian era London, she throws herself into the whole thing, gesturing, making sound effects, and throwing in the occasional commentary about how stupid past her was. The impression I’ve gotten from this is that 330 considers anything she did more than 5 minutes ago in the past to be a rash and idiotic decision, which in no one discourages her from making further rash and idiotic decisions in the present. Still have yet to get anything out of her about her personal life: how she became a time traveler, what she was before that, if she has a name apart from I-330, where she was born, etc. Maybe one day I’ll get that out of her; if three miles of running can get her talking about cursed Egyptian dig sites, maybe ten miles will get her spilling all of her darkest secrets. Until then, I can content myself with these tales of adventure.
On a darker note…. The Slender Man. Almost forgotten about him. That time I saw him was such a panicked, shocking moment. Then… he disappeared from my life. When 330 described him as such an unstoppable, monstrous hunter, I imagined I’d be running for my life from him. Instead, months passed without me seeing him once.
He finally appeared while 330 and I were having lunch at an IHOP along the road. Looked up from my plate and saw him standing right by the window. Jumped out of my seat, knocking my food over, and was about to run away before 330 said, “Oh, sit back down. It just wants attention. Ignore it and it’ll go away.”
What?
Did sit down again, not without a cautious glance at the faceless figure by the window, and 330 explained. The Slender Man is, she said, an unstoppable, monstrous hunter that will try to kill its victims inevitably. Eventually. “It likes to play with its food first. Tries to break their mind before it goes in for the kill. Which usually involves a lot of stalking and silently observing, cause most people tend to get really nervous when a faceless tall thing keeps popping up to stare at them.”
Which…. Really doesn’t sound all that bad. I was assaulted by a man with glowing red eyes in an alley, chased by an enormous monster dog, shot at by the CIA, and fought a massive swarm of malevolent insects. Being watched by a guy without a face doesn’t really seem to compare. I know 330’s the expert on this, but I’m not sure why she’s taking something which, relative to everything else, doesn’t seem as big a threat, so seriously.
-Lisa
“Aren’t I supposed to go to official classes and get a license before I do this?”
“Are you? Huh. I never did. Hasn’t been much of an issue for me.”
Starting to pick up the lessons on maintaining, disassembling, and handling a gun, but I still haven’t gotten really comfortable with actually firing one. And not just because the recoil of even that little pistol 330’s had me using was much worse than I expected. It just feels… weird. You watch movies and read books about people using them, but it always feels like something that’s in the world the world of fiction. Then I find myself holding one. It’s a heady feeling. When I fired that first shot, completely missing any of the bottles 330 had set up, it really hit me that I had something that could actually kill another person. And I’m not entirely comfortable with the giddy rush that followed that revelation….
More in my comfort zone, 330 offered to teach me self defense as well. Can’t say much for my abilities at it, and sometimes I doubt her encouragement that I’m getting better, but it’s actually surprisingly fun. Closest I’ve ever come to a sport, barring 330’s sadistic obsession with “raising my aerobic threshold and strengthening my core.” I’m pretty sure that the point of all of this is so that I won’t be completely useless the next time we get involved in something.
The bright side of this regime I’ve been undergoing is that I’ve found that 330 is much more talkative after she’s spent a few hours running miles or punching things. Managed to drag a few stories about her past out of her. I’ll confess, she isn’t a very good storyteller. Has a tendency to tell things out of order. Yet she makes up for it with sheer enthusiasm; when she talks about chasing someone over the rooftops of Victorian era London, she throws herself into the whole thing, gesturing, making sound effects, and throwing in the occasional commentary about how stupid past her was. The impression I’ve gotten from this is that 330 considers anything she did more than 5 minutes ago in the past to be a rash and idiotic decision, which in no one discourages her from making further rash and idiotic decisions in the present. Still have yet to get anything out of her about her personal life: how she became a time traveler, what she was before that, if she has a name apart from I-330, where she was born, etc. Maybe one day I’ll get that out of her; if three miles of running can get her talking about cursed Egyptian dig sites, maybe ten miles will get her spilling all of her darkest secrets. Until then, I can content myself with these tales of adventure.
On a darker note…. The Slender Man. Almost forgotten about him. That time I saw him was such a panicked, shocking moment. Then… he disappeared from my life. When 330 described him as such an unstoppable, monstrous hunter, I imagined I’d be running for my life from him. Instead, months passed without me seeing him once.
He finally appeared while 330 and I were having lunch at an IHOP along the road. Looked up from my plate and saw him standing right by the window. Jumped out of my seat, knocking my food over, and was about to run away before 330 said, “Oh, sit back down. It just wants attention. Ignore it and it’ll go away.”
What?
Did sit down again, not without a cautious glance at the faceless figure by the window, and 330 explained. The Slender Man is, she said, an unstoppable, monstrous hunter that will try to kill its victims inevitably. Eventually. “It likes to play with its food first. Tries to break their mind before it goes in for the kill. Which usually involves a lot of stalking and silently observing, cause most people tend to get really nervous when a faceless tall thing keeps popping up to stare at them.”
Which…. Really doesn’t sound all that bad. I was assaulted by a man with glowing red eyes in an alley, chased by an enormous monster dog, shot at by the CIA, and fought a massive swarm of malevolent insects. Being watched by a guy without a face doesn’t really seem to compare. I know 330’s the expert on this, but I’m not sure why she’s taking something which, relative to everything else, doesn’t seem as big a threat, so seriously.
-Lisa
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Detour
Been driving north the past few days. Made a very interesting detour as we just entered Colorado.
We were planning to make a brief stop to a small town to fill up on gas. Tiny place, didn’t even show up on any maps of the area. Only reason we even knew about it was because 330 had been through it before. Just a quick get gas, drive on. Nothing special planned.
Then I started seeing police cars ahead of us. A lot of police cars, blocking the road into the town. 330 pulled the car over to the side of the road and got out to get a look at them. There were a handful of officers, directing any cars that came down a different road.
“Well, this looks interesting….” 330 said, “Lisa, notice anything about those cops?”
I looked at them, but didn’t know what she wanted me to see. “Not… really….”
“Oh, come on, you ever see small town cops stand so rigidly to attention while guarding a middle of nowhere road before? Maybe if they were ex military, but I’m doubting that.”
“Then… what are they?”
“Let’s find out. Come on.”
She walked towards the blockade, with me following close behind. There were four officers by the cars; one held out a hand as we came nearer.
“I’m sorry, but this area has been closed off. I need to ask you two to leave.”
330 responded by pulling several ID cards with her name and face on them, and holding them to the officers face. “Which one of these lets me go inside?”
The look on his face…. Never seen anyone’s eyes go that big before. He had a very urgent hushed conversation with the others. Heard 330’s name come up a few times. Once finished, he spoke with us again. “I’ll take you to the commander right away.”
He got us into his patrol car, and we drove into the town. Soon as we entered, it became obvious that 330 was right. These weren’t police. Police don’t patrol the streets in such militant uniforms. Or carry guns that big. Weren’t any civilians on the streets that I could see. Didn’t recognize the uniforms either; they were grey urban camo style, but without any American military markings.
“So I really have to ask,” the driver said, “how does one get an ID card for both the CIA and the KGB?”
“Oh, you know. You just are minding your own business, leveling entire city blocks to try and kill the things hiding in them, and next you know some official people with very nervous smiles are handing an ID card to you saying thank you very much, we’ll call you if we need help again, please don’t come unless we call you please.” The driver laughed, and 330 resumed. “So, I have to ask, which card was it that got us in? Cause I know a lot of these are out of date.”
“We’re the Masons. We don’t usually let in random civilians, even if they do have identification, but your name seems to carry some weight.”
I whispered to 330, “Masons? Really? Please don’t tell me that the Freemasons are secretly a paramilitary conspiracy or something….”
“No, not really.” She whispered back. “The Masons are a privately run group with no connection to the Freemasons; they just chose the name to mess with any conspiracy theorists who tried to investigate them.”
“And they’re another secret group fighting monsters?”
“Yup.”
“How many of these things are there?”
“More than you would think possible. Everywhere I go I seem to run into conspiracies.”
More soldiers further into town, all moving around very quickly and purposefully. Didn’t see any civilians. We stopped by a sprawling park at the center of the town, which had been surrounded by sandbags and trenches. As we were stepping out of the car, a man with far more bars, stripes, and other assorted fancy indications of rank than anyone else around walked towards us. After acknowledging the driver’s salute, the officer held his hand to 330.
“General Moore of the Masons. If you’re here, I’m assuming that means things are going to get FUBAR pretty soon, but it’s not like we weren’t expecting that.”
He had a very harsh voice, which matched his looks. Older, grey overtaking most of his hair, with equally grey eyes and a face which looked stern enough to have been chiseled from rock. 330 smiled as she took his hand.
“And what makes you think that?”
“From what I’ve heard, you have a tendency to show up whenever shit is hitting the fan. And I’m assuming you came here because of the operation we’re performing?”
“Would you believe it if I said that we just happened to be passing through?”
His eyes said that he didn’t, but he kept quiet about that. Then he faced me, and… holy shit, I’ve never seen a stare that intense before. “And who’s this?”
Tried to answer. A bunch of stammered “ums” came out instead. 330 quickly interjected for me, saying, “This is Lisa Wells. She once shot the Intrusion with a flamethrower.”
Couldn’t tell whether his “Hmph” was impressed or apathetic. “You two might as well come with me. It’ll be good to have you on hand if this doesn’t work.”
Led us to a tent by the sandbag perimeter, explaining along the way. “Some local nutjobs summoned something nasty which nearly wiped out the town. We took care of that, but the cleanup is costing us more men than we expected. The corpses of those cultists won’t stay down unless we pump a few clips worth of lead into each one. The remainders are holed up in the park, and we’re about ready to move in and clear them out.”
“What happened to the people living here?” 330 asked.
“Most of them? Dead. We’ve evacuated and quarantined the survivors, but there weren’t many. Someone in management will probably negotiate handing them over to the government, and let them figure out what to do with the people. My jobs just to get them out of the way so we can kill these monsters.”
As we reached the tent, a soldier poked his head out and said to the general, “All squads reporting that they’re in position, sir.”
“Good. Are either of you planning on joining the final assault?”
“Hell yes!” That was 330.
“Who, me?” That was me.
Once it became clear to Moore that I, in spite of 330’s boasts about my prowess at fighting swarms of insects, had no idea how to use a gun (something 330 said we would “need to fix really soon,” a statement far more foreboding than I’d like to hear from a time traveler) it was decided that I would stay inside the safety of the command tent while 330 ran around with soldiers shooting zombie cultists. I was okay with this, even if it meant “missing out on all the fun” (330’s words, not mine.) And most of the people inside, including the colonel, seemed too busy with their jobs to speak with me, which suited me fine.
Never got to see any of the attack, but I could hear it unfolding through the communications going through the tent. Reports from the soldiers came steadily through the radios; Moore gave orders when necessary, but otherwise remained stoically silent. The aids were the ones bustling around with activity. Tried to keep track of what was happening , but it was too chaotic for me to hold everything in. First contact was reported three minutes in by a squad moving in from the northern end; another squad spotted and took down three cultists a few minutes later; then another got pinned by a large group in the camping area, until “That chick with the eye patch came out of nowhere and crushed them! God damn, I’ve never seen anything like that before! She killed them all in seconds!”; ending when the northern and southern squads linked in the center and began to clear out the few remaining pockets. The last shot was fired over three hours after the start. I’d barely noticed the time pass.
330 returned with the victorious soldiers not much later; there’d been a few casualties, but no deaths (did you know there’s actually a difference between those two? I didn’t) owing in large part to 330 repeatedly jumping out and rescuing people at the last moment. It was amazing, they said, how she managed to move across the battlefield so quickly. Almost like she was able to be in two places at once. 330 and I had a good laugh at our shared secret, earning us a few confused looks.
Kinda expected a victory speech from Moore. What we got was much shorter: “Excellent work,” and a salute to the men. From the smiles on their faces, it may as well have been a full speech.
Thus we left that little Colorado town as heroes. Well, 330 was a hero, while I basked in the warm glow of association. Felt kinda good. Almost good enough to make up for my dislike of the attention that was falling on me. Almost. Thankfully 330 was there to save me from that. “So sorry, but we really need to get going. Have a super secret conspiracy to stop. No, not your guys’ conspiracy, another one. No, I don’t think she… Lisa, do you have a cell phone? No? Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone number to give you…. No, I don’t have a phone number either, but try buying me a drink next time I’m around and we’ll see. Yes, we really must go now, don’t worry, you’ll probably meet me again next time something really big explodes.”
Got into our car, and then we were back on the road.
-Lisa
We were planning to make a brief stop to a small town to fill up on gas. Tiny place, didn’t even show up on any maps of the area. Only reason we even knew about it was because 330 had been through it before. Just a quick get gas, drive on. Nothing special planned.
Then I started seeing police cars ahead of us. A lot of police cars, blocking the road into the town. 330 pulled the car over to the side of the road and got out to get a look at them. There were a handful of officers, directing any cars that came down a different road.
“Well, this looks interesting….” 330 said, “Lisa, notice anything about those cops?”
I looked at them, but didn’t know what she wanted me to see. “Not… really….”
“Oh, come on, you ever see small town cops stand so rigidly to attention while guarding a middle of nowhere road before? Maybe if they were ex military, but I’m doubting that.”
“Then… what are they?”
“Let’s find out. Come on.”
She walked towards the blockade, with me following close behind. There were four officers by the cars; one held out a hand as we came nearer.
“I’m sorry, but this area has been closed off. I need to ask you two to leave.”
330 responded by pulling several ID cards with her name and face on them, and holding them to the officers face. “Which one of these lets me go inside?”
The look on his face…. Never seen anyone’s eyes go that big before. He had a very urgent hushed conversation with the others. Heard 330’s name come up a few times. Once finished, he spoke with us again. “I’ll take you to the commander right away.”
He got us into his patrol car, and we drove into the town. Soon as we entered, it became obvious that 330 was right. These weren’t police. Police don’t patrol the streets in such militant uniforms. Or carry guns that big. Weren’t any civilians on the streets that I could see. Didn’t recognize the uniforms either; they were grey urban camo style, but without any American military markings.
“So I really have to ask,” the driver said, “how does one get an ID card for both the CIA and the KGB?”
“Oh, you know. You just are minding your own business, leveling entire city blocks to try and kill the things hiding in them, and next you know some official people with very nervous smiles are handing an ID card to you saying thank you very much, we’ll call you if we need help again, please don’t come unless we call you please.” The driver laughed, and 330 resumed. “So, I have to ask, which card was it that got us in? Cause I know a lot of these are out of date.”
“We’re the Masons. We don’t usually let in random civilians, even if they do have identification, but your name seems to carry some weight.”
I whispered to 330, “Masons? Really? Please don’t tell me that the Freemasons are secretly a paramilitary conspiracy or something….”
“No, not really.” She whispered back. “The Masons are a privately run group with no connection to the Freemasons; they just chose the name to mess with any conspiracy theorists who tried to investigate them.”
“And they’re another secret group fighting monsters?”
“Yup.”
“How many of these things are there?”
“More than you would think possible. Everywhere I go I seem to run into conspiracies.”
More soldiers further into town, all moving around very quickly and purposefully. Didn’t see any civilians. We stopped by a sprawling park at the center of the town, which had been surrounded by sandbags and trenches. As we were stepping out of the car, a man with far more bars, stripes, and other assorted fancy indications of rank than anyone else around walked towards us. After acknowledging the driver’s salute, the officer held his hand to 330.
“General Moore of the Masons. If you’re here, I’m assuming that means things are going to get FUBAR pretty soon, but it’s not like we weren’t expecting that.”
He had a very harsh voice, which matched his looks. Older, grey overtaking most of his hair, with equally grey eyes and a face which looked stern enough to have been chiseled from rock. 330 smiled as she took his hand.
“And what makes you think that?”
“From what I’ve heard, you have a tendency to show up whenever shit is hitting the fan. And I’m assuming you came here because of the operation we’re performing?”
“Would you believe it if I said that we just happened to be passing through?”
His eyes said that he didn’t, but he kept quiet about that. Then he faced me, and… holy shit, I’ve never seen a stare that intense before. “And who’s this?”
Tried to answer. A bunch of stammered “ums” came out instead. 330 quickly interjected for me, saying, “This is Lisa Wells. She once shot the Intrusion with a flamethrower.”
Couldn’t tell whether his “Hmph” was impressed or apathetic. “You two might as well come with me. It’ll be good to have you on hand if this doesn’t work.”
Led us to a tent by the sandbag perimeter, explaining along the way. “Some local nutjobs summoned something nasty which nearly wiped out the town. We took care of that, but the cleanup is costing us more men than we expected. The corpses of those cultists won’t stay down unless we pump a few clips worth of lead into each one. The remainders are holed up in the park, and we’re about ready to move in and clear them out.”
“What happened to the people living here?” 330 asked.
“Most of them? Dead. We’ve evacuated and quarantined the survivors, but there weren’t many. Someone in management will probably negotiate handing them over to the government, and let them figure out what to do with the people. My jobs just to get them out of the way so we can kill these monsters.”
As we reached the tent, a soldier poked his head out and said to the general, “All squads reporting that they’re in position, sir.”
“Good. Are either of you planning on joining the final assault?”
“Hell yes!” That was 330.
“Who, me?” That was me.
Once it became clear to Moore that I, in spite of 330’s boasts about my prowess at fighting swarms of insects, had no idea how to use a gun (something 330 said we would “need to fix really soon,” a statement far more foreboding than I’d like to hear from a time traveler) it was decided that I would stay inside the safety of the command tent while 330 ran around with soldiers shooting zombie cultists. I was okay with this, even if it meant “missing out on all the fun” (330’s words, not mine.) And most of the people inside, including the colonel, seemed too busy with their jobs to speak with me, which suited me fine.
Never got to see any of the attack, but I could hear it unfolding through the communications going through the tent. Reports from the soldiers came steadily through the radios; Moore gave orders when necessary, but otherwise remained stoically silent. The aids were the ones bustling around with activity. Tried to keep track of what was happening , but it was too chaotic for me to hold everything in. First contact was reported three minutes in by a squad moving in from the northern end; another squad spotted and took down three cultists a few minutes later; then another got pinned by a large group in the camping area, until “That chick with the eye patch came out of nowhere and crushed them! God damn, I’ve never seen anything like that before! She killed them all in seconds!”; ending when the northern and southern squads linked in the center and began to clear out the few remaining pockets. The last shot was fired over three hours after the start. I’d barely noticed the time pass.
330 returned with the victorious soldiers not much later; there’d been a few casualties, but no deaths (did you know there’s actually a difference between those two? I didn’t) owing in large part to 330 repeatedly jumping out and rescuing people at the last moment. It was amazing, they said, how she managed to move across the battlefield so quickly. Almost like she was able to be in two places at once. 330 and I had a good laugh at our shared secret, earning us a few confused looks.
Kinda expected a victory speech from Moore. What we got was much shorter: “Excellent work,” and a salute to the men. From the smiles on their faces, it may as well have been a full speech.
Thus we left that little Colorado town as heroes. Well, 330 was a hero, while I basked in the warm glow of association. Felt kinda good. Almost good enough to make up for my dislike of the attention that was falling on me. Almost. Thankfully 330 was there to save me from that. “So sorry, but we really need to get going. Have a super secret conspiracy to stop. No, not your guys’ conspiracy, another one. No, I don’t think she… Lisa, do you have a cell phone? No? Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone number to give you…. No, I don’t have a phone number either, but try buying me a drink next time I’m around and we’ll see. Yes, we really must go now, don’t worry, you’ll probably meet me again next time something really big explodes.”
Got into our car, and then we were back on the road.
-Lisa
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Findings
Feeling better now. We’re going to start moving again soon; north-ish, into the American Midwest.
The stuff 330 got from the archives has proved useful. Details on that tear were a bit scarce; Lupine ordered the exact spot where it was later found be excavated a few years into his reign, leading to its discovery. After that, the only further mention of it in any record is classified beyond what the facility we checked had.
More importantly, she found a list of other bases they have, including other research facilities.
“So wait…” I asked 330 as she was going through the folders, “if that was number 03, how many are there?”
“It varies. On paper, the numbers go up to 15, but I don’t think they’ve ever actually had that many active at a time. Says here that facility 13 was never finished due to disagreements over the construction contract. Facility 04 was given to Germany after the Cold War ended. 02 was destroyed in the 80s. Homeland security took over 10 in 2001. And facility 01 was really just someone’s basement hastily converted into a lab. That was before the group actually had a decent budget.”
“Which one are we heading to?”
“Research facility 09. After they dug up the tear, it looks like there was a flurry of activity at all the facilities. Then there’s an interesting an interesting note here…. ‘Artifacts T17a, T17b, T17c recovered from dimensional distortion. All artifacts transported from Research Facility 03 to Research Facility 09.’ I say we go and find out what these T17 artifacts are.”
So that’s the plan.
-Lisa
The stuff 330 got from the archives has proved useful. Details on that tear were a bit scarce; Lupine ordered the exact spot where it was later found be excavated a few years into his reign, leading to its discovery. After that, the only further mention of it in any record is classified beyond what the facility we checked had.
More importantly, she found a list of other bases they have, including other research facilities.
“So wait…” I asked 330 as she was going through the folders, “if that was number 03, how many are there?”
“It varies. On paper, the numbers go up to 15, but I don’t think they’ve ever actually had that many active at a time. Says here that facility 13 was never finished due to disagreements over the construction contract. Facility 04 was given to Germany after the Cold War ended. 02 was destroyed in the 80s. Homeland security took over 10 in 2001. And facility 01 was really just someone’s basement hastily converted into a lab. That was before the group actually had a decent budget.”
“Which one are we heading to?”
“Research facility 09. After they dug up the tear, it looks like there was a flurry of activity at all the facilities. Then there’s an interesting an interesting note here…. ‘Artifacts T17a, T17b, T17c recovered from dimensional distortion. All artifacts transported from Research Facility 03 to Research Facility 09.’ I say we go and find out what these T17 artifacts are.”
So that’s the plan.
-Lisa
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