Ground squirrelsOnce upon a time, there was a sword. It's a fancy sword; it has a rotating blade, and bladed sickles to run in the sand and sometimes under it, and bladed props for short hops. So it's probably more like a very spiky ball of murder than a sword, but they'll call it a sword when it's from. For the last fifty years, it has been taking food to its mummy. First it was people who didn't have an IFF bracelet on. Then it was just people, because IFF bracelets that worked properly stopped being around. Then it was mainly squirrels, because people stopped being around. The sword knew that it'd been a lot more squirrels since there'd been a lot less people, really, but didn't do much with this information other than report it to mummy when it was required. Mummy was deep underground, made of yellowed ceramic and stained titanium. The sword was alone. It knew that there should've been two hundred fifty four more in the little realm it was pledged to defend, because that's what the string of ones
Country Farm - Summer BulletinQUESTION OF SCALE
"Are you allowed to be here?" Not the nicest thing someone can offer as a greeting, but at least she said it in a friendly way. "No offense meant. We tend to be pretty relaxed in this area but it's been oh, ages since I've seen someone without some kind of insignia." She reaches up to touch the slim piece of leather wrapped around her throat, running a finger over some shallow marks engraved in it. And then blushes, trying to pretend she hadn't and had been reaching for the patch sewn to the shoulder of her overalls all along, a picture of a coiled leash above the words 'Simplicitatem Opus Conscentia Est'.
"You're from the surface?" To her credit, she looks curious rather than scared, remembering that,ultimately, so is everyone else. "New immigrants are supp- oh. Oh, no, not a problem, just, well. You know how it goes, anybody who came here from someplace with internet either played Bioshock or at least saw the memes. Makes things a bit nervous ever since an actual gr
Survival is Victory"Easy, boy."
Somewhat less annoyed chirping.
Nathan wasn't racist, they just all looked alike to him. He needed a way to tell, so he made a red rubber band into a ribbon, gingerly presented it, and watched as it -- she -- superglued it on her head. If it was good enough for Mrs. Pacman...
"Okay, we can be friends. Listen, I'm too big to get through the air intake. All you have to do is unjam it, understand?" Fragile, looks malnourished -- although they all do -- and averse to do anything that even looks like the use of fource. Nathan couldn't blame her. He watched as she selected a flat head screwdriver, jumpy in case she reverted to default and attacked her with it. He nods. She holds onto the tool like a knife and crawls up the air intake on her knuckles.
He gets back to work. This thing is never going to fly again, but there's a lot of fuel in the tank, and by idling the engine they can at least have power and clean air until the rescue team shows u
F the FCCFuck the FCC
So yeah, fuck the FCC. The little guys -- who turned out to have enough magic to impress a medieval peasant, but not anyone with a cell phone or even a cigarette lighter -- have been deemed a threat to our infrastructure, and are being "relocated". To be fair, Native American communities complained... until it turned out that this was affecting roulette tables a lot less than it was affecting video surveillance in casinos, then the complaints became more numerous but much les well bankrolled.
Now there's fairies living in the same FEMA camps that the wingnuts were scared about and were the first to vote for in the name of noetic stability. I guess some of the easier to work with are staying with the Amish.
And then there's Gilly. She's been living with me since June. That is incidentally enough to get my visa revoked and probably take my house to pay the fine (they won't send you to prison for keeping a vow of hospitality, fairies aren't criminals, they'll just pile up adm
Just a quiet country farmJust a quiet country farm...
"So, is this everything you ever wanted? Young lady?"
The G-Man sounds derisive. He probably is. As part of a complicated compromise, we're both wearing handcuffs for which the boat's captain has the keys. It is not sexual.
What does an aging, balding, unpassable transsexual do with a weapon of mass destruction? Ask for recognition, of course.
What does she ask for when "recognition" turns out to involve three FBI agents shadowing her and scaring everyone she comes into contact with into a parody of politeness? Her own country, of course.
"Mister Anderson." The voice is intentionally nasal. The G-Man looks annoyed, it's not as if he hasn't heard that one for the last twenty years.
"I suppose this means we're not dating anymore?"
"Hah. Good riddance."
The island is one palm away from being the classic tiny island with one palm on it that they used to use for one-panel jokes when it was still politically correct to do so. It's what's left of some lan