The floodgates have been opened. I feel confident about the program rigged up. Scott still feels reluctant about wearing the communications gear, so besides my motorcycle helmet, it's just based around open transceivers. If we need to, we can use other measures. Sally was less than pleased that I had to force her powerbook to co-habitate along with some of the machines pillaged from the electronics store, but this way I know that no matter what happens, we will be marked. I have all the transcriptions of all that occurs being sent to three setup databases, and also to the email list. This should hold things up.

Everyone looks frightened. It's pre-dawn, and I feel like we are stealing the dawn from the city, with no intention of giving it back. We have about two hours before the sun really comes up, and in that time I hope we can get out of the city. We had business here, but that's concluded now. I got back a few hours ago from an excursion to some people at the University of Chicago. They give me the electric kool-aid which I have (un)wisely entrusted to Ryan and Scott. We need something pull us together. Scott's whispered comment of "secrets" is right. Before we get much farther we need to pull together, no matter the consequences.

I am pulling up the rear, riding alone on the road slut I requisitioned. As we are leaving, I toss a little bottle of cheap whiskey back into the left-over paint cans. We don't need any evidence left behind. Given the state of the block, the whole area should be a conflagration in a few hours. That should distract anyone of the bad-intentioned law beings from focusing on us.

Ryan and Scott have chosen the caddy again, with Ryan driving. They seem intent on something, and Scott looks ill at-ease with his weapon. After the laughing-man, Ryan has gotten a maniacal look, and carries his hand-cannon in his green army belt. In the bus, the two land masses known as Chris and Rob collectively drive, laughing hilariously as the THC roars through them, like some strange tide gone wild. Nate attempts to follow the goings-on, while Sally grouses about her computer, in-between talking to the three boys. I have charged her with watching over the body for the next leg of the trip. Jhasen's decomposition has slowed, but continues. He is going to need a serious airing. Maybe if we can get a side-car....
Cliff and Jeff ride in the van, two travelers lately returned. They talk in the low, hushed tones of ones who don't know where they are going, or what's happening. But things are beginning to come afoot, and the group winds it's way out of the subterranean depths of the Loop, taking 496 out towards Wisconsin.

Watching the ghost convoy convey the boat of Jhasen, I can't help but remember:
"..and he had forgotten that all life is only a set of pictures in the brain, among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things, and those born of inward dreaming, and no cause to value the one above the other."

Or maybe Alan Moore said it best: "All stories are true."






-hemos-
--Letters from a Savior; Offer for a few--


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