Tuesday, January 3, 2017


Situation Report: Mission 250ish?
Guess it depends on what we’re calling a “mission” these days.
At around 8:30 pm, after we had been spotted but before we had completely blown our cover, we approached a locked door.
It was a heavy steel security door with a reinforced frame that was sunken in concrete. It’s pretty tough, but I could tell that the hinges hadn’t been properly secured and that two caps of N-38 should blow it quite nicely and without making too much noise.
That is, of course, if we were going to do it my way. But we weren’t. We were going to do it his way.
So he sauntered up to the door like he knew what he was doing.
He told us to “Just call him the Locksmith.”
Yeah, ok Locksmith.
For the record, he was still wearing that ridiculous lab coat during the entire mission, filled half and half with space age technology and useless junk.
And I don’t care if the stupid thing even is bulletproof; he can stop bullets with his mind!
So he crossed his arms and stared at the lock, his mind already working at the mechanisms. We could hear the lock wiring and clicking as he fiddled with it psionically. He had the stupidest look on his face, like a noncommittal half smile.
We had to endure this charade for about two and a half minutes before the robot got fed up and loudly punched its way through the door.
Or maybe someone asked him to do that. It might’ve been me. Doesn’t matter, we’re talking about him.
Now most people would look defeated or disappointed right about now.
But his was a strange look of melancholy.
And that, Mr. Dotson, seems like something you should be made aware of.
I think our dear Locksmith may be growing a conscious.

  • Pierrick aka Nitro

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