Live Wire

You look down on the corpse of the radio set and exhale.

It’s strange; what once would’ve seemed like just a mess of metal now feels as visceral as wiry sinews and tendons. But you steel yourself to the task. Eddy leaves you to your own devices for the most part, which suits you just splendidly.

It’s a little different to what you expect, but you soon adjust. Surgical feels like the wrong word; you couldn't explain to anyone how you're fixing it, you just know what feels right.

Some of the radios are too far gone now, the magnetic storms twisting intestines beyond saving, especially after so many further years of disuse. Some still hold a glimmer of animation, the screens pulsing weakly under galvanic provocation.

You pick out the most promising, a thirty-year-old model dressed in glossy plastic with a periodic sputtering cough of static. It takes some coaxing, delicate tweezers guiding wires to their place, a small hairbrush sweeping away the dirt of decades. But eventually, it churns back into life, drawing hungrily upon the stream of current.

The light in the workshop dims for a moment, then flickers.

It blares up again, blinding you as suddenly you find yourself staring directly up at it. You can feel the cold metal of the gurney beneath you, the frazzled static resolving into steady beeping. Above you, a pair of hands descends, reaching down inexorably towards your right arm, grasping at unfeeling nerves and wrenching–

You stare down at the disconnected radio.

It smokes merrily. You can smell the burnt fuse. For a moment, though… it seemed to be working.

Regardless, these short-range comms are a low enough intensity to be safe. The makeshift-pylon-turned-transmission-tower itself, however… Well, better a fool than a martyr, as they say – sorry, said – in Jotama.

With some excuse to Eddy about trying out a possible modification, you make the climb up the pylon to inspect the broadcasting equipment. It’s a little less rickety than before; Tristan and Eddy have set up some cables to prevent immediate collapse. But your feet have been on surer ground.

Looking down, you can see the square of the Bastion below you, the imperfections blurring into a haze of normalcy. From up here, you can’t see the gap in the fence or sickliness of the plants in the garden patch. Though you can see Raul’s massive fuck-off hole, which spoils your mood a little.

Turning to the pylon, Lottie has rigged together a modified short-range comms unit to a large antenna. Two leads snake off from the main body, awaiting a power supply. You examine the contraption, but it’s been patched together in a completely unnatural way – as if feet had been stitched to ribs. You can tell enough that it’s going to be powerful – maybe even dangerously powerful.

You choose the part that looks the second most important and pocket it. You descend, muttering a thanks to Eddy as you pass.

You’re safe for now.

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