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Greenwich Village seethes in the summer night with the kind of activity some towns by themselves never muster even during civic emergencies or parades. Windows are open to allow music to drift out through radios. Televisions spill out bits of popular programs. This close to dark, most of the young population in the Village prefers to listen to comedy and entertainment programs. They don't have any cares about the news or the dull, cheesy shows with white-washed families and squeaky-clean storylines. Bars leave their doors open to beckon anyone who might walk inside.
Several performers have taken to standing outside, busking in an impromptu concert being caught on very shortwave radio by the geeks turned sudden music aficionados. The soundwaves pretty much resonate off the buildings, melding to the bright lights, and creating a rich tapestry.
A lovely start to an evening. Certainly not its end.
Maximus is out trying to molest the world for the supplies he needs, and perhaps to score a little…reprieve from loneliness. Its remarkably easy to pick up a little one night stand here and there, particularly when you can just…make them pay attention to you for a little bit. Hunting hunting, and being a terrible person with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.
Hunting grounds as rich as this turn up damn near anything. Want a clown? You got a clown. Looking for Hispanic, black, Asian, Mediterranean, blonde, they're out there in the crowd, some kempt and others not. The party thickens around the usual haunts: the Village Vanguard with its jazz and the Cherry Lane Theatre buzzing all night, the Stonewall Inn and the Bitter End calling their children forth. Max can reach out and touch whatever he might want. It's all here.
All in a microcosm when an ear-piercing shriek beeps out six times in rapid succession, the tones too stark and shrill to be anything like Morse code. It comes from the radios in the windows, the TVs in the houses, the cars picking up tunes from oldies to rock to jazz. It comes from the clubs and the restaurants. Anything tuned in. Anyone tuned out won't be.
Maximus winces at the sudden interrupt to ALL stations and all music. Not that he loves American music anyway, but…anything is better than loud beeping. "UGH!" Maximus complains with a grunt.
The cries of dismay and groans from several quarters mark where someone was listening a bit too loud. "The fuck!" someone shouts, as another dives to turn down the dial. Volumes going down don't really help when the noise is amplified.
The performers in the middle of a greenspace about the size of a coffeetable stop playing their guitars and curse. A stream of multiple beeps rips through their speakers, the same as the Chevy parked on the curb. Some television flickering in the window of a store goes to shivering white lines and then snow.
"My program! What the heck, Johnny, change the channel," protests a woman not really so far from Maximus. Though he might feel his skin crawl a moment later.
There's another bleat of clear, distinct words passing through in a language he probably hasn't heard in a good long time. Ten years. A night he might want to forget that involved the end of the elders of the House of Agon.
|ROLL| Maximus +rolls 1d20 for: 2
Broadcast Burst One: Kree
Broadcast.
- Report from Sol three, quadrant 7 omega 12.
- XORRAR broadcast band engaging to Toliman.
- No response. No response.
- Repeating broadcast. Report from Sol three.
- Relay online: IRAM.
- Emergency broadcast to Hala.
Maximus seems like a different person, suddenly. His eyes widen and he covers one ear, though not the other. The military-style broadcast…the implication of either invasion or a crash, either of which is terrible, floods his brilliant mind and makes it go all wonky. He mutters in Kree instead of English, "What are they doing here?!"
Broadcast Burst Two: Kree
Begin emergency broadcast.
- Standby power systems online. Signal from array 0-49-22.
- Attention Xoran. Attention Xoran. Blue-six emergency.
- Repeat. Blue-six emergency.
- 778,201 dot 76 east mark coordinate.
—- 2,186,155 dot 10 north mark coordinate.
New Yorkers don't take particularly nicely to the interruptions. Some go so far as to unplug their devices, like it will do any good for them. Hasty attempts to lower the volume don't help when everything radiates so loudly through paper-thin walls. Windows open to allow the largely young residents to poke their heads down and shout down to pedestrians on the sidewalk. "Are you hearing this?" shouts one to Maximus.
Another man on a ground-floor walk-up cranes his head back to address another befuddled resident of his building on the third floor. "Where the hell is Hala? Hey, Karen, is that where your mom lives upstate?" She shakes her head.
Sundry mutters matter. "Is this some kind of Air Force joke?" A few distrustworthy souls slam the doors on the pubs. They'll drink in peace. Mostly. Trust a cabby to ask, "Shit, shit, shit. Are we under attack?"
Maximus looks around and then heads fort he store that actually sells the electronics. He staggers in, mind aflurry and already weaving together some sort of plan. He starts grabbing things off the shelf, and if the propriator resists, he forgets who he is for a few days. Maximus needs to build a device to tell him exactly where those coordinates are…
Report.
- Breach warning at XORRAR-15.
- Depth 71 dot 25 imperial standard kriar.
- Detect 2 functional craft.
- Lifeform measurement: 115.
- Measure of craft external elasticity: 206 karsh per ronel squared.
- Radiation measurement: 49 siev'.
—- Initiating failsafe protocol against unidentified vessels at depth 60 dot 81 kriar.
Maximus slams a few bits of radio, and TV and starts inventing. He yanks out coils and tubes and wires, threading them together in a complex fashion, trying to strip off and figure out how far away the signal is coming from by measuring its intensity and strength. And while part of it is priming, he rifles around for a map, anything that might give him some idea of coordinates in compare. He doesnt expect the Kree to share their same delineation, but he can extrapolate.
Report.
- Attention Xoran. Attention Xoran. Blue-six emergency on Sol three.
- Humans attempting to breach XORRAR-15. Repeat human aggression on XORRAR-15.
- Unconfirmed as escaped test subjects. Emergency call, follow Huran Protocol.
- Identified passive acoustical homing technology.
- 3 detonations measured over 11 degrees lat, 4 degrees vert. Depth 69 dot 18 imperial standard kriar.
- Standby. Explosive charges, rated 300 kial.
Whoa, that guy down there trying to make something on the fly is crazy. He at least smashes radios, and at least two people in the building he's adjacent to think to throw theirs out of the window in case they are possessed. Rainfall of broken circuitboards, tubes, and a long plug dance off the sidewalk to a serenade of crunches. It's all very cathartic.
A map of the world may be harder to find than some. His ability to create a relay that picks up the signal is going to tax Max, but mad genius is mad genius. Eventually he'll start triangulating and discover the signal derives from the southwest. Far, far southwest, and definitely not something from the lower forty-eight.