The frequency shudders left and right, trying to maintain a steady lock. The mic in front of me hums quietly, whimpering from old age. I don't remember the last time I had to use this equipment, but there's no better time than the present I guess.
Static on the other end of the line confirms my suspicions; I'm alone, and I have limited time. Clearing my throat, I press the control to open the com with any open frequencies. My hand shakes slightly.
"If anyone can hear this, send help."
Com off. Repeat.
"If anyone is on the line, please send help."
Com off. Waiting.
I wait for what feels like hours, finally giving up hope that anyone is out there. As I go to switch the power dial off, the radio crackles with a vague static-filled signal.
"....read? Is th....one out there? Hel....? Does anyo....copy? Pick u...."
I frantically adjust the frequency, trying to get a lock on their signal. 55, 53... it locks at 54.2 Hz. A young male voice comes through the radio. "Does anyone read? Is there someone out there?" My hands shake and my eyes fill with tears of relief as I open the com again.
"Copy, who's on the line?" I ask, not yet revealing information.
"Avron Streyer. What color is your line?" This Avron kid is with the Fighters. I recite the rest of the coded conversation from memory.
"Red on Mondays, but green on Saturday. What if it was sky blue?"
"The sky would be jealous, but freer than the line."
"Lines are attached to..." I start, as Avron is supposed to finish to finally confirm the code.
"The Fighters." I don't know who the hell this "Avron Streyer" person is, but it seems I'm not alone in this rebellion anymore. That's one pro to a day full of cons.
ВЫ ЧИТАЕТЕ
The Best Part of Believe is the Lie
БоевикFighters Cargo Pilot, Rausa Dycrest, is trying to get back to base to report the findings of her undercover mission. Fellow Fighters Bravo Pilot, Avron Streyer, picks up his receiver when a broken static signal starts coming through. The two end up...
