Realm of the InterNutter

Continued from yesterday:

  There was a game of pok-ball in progress when the tour party emerged. The President watched with a mixture of confusion and delight.

  “I’ve seen this on the news,” he grinned. “How do you play, exactly?”

  Callisto clapped Sara on the shoulder. “Show the man, sky-high. You, too, Mort.” She waited until they were both out of earshot. “Mr President - a private word?”

  The leader of the free

Continued from yesterday:

  The shoes - Ug boots from a cheapie sweatshop somewhere - couldn’t fit through the narrow portal made for the food trays. Therefore, the troops on the other side of the cage began lobbing the boxes over the fence. In order to prevent the boxes from falling open in the air, they were held shut by thick rubber bands.

  Sara couldn’t catch worth spit, but she was out there, amongst the other able bodies, leaping

Continued from yesterday:

  “I got Dianne to plead for shoes,” said Callisto upon her return. “As for scissors, I found a shaper who wants a crotch insert. Frontal wedgie.”

  “Ig,” said Sara. “All alterations require the alteree to be nude for at least a day, alas.” She handed another thread to Mort, who began spooling. She had her own unitard down to rectangular pieces arranged on her bed. “At least until I have

Continued from yesterday:

  Henry paced when he was on the phone. It was a very simple displacement activity, but it beat the heck out of getting into an interesting equation and missing the actual call through inattention.

  “I’m sorry,” said the secretary, “but no-one at this office is willing to take the case.”

  Hank crossed off the number on his little list. “Do you know of anyone who might?” he enquired.

  “We’

Continued from yesterday:

  “It’s almost dawn,” Sara murmured. “Everyone who can should get some rest.”

  Mort made to find a space beside Sara.

  “Not you, Mort. You hit your head. You have to stay awake for an hour, at least.”

  A hand felt the back of his head. “That, and you’re bleeding,” said Callisto. “We have to do some wound-cleaning at least.”

  “You’re taking him

Continued from yesterday:

  Violet could barely sit up after that noise in her head, but she managed it. Somehow. She was lying on the mattress near the computer. She could see Brisco’s shoes twitching just past the divide into the mouse-sized kitchen.

  There was a woman on the floor nearby. Obviously in distress.

  Whatever had hit her… just hit them.

  Violet recovered enough sense to manhandle the woman onto the mattress and stuff a pillow under Brisco’s

Continued from yesterday:

  Walking Sara around, even with bare feet on the blistering tarmac, was a good excuse to case the joint.

  The fence was a hasty remodel of a former, shorter incarnation. That had not, however, prevented the builders from skimping on the razor wire. In fact, were it not for that razor wire, the screaming crowd outside would have already shaken the impromptu fortifications from their hasty base and turned every single assumed mutant into *jam*.

  Shelter was a couple

Continued from yesterday:

  Mort had, in fact, managed to snag one wallet and quickly ditch all forms of ID and any kind of card with anyone’s name on it before he slowed to a halt outside of the TV store.

  There was no sound, but the words scrolling across the bottom of the screens said more than enough.

  _Mutants attack White House,_ the ticker read. _President is unharmed. Sources are uncertain which organisations, if any, are involved._

  He felt like

Continued from yesterday:

  Goren was sorting the credible witness reports from the outlandish when the Australian Exchange Officer turned up at his desk.

  “Got'cher girl’s permanent record,” said Spence[1]. “Volumes A to K…” {WHUMP} “and L to Zed.”[2] {WHUMP}

  “Nobody gets that joke in New York,” said Eames.

  “I get it,” said Goren. He was smirking at the two enormous folders. "Thanks.“

  "No worries,

Continued from yesterday:

  He started simple, with an emailed request for the correspondence course catalogue for the next year. Such an item turning up in Sara's mailbox would hardly raise suspicion.

  Step two was harder.

  He had to get his hands on some dosh.

  Mort’s old clothing - preserved in a box for unknown reasons - had bought the big one after the lightning hit and being soaked in both harbour and Hudson. His useful little gizmos, things that could