Tappity tap tap tap. Scratch tap thud tap.
It was code what Blue was sending, and a simple one at that. Nothing special there. Yet when it's your mind drumming against a receiver located a block away, which you just happen to see through that tiny window, it's something else alright.
Surveillance cannot intercept pure thought yet, even though said thought is telling reality to bend over and be a good &^%$@.
Whistling, Blue strolled along the delapidated promenade, bought a noodle soup from a Chinese vendor so wrinkled that prunes envied his face, and thought about the last months.
The Eureka arcology was seedy, and the quarter Blue called "my turf" even seedier - just the way the Draenei liked it. As for external surveillance, it was entirely off the grid - and Blue enjoyed tossing any scout drones that barged in into the trash. Best pitch so far? A single prod, and the probe landed square in the middle of the trashcan, mangled - without cheating and adjusting its course. Same happened to any newly installed cameras - 'mysterious malfunction'.
Ever since escaping, Blue was irate at the thought of being watched. Sure, the system had to go offline, and the recordings had to go. Sven, the head of security? He was a boon, especially as Blue barged in on him whacking off to the footage of 'Master' playing one of his games in the middle of the lobby - with Blue no less.
He might have been a creep, but all blood is beautiful.
They'd drill into the armories soon, in utter silence, melting through the floors with chemicals, without tremors or noises to give them away. Where fine touch was needed, Blue would step in. Nothing like levitating a slab of floor to get you going.
And with Blue's way of giving orders, no one would ever expect it until it was too late.
Blue's den was modest and secluded - as is wisest for a would-be revolutionnaire. Nadia was still there, spent, gazing at the roof and playing with ice cubes inside a glass of irish cream.
"You wonder?" the readhead asked, chuckling.
"I'll drag him back, fear not."
Screens were buzzing with information in the 'headquarters', occupying almost all wall space in the tiny room, connected to a plethoira of feeds.
What was that? A work offer?
What an ironic name for a humble fixer - especially considering his income would be paid by Johnsons, he'd be yelled at by Johnsons, do work for Johnsons and curse Johnsons all day.
"300k?" Blue mused. The money's good - and playing a corp off against another, coupled with property damage, perhaps personnel loss? Who knew if there was a possibility to make both lose? And if not, 300k bought a lot of bang, from people who could not care less where said bang was used, and who was to be banged.
Back in the bedroom, Nadia's head rested in Blue's lap, the psychic mused: "We strike tonight - then I leave for Alaska. Oversee the storage of the arms, and lay low. There aren't enough yet. But soon..."