The Fourteenth Day of Dark: 9:00 AM: LOG 11

To your chagrin, you've been allowed to see the entrance to the underground base, from which all of the illegal pirate broadcasts are streamed to Skaian television networks, but you've yet to be allowed to enter. You've also never been allowed to see how one turns the otherwise unassuming metal wall into anything beyond just that. You suppose it's only logical. They can't trust you yet. You haven't proven yourself. If anything, you'll need to arrange an attack to fend off. Then, you're sure you'll have their trust.

But, until that can happen, you're stuck watching the broadcasts—which consist of little more than colorful bars on a screen and static-filled audio—from the shitty cathode ray tube television in the kitchen. It's one of those ancient things that you're genuinely surprised still works. You've seen things like these in history museums, often broken beyond repair. That's what tends to happen when millions of people are suddenly purged from one planet and exiled to live in space.

"Welcome back to your biweekly Prospitian Movement Report, hosted by the Knight of Time and Heir of Breath. The past two weeks have been pretty boring," John's the primary narrator. This is the first time you've watched the broadcast so close to where it's being recorded, but you've viewed the older ones sent by the king in your briefings. If he wasn't part of a massive rebellion, you're pretty sure John would do well as a television host. By Human standards, he's attractive enough; he's also got the required amount of animation and charisma. "Today is the Fourteenth Day of Dark. Nine on the dot. Fourteen days of cold season down, seventy-six to go. If you go by the triplet calendar, it's one-hundred twenty-six days."

"We're a revolutionary underground television broadcast, Heir of Breath, not some shitty weather station." True to form, Dave demonstrates far less tact and immensely more personality (albeit not exactly television-sweetheart-worthy) in his commentary. "Updates, publications, new locations. That's all we're doing."

"Someone's grumpy," John hums.

Dave groans. "Updates. I misplaced the original note, so I'm going to wing it. Feel free to shoot me if I miss something." He pauses, clears his throat, and begins, speaking in the most disinterested voice possible. Either he's not feeling like being very personable today (likely) or he just doesn't give a damn (also likely). "Due to some complex medical bullshit going down with me, I'm cancelling all visitation to the Tin Can as of now." (You've come to learn that the "Tin Can" is a rather apt name for the place you're living in.) "Mail people and essential personnel are still allowed in."

A buzzing noise follows this. You can pin the noise down as Dave's chair malfunctioning. (It's been doing so for the past two days, with John making several I'm-not-suggesting-but-I-am comments to you that it's time for something that's not a literal stack of garbage glued together and mounted on wheels. Not that you're going to spend your money on a new chair. For one thing, Skaia's not too accommodating. Finding a place that sells them will take a while, and buying one will put a huge dent in the advance pay you received. And, right now, you're planning on keeping that for yourself. At least... That's the plan.)

After an audible utterance of a string of profanities, Dave continues. "Also, you all need to quit sending funds to the wrong place. Don't send them at all. Pass them off. We'll get them here. I promise. Otherwise, you're attracting unwanted attention. We don't need another repeat of the thirtieth day of dusk. We've lost enough fucking supply locations as it is."

Here, John hastily jumps in. "And that's all of the announcements, thanks for listening."

The channel lets forth a loud, ear-piercing screech before returning to its usual broadcast of solid static.

The Fourteenth Day of Dark: 11:00 AM: LOG 0012

As per usual, you were dismissed in the hours immediately following the broadcast. As scatterbrained as these two twits are, they aren't total strategic idiots. They know what they're doing, and they clearly don't trust you enough to let you in on it. Again, you can't blame them. The king issued you an official badge of indemnity to present in the event of a sudden raid on your location.

You've been brainstorming ways to win their trust without involving others or having to call in a favor. Setting up a planned and ultimately harmless attack to "defend" against is the most surefire way, but it's risky. Secrets don't go well, it seems. The next option is the slower one, and that carries the same hazards. Hell, it carries even more; you can't get attached to anything in your profession.

So far, you've yet to come up with a solid plan.

Well, you have, it's just not the most moral of plans. You planted tiny wireless microphones throughout the space. You've learned that Dave and John prefer to use the living room as their designated spot for discussion, so you've bolstered that area's surveillance with your singular camera. Right now, you're utilizing these tools and spying on them through your computer.

You've never felt comfortable getting information this way, though. Despite your profession, you have a set of standards, and one of them is to avoid invading privacy whenever possible. You only do so in order to kill or if there's an emergency, and you deem this job enough of a problem to classify this as an emergency. It's shaky logic, but you take whatever you can get.

"Look, John, you have good ideas sometimes, but now ain't one of those times," Dave grumbles, leaning so far back in his chair that you're certain he'll tip it. "Right now, the best idea is to lay low and keep building up steam. We're down to one supply base. We need more before we plan on anything."

"Point taken." John shrugs. He scoots his empty plate around on the table. "We'll need to consult with Rose first, though."

"Mhm." Dave nods. "Any money in the reserves?"

"Ours?" Another shrug from John. "Some. Not much."

"And the Prospitian Vault?"

"Enough." Now, John begins picking at the crumbs on his plate.

"Then I think we're good for now." With a bit of coaxing, Dave's chair turns and begins heading out of the room.

You immediately shut down the computer and shove it hastily beneath the mattress you're using as a bed.

The Fourteenth Day of Dark: 2:30 PM: LOG 0013

Apparently, John has the fifteenth through twentieth days off of every season. It seems about accurate. From what little you know about Skaia, it has some odd labor law that requires so many days off for employees. A mandatory absence of, if John's is anything to go by, a paltry amount of time per year. (John, being his employer's good friend, seems like a reliable source for finding out the absolute minimum requirement for such a law.)

By now, John's packed up and you've all piled into a taxi. You've been on plenty of these. Hell, you've even been on one of the cheap manual-drive ones, but whoever arranged this trip has spared no expense. It's one of the larger ones, complete with a good amount of space to move around in and even a small bed above the seats. The forward portion of the self-driving vehicle is stocked with a fridge and a shelf of snacks.

Honestly, you're suspicious. How could either of these two doofuses afford this?

"It's nowhere near Wintertide this year. Break, I mean," John mutters, twiddling his thumbs.

"You picked the days," Dave shrugs. "So, what're you doing?"

"Beating the shit out of you for booking such an expensive taxi," John answers matter-of-factly, but the grin on his face gives him away.

"Fair enough."

You, having had enough of this banal conversation, speak up. "So, I'll be alone with Dave?"

"Don't worry. He can take care of himself," John reassures you. Unfortunately, he misses the mark completely. You're not concerned about what you'll need to do, you're concerned about...

Dave interrupts your thoughts. "It's good time to get to know the new meat shield, I guess." Another shrug, though this one seems to cause the fingers of his right hand to curl into a tight fist. He winces, but shows no other signs of discomfort. "Don't worry, Egbert, I can shoot a needle off the Imperial Tower's point if I need to. I did train with this galaxy's finest sharpshooter. Remember?"

John scoffs and rolls his eyes, which you only not recognize to be a brilliant blue. "Jade's not that great."

"Whatever."

The taxi slows to a stop, and the door opens.

Customary human farewells are exchanged, including the odd "hugging" ritual. Then, after the allotted ten minutes, the doors slide closed. The Taxi lurches back to life, and it dawns upon you that you'll probably be spending the next five days doing elaborate mental jigs to avoid forming any sort of attachment with a man you're supposed to kill.