[hider=Seeing if I can finish this dump before work]"[i]AHAHAAHAHAHA FUQ ET BITZES I FOUND TH TERMNAL ND U DIDNT FUQIN CONTZ DUNT KNO HOW DUM U ARE I FUQ RAETERS MUM ALL NIHT YEYEYEYEHUE ND SUKS GOT RONALS ASWIPE EY BT H WUS PUZZY NOT LYK ME

FUG HOW TESE KEYSWURK FUK CITHLIC EDUCATION I DO WHAT I WANT IM BOSS OF DIS GANG

CATH-NAILS4LYF

SUQ IT FATHR BARNBY NIGA PINK CINK QUUR PEDO AZWHIPE.[/i]"

The vulgarity of the entry was certainly a stark contrast to the previous, more tempered files. Tapping the keys to read the next entries a voice interrupted her. A startling freezing voice, mired in dis-tuned static it came from within and without.

"Sweeet gi-gin." it grumbled into her head, choked up somehow, and having difficulty to breath. Like a uncomfortable beast, disused to speaking, "you owe a debt to some powerful ppeople."

The Android bolted upright from her seat, her mind racing with panic at the sudden sounding of the voice. Her body - or what parts were not the replacement metal - broke out in a clammy, cold sweat. A tense fear and panic crept over her. Her conscious buzzed and raced with a million rats that buzzed with questions. Seeking out where the voice had come from, or where it had intruded.

She scrambled back from the terminal fearing it to be the source of the bitter ghostly voice that spoke in her head. "Who are you? Where are you!" she screamed into the black night in the shell of that old warehouse.

But there was no response. Seconds passed, which stretched intangibly as she waited for an answer, paced about.

"Oi, I think I h'ead something over he'e!" a muffled distant voice yelled. Her head snapped to the far side of the warehouse where the star and moonlight crawled under neath the broken and frozen loading gates. Thin faint shadows paced on the other-side of the gap. A fearful foreboding tinge tickled her spine. Sudden instinct clicking into place she dove for her bag, fumbling through it as she scooped out the collected ammunition and her rifle.

Glancing around the cover of the metal divider she watched with fearful anticipation as figures crawled from under the gates. Their builds were not clear in the dark, scant moon-light. But they looked to be lightly built.

"I have investorss," the voice spoke again in the night, forcing a stiffened fearful squeal from the Android as she shot to the side of the divider, panting heavily with the heavy rifle drawn across her lap. "A-as I have been told, you are rather... ahem, shall we say: valuable." the voice continued as Sweet Gin checked the magazine on her rifle. In the faint sickly green glow of the terminal screen she frowned at the nearly empty mag. Most of it had to be expended in her fight with Lenny, and Logan.

Her breath race as she peeked around the corner at the dark figures creeping around the warehouse. They were thinly spread. And as their shadows blended with that of the clutter she suddenly doubted she'd be able to get enough shots with the rifle to make it worth it.

"I have an obligation to my... your, investors to return you." the voice continued to taunt, "And to the protocols of my 'employers' to return lost android units. And SB-6069, you are a [i]missing asset[/i]."

Distraught, Sweet Gin set the rifle aside. Her mind was racing. Not only with dealing with the potential threat on the other-side of her meager divide, but with the intrusion of her own mind. The voice that spoke to her felt like a terrible violation of her being. It was distracting, an-

She remembered, grabbing for her belt she found the familiar bulky weight of the ten millimeter pistol hanging their. Relief floated from her mouth and her breath. She knew for a fact she had plenty of spare clips for the gun tucked into her pack as well, the merchant she had met had seen to that.

She wondered if he was still sore she had taken his stuff like that. A part of her wondered if she should apologize. But that part of her was in the wrong moment as she rummaged through he backpack, sweeping up the extra clips that lay scattered at the bottom. And also, there it was. Barston's gift. His sword.

Pulling it out she wondered what the man's motive was in gifting it to her. But she had to shrug that question off. Maybe if she could ask later she would, provided she got out in one peace, or with a mind left to ask. Both options made her frightful, and the insisting intruder in her head wasn't making it a better thought.

She turned with her gear set on her lap. Quickly she went about putting it together to ready for the coming fight. Rising to her knees she rose the sword and its holster to her belt, desperately fumbling with the ancient locking mechanism to fit it on when the sound of a hard boot on concrete thudded nearby. She stopped in her business, as she slowly turned to the edge of the divider. The faint form of a man stood just on the other-side, the edge of his arm and his stretched and duel shadow falling across the floor from the terminal's glow and the moon. The man looked oblivious, scanning the distance on the other-side of his room, a battered bolt-action rifle hung in his arms as he scanned around.

Fearfully she looked down and saw her own cast shadow lay stretched across the concrete. He would see it any minute. He scanned, looking down.

He saw it.

With a jumping start he turned to meet Sweet Gin square in the eyes. In the electrical green of the computer terminal his eyes glowed a fierce violent red as he rose his arm to his mouth. He began to shout to his comrades as a metallic clang of an action and the hot burst of the android's 10mm rang out in the cavern of the warehouse.

The man's head snapped back before he could finish the first word. A fan of blood opening from the exit wound in the back of his skull as he dropped limply, his body thumping to the cold floor and the rifle clattering to the side. Yells and cries echoed in the warehouse as his companions were put on high alert. Weapon's fire clanged and echoed through the structure. The back of the divider bent and rippled at the impact of bullets as Sweet Gin scrambled away from it, shooting from her feet.

There wasn't time to think now. She needed to run.

Circling from around the cover she rose the pistol in one hand. She dragged the sword around from the straps of its holster. 

Spinning from behind her cover VATS activated, sensing a combat situation and began running its basic operations. In its strange digital voodoo magic she could pick out the vague locations of the hostile hunters in the open. Picking out a target for her own VATS kicked into high-gear, feeding the targeting data in real time to her. The wash of input still felt awkward, and its display of targeting data and arithmetic in the peripheral of her vision was off-setting for sure.

She closed her targeting in on the nearest individual and opportunized the scores for his torso. Her handgun sang in a series of loud reports as she fired. Each bullet sang in the cavernous warehouse, and the whistling and buzzing of weapons fire whipped and buzzed around her face with her return fire.

Targeting data dropped at the final shot and the man fell dead in a dark lump. A message flashed in the corner of her vision:

"Targeting cache filled. Wait for restoration." it said, giving a percentage of bites being cleaned from VATS cache.

She was momentarily dropped to being alone in fending for herself as she swung about, emptying the remainder of her clip in the direction of one her pursuers in a darker alcove of the room. She wasn't sure if any rounds hit as she reloaded, ducking between the safety of two heavy shelves leaning against each other.

The space was pitch-black, but for all she could tell there was nothing on either end. She scrambled for the other end, crawling on her hands and knees as she raced forward. Cold sweat dripped from her face. Her breath short and shallow.

Mid-way through, a high-pitched "twang" sounded and she felt the sudden biting hit of a bullet against the metal exoskeleton of her replacement legs. Turning, she fell onto her back and saw on the other end a crouched figure reloading what looked to be another battered rifle.

The android's response was rapid as she rose the handgun and fire several quick shots down the length of the narrow corridor. The figure fell back against the bullets and lay in the rubble.

"I'm sorry!" she bellowed, scrambling more aggressively out the other-side of the tunnel.

Stumbling up she staggered forward. She was closer to the entrance, but she found herself caught up as she collided blindly with a stand of shelves, sending it tumbling with a loud crash against several others opposite. The rusting and rotting storage units crumbled under each other's weight in a stagnant cloud of putrid dust and thunderous booms and vicious clatter.

She staggered back against the cacophony collapse. Then staggered forward again as a sharp biting pain wailed against her back. She spun responsively against the swing, coming face-to-face with a vicious shadow in the moon light that clawed and lunged at her with a devious and demented brilliance. The flash of a old hunk of pipe flashing through the air. Each wing missed as the Android struggled to avoid each attempted blow.

She held her pistol arm against her back as a reflex against the pain that had exploded where the first hit had landed. But as she kept drawing back it wasn't making the situation any better. The attacker kept coming with a savage melee determination. "You'll pay bitch!" he growled and roared as he kept on coming.

The Android backed up against the cold wall, pinning herself between a the two as the male hunter ran forward, the pipe raised over his hand. Sweet Gin had to act fast.

Operating merely at desperation, she ran herself forward off of the wall. Holding the pummel of Barston's crude sword out as she charged against the man. With a hefty plunger she drover herself at him, jamming the plunt pummel into the gut of the assailant and eliciting a wet choked "umph" as it punched into his tender belly. Throwing her weight Sweet Gin tossed him aside onto the ground. He landed with a grunt and a crunch as he landed on some forgotten trash in the corner.

"I HOPE YOU LIKE THE SIGHT OF YOUR OWN BLOOD, DAMN IT!" he cursed behind her as she tried to make her escape.

She didn't make it far as the man's pipe flew through the air, catching her in the shoulder. The metal knocked against the metal and flesh at the transition between flesh and steel. She squeaked in shock, recoiled and spun against the impact. Just in time to see him rocket back to his feet and take his charge to ram the Android.

Sweet Gin had to act quick, and took the only weapon she had confidence that it would not need reloading. She didn't know how many rounds were in the 10mm as she drew Barston's sword with pistol in hand. The blade sang as the metal vibrated against that of the scabbard. The moon light flashing a soft silver-blue off the beaten blade as it sailed through and cleft the air in its way in two.

It was the same way with the charging man. Blindly he threw himself into the path of the sword, likely not expecting it. There was a crimson flash of red as the prince's sword drew an liquid arch through the air from the man's chest. With a weak gurgle he came to a standstill, falling across Sweet Gin and dragged his bloody self down her body as he fell with a weak slouch. There was a wet wispy gurgle as he collapsed to the ground at her feet.

Sweet Gin didn't have much time to check him over as she backed off and bolted for the door. She managed a weak whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm sure you'll be OK!" as she moved along.

The final assailant wove from the other end of the warehouse into a band of blue moon light with what looked like some kind of automatic weapon. The Android could only work on fate as she rose the 10mm and dispatched the final hunter. Washing the warehouse into a state of silence once again.

She tumbled back from the warehouse. Tossing down her pack on the ground she rose her handgun towards the doors, hands quivering and her breath quickened as she stared down the great rusted iron doors. A still silence bristled in the cool night air, giving no yield.

"What do you want!" Sweet Gin screamed at the empty warehouse, her voice quacking with shock and fear. Tears welled on her tongue as it pooled in the corner of the android's eyes.

"Come on, dammit!" she screamed, sobbing. Nothing responded from inside, and a cold dusty wind rolled down through the hills. She sniffed stiffly, returning the handgun to its place. But her steps were still measured and cautious as she gazed back into the shadowy darkness of the forgotten hulk with the sputtering and coughing guts. Pulling up her pack she shuffled on from. Still awry with the emotional acrobatics of having escaped.

Was this terror?

For the rest of that night Sweet Gin wandered towards her destination. The thought of being ambushed again weighing heavily on her mind as he churned frightened. A sea of caution washed against her as she waded through the fearful darkness. Apprehensive at every step that the voice might speak to her again. Afraid that something could again come from the corner of her vision, or from behind the many towering, dead trees that surrounded her to harass the android.

She felt her body twitch at every step. Jump at the suggestion of a crackling stick. The night was cold, and the darkness was colder. The shadows a watchful shadowy knife that cut through her psyche. Before, walking had just been a means for travel. Now it felt a means to escape. Fighting now was beginning to feel like such a thing. She had fought to escape the house of her kidnapper, her second master. To stop him from raping her and to find out exactly what she was. What life was.

She'd fought, in a sense, to escape Worcester. And she fought to escape the warehouse. Now she walked to escape the thought of being hit again. She was fleeing a slow moving ghoul. A monster in the darkness, silent as the clouds and stars that mired the darkness of the sky, and that weak silver moon.

It was just... Where was the threat?

It felt shapeless, looked shapeless. But sounded like it had form. It was a something, somewhere. Was it someone back in Boston calling her home? Could the Institute do it? Or was it some unchecked, fragmented drive? Could it have been closer? That terminal? The unknown to this was a playful restless thing. It was frightened her more. What it wasn't.

The android kept moving until day broke over the horizon and the world was again washed with a soft orange glow. The chill struggled to remain as the sky was painted with brilliant shades of pink, oranges, and reds. Long shadows were thrown westward as a eastern beacon came to a great light. And with its rise, so did the signs of civilization. Tempered and slow at first. But gaining greater strength as a familiar network of suburbia opened up.

If this was to mean anything, she was coming close.

Sweet Gin gave a careful look to the east, scanning the tinning rotting down and charcoal masts that dotted the blasted rocky hillsides for the sign of life. To see if there were any pursuers. But on the hills, there were none.

A relief crawled over her. But it wasn't a warm calming feeling. It was uneven, cynical. But it was a breath to her, and as it quenched the distraught unease reigning her the notion she was still sore came back.

And she was surrounded by her pickings of private accommodations for a brief rest.

***

The door to the weather battered ranch crumpled with a firm kick. Splinters of wood showering inward at the force of the metal foot sent sailing through. The flimsy poly had not endured the ages well. The manicured look it once had had been reduced to strips of yellowing white paint on graying, hollowed wood. And as the splinters fell to a rest on the dusty welcome mat inside it yielded to its visitor.

Sweet Gin pressed through the door to the home's interior. The rays of the morning sun flowing in like a golden band, giving the android a firm yellow halo that enveloped her. The metal of her arms were illuminated with the morning's light, and shone throughout the desolate foyer.

The dust that had accumulated on the windows in a thick sheet shone in the familiar golden tones of morning, transposing the same warm sheen across the entire house. Floors and walls were all dressed in a vibrant yellow overlay. The gray despair of the centuries washed away, if only for a fleeting moment.

Like the other homes and structures Sweet Gin had stolen into the house carried the same depressing rotting musk that came with the environment. The air was adrift with the motes of dust swept up from the aging carpet. The accumulating dirt and debris of ages worth of silting decay. The air smelled and tasted of asbestos and thick plaster. But it would need to do.

Out of pure unnecessary formality Sweet Gin shut the door behind her with her foot. Though with its lock broken it merely squealed till it hit the stops before softly swinging back, the rust of its hinges finally holding its closure fast.

She was still sore, without a doubt. Her torso ached and gnawed at her, making it all the more prevalent she lay down to allow the biological - if however synthetic it was - rest and catch up. And as far as she could tell standing in the door, neither the living room to her right, or the dining room to the left of the foyer held any hopes of a place to comfortably lay down.

And so, she set off into the home.

In the back of the house she found a set of two bedrooms. By some depressing curse the mattress of one bed had been stolen from the frame, but based on its size Sweet Gin surmised it would have been too small for her anyways. And the decor and trinkets that lay scattered across the floor suggested that its occupant was a youth: scattered toy soldiers and blocks littered the floor, old rotting posters of a monkey named Jangles (who was pictured riding what appeared to be a missile while wearing a large fish-bowl helmet).

The next room, tucked in the far corner looked to be more in the android's accommodations. The mattress - though half-thrown on the floor - had fortunately not been looted. She took it as a blessing, smiling as she walked towards the bed-frame, pulling the tattered spring mattress back up with a strong heave.

She was about to lay down before she looked up. Opposite her side of the bed stood a large oval mirror. Though coated in a thin layer of grime her reflection shown clearly. And in it, the tattered remnants of her clothes made apparent. She felt... was it sadness? Remorse at the condition of her clothes?

It was maybe forty-eight hours since she had fought Logan and Bill. In that course, the greater condition of her dress had gone unnoticed. Great burns mired the legs of her jeans, ratting the edges and stretching up the length of her side and to the belt, itself melted and cut by the duel efforts of Logan and Bill no doubt. Her undershirt had suffered burns, and the skin of her stomach poked through. Dust, dirt, mud, and maybe some blood had managed to cake into her clothes.

She set her pack on the bed and crawled over it to the mirror, whipping off the grime and examining the full extent of the damage in the mirror. Maybe if she had noticed sooner - or cared - she may have gotten something before leaving Worcester. But then again, she also doubted it. The prince seemed only willing to part with the sword.

How valuable were clothes anywhere? And why did so many wasteland residents seem to wear so little? Was dressing like the other residents of the brothel she once called a home the only thing they could manage? Perhaps it was why the men under Barston and his father's command or the merchant wore better clothes, they were better off.

The thought was puzzling and strange to say the least and she put it aside. The last thing she wanted was to be as she was back in Boston. The humiliation and shame of the realization had her swear that much and she scanned the room looking for something to wear.

And standing alongside the mirror was a large dresser, its door cracked open and old fabrics under neath just barely visible in the faint morning light of the grimy windows.

The contents of the dresser were hardly much and what was left felt like the remnants of someone picking through them. Gaps on the rack had been left behind, leaving a random assortment of coats and shirts behind. Wrapped up pairs of pants lay at the bottom drawers. But all the same Sweet Gin went through them. Holding them against her body in the mirror to compare.

The raid didn't last long and she had tossed a couple of sets of pre war clothing onto the bed. Smiling satisfied she looked at the outfits. Either a shirt or two would replace her old under shirt, or she could maybe rig something together.

Could she, she thought?

Looking back at the raided dresser she found nothing else in there. Nothing she figured she could use. She spun a circle on her toes and found by the door a desk with another mirror affixed to it. She sprung over to it, ripping through the drawers, and raiding the contents. In the bottom of the drawer next to a box of bobby pins sat a spool of nylon thread, and what looked to be a rusted needle. A spark of inspiration lit in her eyes and she stole them up greedily, quite literally jumping onto the bed with her prize. She giggled playfully as she bounced on the rusted springs, which moaned under the weight of the android.

Grabbing a green shirt from the pile she looked it over, and back down to the holes that were left in her own. With a proud smile, she set it down and removed her coat and the harnesses that held his pistol to her side. Pulling up her shirt she removed it and placed it down on the bed alongside the new donor shirt.

Her torso was patched with a series of purple and fading bruises that shone under her pale skin. The light of the morning shone in the dust across her supple breasts, and the scar that cut between them from an old client had a partner in a form of a small bruise. The spine on her back was accompanied by bruises all the same, heavy dishpan sized dark marks from where Bill had thrown her onto her back and where the bulk of her pain came from.

Sweet Gin tore into the looted shirt with her hands. The metal of the fingers doing well enough to remove chunks for patching. Though it hardly matched her own. And with chunks torn off, she threaded them on, having to of course learn the fine skill of determining the needle's function.

With a satisfied smile she finished the job and lifted up the renewed shirt. Green patches crudely stitched onto a white shirt. At least it looked wearable. She sat in the bed, facing the mirror. Raising the shirt she hung it before her, seeing how it'd work; acting on a vague recollection of perhaps having watched one of the biological, real human courtesans admire actual clothes they had picked up.

She cupped it to her breast, only to have it pulled down to gravity, past her sweat cherry nipples. Then holding it to her waste as she admired her work. In so far as the android could tell, she had not maimed the shirt's size, and it pleased her.

She threw it aside and twisted onto her side to check the side of her jeans. Her back cracked and a flow of relief shot through her at the sound. A refreshing wave of euphoria at the breast of a new cold wind. It was something she thought she didn't need, and it did plenty to subside the growing aches between her shoulders.

The jeans were much in the same way, so removed them to work on them. Sitting naked and cross-legged on the ancient mattress as she dug into the least fairer of the two pants she decided upon.

The work went about as well as the shirt, and came to the same results. A patch - looking like it didn't ever belong - sewn along the side of her old jeans. She tried to justify it with how they fit, and all the same put it into her clothes pile, allowing her to fall back freely against the bed, arm wrapped around the bulk of her pack.

Laying down felt good, it was a relief. And she stood staring up into the grimy ceiling planning out the rest of her dead. Her directional way point flashed in the corner of her vision on the compass. More fiercely than before. She was probably close now. But what she'd find would be a mystery all it own.

But lying here on the bed, even with the spring pressing against her back, was a refrain from the journey. The goals always be there. And she'd no doubt have to fight to it, or run from danger to arrive there.

Collecting her thoughts, she thought back to Worcester. Would these ruins - Springville - be has degenerate as Worcester? Choked with the shambling ghouls she'd been so aptly introduced to? They frightened her. The wet snarling of their voices was almost bestial. The way they moved. It was as if someone had gone in and simply uninstalled their drivers, or destroyed some part of their motherboard. Their chassis in a state of disrepair beyond anything the android had known.

She wondered if they could be fixed. Have the people she fought been repaired yet? She wondered if they had at least caught her words before passing into emergency shut down. She knew she could do that much, it had happened to her when she lost her limbs.

She scratched her breast as she recollected. Turning her head from the ceiling to down. Coming to a door. A closet door. Had she noticed it before? Then again, she was too sore to care, and was too preoccupied to notice.

She rolled over onto her side, the metal of her arms pressed cold against the exposed naked skin of her torso. A sense of curiosity came over her, and she sat up off the bed and made for the door.

It came open easily enough and revealed itself to be empty. But hanging on a lone hanger on the far end was something over looked. A white and light looking shirt, open at the collar, and a pair of short cut pants laying on the floor underneath. Whoever had abandoned the home, or raided it, looked over the garment that hung there. And Sweet Gin, being new, held it in curious fascination. Despite the yellowing and graying of the fabric, it still looked relatively new. She reached out with a gentle hand, and softly pulled it from the hanger.

The top draped from her hand lightly, the polyester allowing itself to be handled at her fingers as she pulled it to her. And lacking feeling fingers, she pressed it to her chest, softly stroking it along her skin. It was soft, despite the age. And comfortably warm, in a sense.

An inspiration to put it on came over her. Throwing it on, she allowed it to fall over her shoulder. It was loose fitting, but unlike her old top was soft as it fall about her. The peaks of her nipples just showing under the curve of the fabric. The open neck was secured with a simple tie that fell in behind and across her breast.

It was something that felt good, if looked delicate. She reached for the bottom half, shaking the dust that had accumulated on it from the unknown length of time it had laid there and stepped into those. All together, those parts that could fell agreed that what she was in, was comfortable. Soft and warm, and flowed across her body with a soft satin quality. She fell back into the bed with it on and rolled in the pleasure of the new euphoria it brought, the comforting warmth as it gently hugged her.

Sweet Gin lay on the bare battered mattress. Her head propped against her backpack. Sitting in her lap lay her radio, the one that had once been the merchant's. The same merchant she had robbed to get her clothes, and much of her gear.

Its face glowed a pale amber orange as the weak lights in it glowed and flickered as a soft static song flowed like a river from its speakers. And with it on, the android played with its dials. Surfing through a sea of static and altering its volume. The tone and depth of the static energy changing as the plastic dial marched back and forth across the interface, reaching out to frequencies and wave-lengths long dead. As well is this, the force of the white noise ebbed and flowed with a organic rhythm as she toyed at the volume. Blasting it to the force of an electronic cascade, then toning it to a watery trickle, barely audible above the natural pops and groans of the homes frame-work as time marched on deeper in the mid-day.

The song of static was not destined for eternal amusement and soon she grew bored with conducting the deep distortions of the empty noise-filled airwaves and picked the device up to examine its face more. Looking for something new to interact with and coax new things out. On the bottom a duct-tape coated compartment housed the batteries and the radio shut off immediately when she removed the small fission battery from the bottom cell. The radio popped back on as soon as she wired it back in, and sealed the tape back on.

Rotating it, the side faces bore nothing of interests, only a rubbed off plate stamped into the bottom decried the manufacturer - which had long been rubbed out - as well as a possible name of a former owner, written in faded marker; it too was indecipherable from the years. The back-end though, had much more in the way of interesting toys.

Which was to say a switch.

The modules which would have noted what it was for had long since eroded, but Sweet Gin knew for certain it did not have to be the power, that was on its front-face as she found. Curious, she turned it against her exposed belly and flipped the plastic knob. Immediately the tone of the white-noise transformed from a low wet gurgle to a scratched, gnarled roar. At the sound, Sweet Gin's head felt as if it was bursting and she flinched and squirmed at the horrible monstrosity of the sound now exploding from the radio.

With a hurried smack she flipped the radio back.

Sitting up Sweet Gin rubbed her head. Even with the atrocious sound severed it still pounded and split from the echoes of its choir. Frowning, she gave the radio a sour look. "Bad!" she said.

As the echoes faded and sensibility restored, she did wonder if anything existed across the band if she did flip the switch. Turning and twisting the knob continued to reveal nothing as it currently stood. Holding the volume knob, she toned down the watery static to a dull whisper, then reached behind the radio again, this time ready.

She grit her teeth and shut ere eyes tight as her fingers passed over it. There was a click, and the high-pitched static resumed, but not to the grating ferocity it was before. The android relaxed. With an iffy breath, she turned the tuning knob.

As with last time, the pitch and tone of the static shifted delicately as the dial turned and swept across the face. But unlike last time, something changed.

As the interface drew to the far left of the band, a discernible pattern whispered in the static. A sound, moving with a tone not so random and garbled. Mired at first by the overlaying mask of nonsense and nothing. She smiled, astonished at the discovery. The changing patterns to a discernible form egged her on wards and she chased it till it became music.

"Race hatred can not stop us!" a voice sand strong and sure as the clarity of the station came to light. Plinking and tinking of some instruments, something accompanied in behind him, "This one thing we know, your poll tax and Jim Crow, and greed has got to go! You're bound to lose. [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwcKwGS7OSQ]You fascists bound to lose[/url]!" he cheered lyrically.

The song continued to hop and bop and Sweet Gin couldn't help but bob a foot up and down. The singer and his company singing up and down the lines. Going through the chords with such a powerful gusto, a strength and determination. A spirit of provocativeness wound its way in the song.

And even though Sweet Gin did not understand what a Fascist was, or the freedom by which the song so stalwartly sang to uphold, she could not be helped to be entrapped by its mysticism. And as quickly as the fade-out came, and it came to a silence a spike of anger was driven into her. "Hey!" she scowled, "I want this again! Play it aga-"[/hider]