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Question 1.01 - Going Live
Going live in 30, the countdown chimed to the land's faithful.
And all across the network, the living dead peaked through their coffins, breaking the threshold of incuriousity. Rolling the stone from before their tombs and tasting bandwidth, as doggedly as a maggot working through jerky. Cranking the video quality, they tested the stream's dedication. Steadfast, they were given light and color in 1080P.
"Good evening, Hub City. As always, I'm Victor Sage and you're watching Sage Advice! Only on Hub City News Online, where you don't have to worry about advertisers skewing our bottom line, shadowbans, or information suppression courtesy of rogue algorithms." With the tail of his trench coat snapping in 4/4 time, the reporter stood before a wire fence that said No photography. No recording. No trespassing.
"Following Mayor Wesley Fermin's acquisition of a private helicopter, the people of Hub City have been demanding an audit. Seeing as no such gifts were disclosed and it's very hard to imagine how an elected official with a one hundred thousand dollar salary managed to pinch enough pennies after declaring bankruptcy six months ago. I figured we could help him out this evening."
Sage winked at the camera, as the drone it was mounted on was called to heaven, rising above the eye of man and setting its sights on the shadowed walls of Hub City's mightiest piece of post war construction. Reaching the highest smoke stack of the facility, the camera saw what laid within its concrete heart and laid it bare.
"Welcome to Hub City Motor Works, the city's biggest source of employment since 1952 or, at least it was, until it shuttered it's gates five years ago. But I don't need to tell you that. You used to work here or at least someone you know used to. As you can see, they're burning the midnight oil down there, manufacturing SUVs by the thousand.
But none of whatever proceeds there are have been entering circulation within the local economy. Well, not unless you count whatever gas station Mayor Fermin is refueling his helicopter at. The business license for Motor Works was surrendered years ago after they were pursued by the Department of Labor for unpaid wages."
Once the dark, outer walls were overcome, it was plain to see that the facility was alive and well, with the industrial glow of work lights bleeding through the cracks in the brick. Switching away from Vic for a moment, the drone's camera went live as the audience was drawn into a seance.
The facility roared with the vivacious scream of steel shaping steel, swishing with the ancient bile of dinosaurs coursing within them, pulsing on demand like a frog leg touched by an electrode. A monstrosity held back by generations of workers whose blood spackled the thresholds like a Passover lamb, just once a year if they were lucky.
"As you can see, the parking lot is empty. The lights are on but nobody's home. Someone, it would seem, has been connected to the city utilities, as you'll see here," the camera swung towards the electric meter that was mounted to the side of the building. "And last month, the very same day that all the firetrucks in the city were seen traveling in the direction of this hollow shell, the chief of twenty years retired. I see a pattern here. Perhaps we should take a look inside, however. Don't you think so, citizens of Hub City?"
From on high, the drone swiveled to look at Vic as he raised the chain link fence like a scroll and passed through it untouched. Incidentally, at that moment, the rays of light that had been whispering through the gaps in the wall went dark. Responsively, the drone swiveled around the facility to investigate.
The door nearest the ginger journalist swung open and, when it did, somehow seemed to suck the moonlight from the grass, as a trio of men slithered forth from their den.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Vic waved his gloved hands. "I hope I'm not intruding on anything too terribly interesting but I was just hoping you might be able to answer a few questions for the people of Hub City this evening."
"Can't you read, sir? The sign says no trespassing. Clear as day. Now we know its dark out and we don't need to make this any more than it is but we won't be answering any of your questions, Mr Sage. You need to be on your way."
"I did see the sign. But this is public land. When I spoke with the office of Commissioners of Public Lands two days ago, she insisted that the Motor Works property wasn't for sale and gave me permission to be on it. So, it is in fact, not me who is trespassing. But if anyone, you. Speaking of which, who are you? The public would love to know."
It was at this moment that the stream, which had been broadcasted to hundreds of working class Wisconsinites, doubled in viewership. The amounts of comments placed on the HCNO page and, in all material ways, audience engagement remained the exact same. But there were now hundreds more watching. Hundreds more knowing where Victor Sage was.
"We don't give our names to the public, Mr Sage."
From behind the nebulous shadow man, emerged another figure. This one a lady, stepping forward from the factory's darkness and into the moonlight just as visible as Mr Victor Sage.
"While we appreciate that you've done your homework, Mr. Sage, I'm afraid that you're in error," the woman said, her voice warping and tongue wobbling like she was trying to swallow a fistful of unchewed gumballs. "We'd been negotiating and working through the property's sale for quite a while before finalizing its sale just yesterday. So while that's all technically true, the situation just isn't what you're implying it to be." Finally, her voice stabilized, "If you refresh the website by morning, you'll find it updated to be perfectly in order."
"I'll be sure to do that. It seems I might need to have a word with the head of the Commission to see why the state of public lands are so unclear and see what needs to be done to help modernize it."
"Oh, dear. You don't need to bother with any of that. I am the head of the Commission. I'm merely here to help finalize the paperwork."
"Really? I'm surprised you'd drop everything during your vacation to Fawcett City to come here, of all places, in the dead of night, to sell a building that's been worked in for months."
She choked. "I am on call. Business is business."
Vic stared. Daring her to say something he could fact check into oblivion.
"Can we help you with anything further, Mr. Sage?"
"I don't think you can. But I'll be sure to look into that, Ms. Clifford. I hope you can get back to your vacation soon."
CRACK! The video feed went dead. And it seemed that this line of inquiry would have to be punctuated, not with a question mark, but with buckshot.
The drone dizzily circled down to the ground and heard the sound of dozens of feet marching from the concrete into the grass. An electric car growling to life as a bland cast of stock characters yelled "on the ground," "don't you fucking move," and "I will blow your fuckin' head off if you gimme an excuse."
The last thing that the audience heard from the blind drone before it was crushed under heel was "We have a warrant for the arrest of Victor Sage."
