Morning 004 Hour 8: III.J.25 (a solid hour of swearing)
Day 004 Hour 1: III.J.25
Another drone slips its way through the jammed front door, settling onto the empty pedestal. The drone next to it revs and lifts off to take its place. Rust's jiggling table tether does not seem to distract it as it exits the building.
Hour 2 - 8: III.J.25 (assorted antics)
The blinking lights on the pedestals flicker on and off on a regular, coordinated cadence, flashing once every five seconds or so. Or at least that's how they start off; the longer Rust watches, the longer it takes for the lights to flash, taking about seven seconds per tick by the end of Day 004. It's a subtle change, but still noticeable.
The drones themselves only have one obvious sensor visible: A small, circular aperture in the center of their chassis between their forward-facing prongs, covered with clear glass. It's hard to make out what's behind the glass from Rust's position across the room. They seem like they're just sitting directly on the pedestals, with no connections leading to or from them whatsoever, and the stations are inscrutable solid blocks of metal with a few discrete seams in the front.
None of Rust's fire- or noise-related antics seem to cause any reaction in the dormant drones.
Night 004 Hour 1: III.J.25
Just like before, one drone enters and parks, another one leaves, but this time Rust is prepared. His improvised willow-shoot projectile exits the thin space between bars and, with remarkable precision and accuracy, spears the departing drone in a rotor. The drone drops like a rock and just barely manages to stabilize before hitting the ground, other four rotors whirring furiously to compensate for the broken one.
The previously-soaked toilet paper has a little bit more structural integrity, but not much. It breaks almost immediately after colliding with the drone. However, that trailing bit of makeshift papier-mâché still comes in handy, as the unsteady drone wobbles in a drunken circle and another rotor becomes tangled in it. At this point it can no longer feasibly remain airborne and clatters to the floor.
no subject
Hour 8: III.J.25 (a solid hour of swearing)
Day 004
Hour 1: III.J.25
Hour 2 - 8: III.J.25 (assorted antics)
The drones themselves only have one obvious sensor visible: A small, circular aperture in the center of their chassis between their forward-facing prongs, covered with clear glass. It's hard to make out what's behind the glass from Rust's position across the room. They seem like they're just sitting directly on the pedestals, with no connections leading to or from them whatsoever, and the stations are inscrutable solid blocks of metal with a few discrete seams in the front.
None of Rust's fire- or noise-related antics seem to cause any reaction in the dormant drones.
Night 004
Hour 1: III.J.25
The previously-soaked toilet paper has a little bit more structural integrity, but not much. It breaks almost immediately after colliding with the drone. However, that trailing bit of makeshift papier-mâché still comes in handy, as the unsteady drone wobbles in a drunken circle and another rotor becomes tangled in it. At this point it can no longer feasibly remain airborne and clatters to the floor.
Rust has 7 hours remaining before Morning 005.