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~ The sun was embracing the horizon as Stallman was shaking the dust out from his tattered feathers on his departure from the foundry. Once he was done coughing up the day's dust and breeze, he glanced up to the sight of deep blue begining to smother the remaining whisps of amber sky. The stars had already begun to trickle into view, like hope gradually condensing on the firmament. The lights of the street crackled to life; this salvage town was a place of patterns and doldrums. Nothing to stand out, by design. The bar was already open; Stallman made a direct path.

~ "Ahoy! Chuck!", the magpie called out to the fox already seated at their regular table. "I didn't see you check on the smelting, today. Heard you were out sick?" Stallman fetched a plate of nachos on his way to the table. It was always a good idea to keep Chuck happy, keep Chuck fed, and the fox grinned widely at the edible bribe's approach.

~ "Not so much sick, but had to go in for measurements. Ya'll got more radiation, it just turns out, than the home office likes me drinkin', so I got called to station to be scanned for any health probl'ms." The fox laid into the offering without invitation. "And the home office expects ya'll arn't going to assemble the Ninth Fleet in a day, so they didn't send anyone to cover me when I went in. I trust ya' didn't build any anti-aircraft battery while I was gone?" Stallman shook his head, his beak slightly open in mimickry of a grin. "We couldn't find any of those little screws that hold the tiny nameplates on, so we gave up and smelted all the parts instead. Our revolution will be fought by ingot."

~ The fox let out another chuckle, "Did I miss any actual news, though? Did ya' finish on the comms fibers and get into the subframe of that carrier out West? I know yu'h were setting up to blow those bulkheads last week, but I heard nothin'." The magpie regarded Chuck with a short moment of confusion, before he recalled, "Ah, no. We figured out what the subframe was made of, and went for the strut pylons instead. We'll have an easier time selling a full load of all the same metals."

~ It was well into the second pitcher of beer that Stallman's phone set to ringing, and on inspection it was Betsy. "Excuse me, I'll need to take this. Lunch arrangements for tomorrow, most likely." The magpie slide over to the bar, near the jukebox that crooned softly with some guitar tune. He answered the call, "Yo?"

~ Betsy, the Macaw artificial intelligence that took up host in the ship concealed beneath the city, disclosed without pause for greeting, "That isn't Chuck. His voice is toned differently, and his fur is lacking the appropriate dosages of tritium for Chuck's exposure. I will arrange a work accident for him tomorrow; find out which facility he'll be inspecting. I'll continue to listen through your phone." Stallman nodded calmly and replied, "Yeah, pizzas are too rich for Wednesdays. I'll just pick up some sandwiches on my way into work tomorrow. G'night, hon!"

~ The magpie returned to the table, silently piecing together the news of this imposter's presence and the word of ground penetrating radar being detected in use out East, bearing the third pitcher of beer, "So, Chuck, did you say that you'd be at the foundry tomorrow?" His beak was agape, in a mimickry of friendship.