I used to write on Ficly.

I could only watch as Hard Drive jury-rigged the defibrillator to serve as a power source. The old red tool chest in the garage was full of both automotive tools and computer parts—cables, chips, drives, discs. He grabbed a few cables and opened up another drawer to reveal a tablet that, by the looks of it, had seen better days, and those were probably a century gone already.

"How long will that power it?" I asked.

He glanced at the wall clock, but the hands were frozen at 7:24. "Not long."

I watched over his shoulder as he connected the tablet to the defibrillator; the latter emitted a high-pitched whine as the computer booted. I stared over his shoulder—once the glacially slow startup sequence ended, he set up a BNC and followed some breadcrumbs until he was in. He typed:


After he sent the message, the defibrillator gave off a shower of sparks. The tablet flashed and died; smoke began to seep out from the seams in the case.

"Let's go," ordered Hard Drive.

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No Time for Tears

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