Little brother

It’s coming up on 18:57:09, the only time of day that I’ve received a transmission on the Array. Because I can’t rule out the possibility that I’m—I think the technical term is—batshit insane, I’ve attached a web cam to my PC and I will record my actions to verify whether or not I’m the one sending these transmissions, and not some deep space pilot named Maxim Akihiko Broussad, lost 650 million light years away and 176 years in the future.

The wraiths have been rippling in and out of the room all day. Whenever they appear, they seem surprised and start pointing and running around frantically, but I can’t really tell, nor do I care, what it is they’re after. The dark sunglasses and the J&B are making them easy to ignore.