Hot Tiger
On the eastern outskirts of the City, still in the shadow of Rainier, I traversed the cloverleaf that takes you up onto the freeway, and climbed the concrete footing of a viaduct column marked B13. There another path began, across a number of high ledges to reach the Exit control booth, where still-active electronics boards had been exposed and repeatedly modified. This is where I met Hot Tiger.
Older than me. Graying. Squinting, blue eyes. He didn’t seem to notice as I entered through the doorless frame, stepping on long broken glass.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to find another Exit,” he said, standing, backing away from the monitor screen which read: Hot Tiger -- 870652205.
“What’s that?” I asked, crossing to the re-wired signage control board. Sloppy work, but it betrayed years of experience in electronic design.
“Means I’m willing to do any job. Any job.” He winked at me and grinned.
“Your number?”
“A cryptographic key, they should know for what.” He pulled a small metal box from a jacket pocket and began a new project: rigging the room with explosives.
From the ground I could make out hunched edges of his worn leather jacket as he completed his work. The amber-lit sign on the overpass blinked: Hot Tiger. Hot Tiger. Then I realized I was not alone. Emerging from nearby trees to meet the saboteur as he climbed down B13, black leather clad, dark hair reaching just below shoulder blades; she was beautiful. He winked at me again as they embraced, before disappearing together into the trees.
Older than me. Graying. Squinting, blue eyes. He didn’t seem to notice as I entered through the doorless frame, stepping on long broken glass.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to find another Exit,” he said, standing, backing away from the monitor screen which read: Hot Tiger -- 870652205.
“What’s that?” I asked, crossing to the re-wired signage control board. Sloppy work, but it betrayed years of experience in electronic design.
“Means I’m willing to do any job. Any job.” He winked at me and grinned.
“Your number?”
“A cryptographic key, they should know for what.” He pulled a small metal box from a jacket pocket and began a new project: rigging the room with explosives.
From the ground I could make out hunched edges of his worn leather jacket as he completed his work. The amber-lit sign on the overpass blinked: Hot Tiger. Hot Tiger. Then I realized I was not alone. Emerging from nearby trees to meet the saboteur as he climbed down B13, black leather clad, dark hair reaching just below shoulder blades; she was beautiful. He winked at me again as they embraced, before disappearing together into the trees.
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