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Okay, I’m so sorry for not writing with you guys! My world is upside down at the moment, and I’ve been having trouble. But I do have a part done for Wes. The name “Outopian Wings” hasn’t been solidified (I don’t think), so if you have any ideas, go ahead and post them.

@emberynus-the-dragonslayer @urwen-starial @dakota @kayla-skywriter @naiya-dyani

 

“Alright, we’ve just received news from the Quill,” Director Helm said, addressing his workers. “The raid was at precisely 12:06 this morning. We need to write everything that happened and get it out on broadcast now. Stations, please. We go on in ten minutes.”

Workers began rushing to their jobs, preparing everything they could beforehand and warming up the outdated devices so they could have the best performance possible.

Wes stood in the doorway, watching everyone. Each of them knew what they were doing. Most of them had been working here their whole lives. But he knew that no-one was really seeing the point.

Out of all the people helping out Outopian Wings, Outopia’s only remaining radio station, only Wes seemed to remember why they were reporting any news at all: Because people needed to know what was going on. The city was dying, and they needed to do everything they possibly could to protect it.

But everyone had forgotten about the orphans living on the streets. Well, no, not forgotten. Just. . . gotten used to it. Because it had been like that for as long as Wes had known, as long as he’d been alive. But he’d always noticed, because he had been one of them.

Wes was only working at Outopian Wings because the director had found him and taken pity on him and his injuries. And he wasn’t bad with tech, anyways. Not that that could get him very far in a collapsing, tech-compromised city like what Outopia was becoming. So he did his best for the Wings, and in return, they let him live on the ground floor of the Tower, since he had nowhere else to be, and his injuries were too bad for him to get work in many other places.

 

“Mr. Helm, sir, half of our A Team hasn’t shown up yet,” one of the workers said to the director. “Who’s going out to the West Wing of the city?”

“West Wing?” The director repeated. “Isn’t that Elina Walker’s job?”

“Yes, and her team, Moriah and Abrielle. But Abi hasn’t arrived, and she’s not the only one. Is there anyone available to take the eight sector?”

“Let me see,” Director Helm flipped through his list. He stopped on the second page and ran his finger down the list of names. “Is Kossa here?”

“I am, sir,” Wes stepped out of the shadows.

“Didn’t see you there,” the director said. “I’m glad you made it. Arm any better?”

“It hasn’t been any worse,” Wes replied. As always, he added silently. The injury was already five years ago, and the director was only being kind, but Wes respected that.

“Alright, then,” the director said. “I’m assuming you heard that conversation. Could you go take the eighth sector this morning?”

“Of course,” Wes said immediately. “But sir. . . shouldn’t we be devoting our attention to last night’s raid?”

“We are,” Director Helm said. “But we don’t want everyone crowding over there, either. Most people don’t know about this just yet.”

“With all due respect, Director Helm,” Wes said. “I don’t think that’s likely.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, sir, for one thing, it’s still very early. Only five. If we work quickly, no-one will notice us at all. Secondly, if you only send the Scouts for Sector Three, they could easily miss something, and everyone who sees them knows they’re working in Sector Three for you and then know that there’s a story.”

“So what are you asking, then?” Director Helm asked.

“I would like if there was a special team, sir,” Wes continued. “For. . . events. . . related to the Sp- the rebels themselves. No-one really needs to know they have a special purpose, and they’d have a lot more freedom that way. They don’t even all have to be from here, if you’d like, sir, if you’re worried about losing too many people. We can pay them specifically for this, whenever we need them to come in.”

Wes could tell by the Director’s face that he was being won over. He tried not to smile.

“That’s a good idea,” Director Helm said finally. “But we’re losing money, and I’m not sure we could pay a bunch of new rookies to come and find stories for us.”

“Sir, if I may continue. . .” Wes waited for his director to nod before speaking. “Sir, if we can get these stories on the rebels, people will start to look to us for more information -more than they already do, I mean. If more people listen, we’ll earn enough money to pay these people and keep everything well run. And we don’t need many, anyways, maybe a team of nine, for each sector in the city.”

“And someone for the center,” the director added, nodding. “Yes, it could work. If you can find people, of course.”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes, of course,” Director Helm told him. “Why not? You’re very capable. And with that silver tongue of yours, I’m sure convincing people to do it won’t be an issue.”

“Thank you, sir, I’m honored,” Wes said gratefully. “When should I start?”

“You could go out now, if you wanted,” the director told him. “Just start in the eighth sector, so you can pick up some stories on the way.”

“Yes, sir.” Wes grabbed his journal and satchel from the lockers. “I will. Thank you.”

“Thank you for trying so hard to keep us running so well,” the director said. “Go on, now.”

Wes nodded and headed for the doors. He waited in the doorway a moment, though, listening to the worker talking to Director Helm again.

“Sir, do you really think Wes is the right person for this?” the worker asked nervously.

“I do,” Director Helm replied firmly. “Wes may be a little young, and I admit he’s a little single-minded sometimes, but he has amazing ideas. And ideas are just what our city needs to stay alive.”