She’d had an idea.
Yellow Journalism had colored her faith in anything the news, televised or otherwise, ever had to say. If it was a pertinent problem in the early 1900s, it certainly hadn’t changed in the century since then. The media had just gotten a lot more savvy about not making it obvious. Still, one could pick out the scare headlines of minor news, the overuse of sensational pictures, the misdirection, pseudoscience, and all the meaningless interviews with other critics who were supposedly learned experts in their fields. As if a children’s science show host was really qualified to be informing anyone with opinions on the legitimacy of global warming. The daily rag wasn’t a kids show and Stroud wasn’t a child.

She wasn’t helpless or brainless either. If answers were wanting, a little empirical evidence was best. She’d had a little over $1000 left over this month in her budget, after bills and payments to various funds and retirements, to do with what she pleased. It was an easy choice: do the research and find the best equipment for the task. A few hours with a laptop later and she’d ordered a set of 3 research-ready RocTech Alert 900e Outdoor Motion Trigger cameras. They had remote link downloading, as well as regular recording with plug-and-play downloading at 1080p for 8 hours of steady, low-light functional recording. They would be perfect to capture footage in the daylight or at night. It would take 3-7 days for them to arrive in the mail, and she waved the signature for package delivery. That left just a little bit of library footwork with the microfiche and the newer archives - research what locations had been reported to have had incidents with terrorism, and then a couple of statistics algorithms to triangulate likely loci of increased activity.

“Surely the police have already been about this, Stroud?”

Nothing like help and encouragement from family. She wasn’t about to waste time doing this alone when she could get help and halve the interim. Quincy, or Quenton, was usually too strung out from work and university to be much fun, but since she wanted to make use of the college library he was invaluable. He knew the place well from his own research, and there wasn’t much that satisfied in the same way that familial bickering could. “Was that a voice asking me for another microfiche canister? I believe it was!”

Quincey didn’t duck in time, and the metal jangled against his skull, then table, then floor in interrupting succession. He wasn’t smiling, scooping the mess from the smooth-worn planks of the floor, “You’re such an a**.”

“Language, my Quince, language!” Stroud shifted weight in circular dance from the shelves and drawers of canisters. The rows went on as marching tin soldiers waiting for war. At least it was only a few recent years to comb, and not a decade or more. Comfort maybe that if there were need for deeper research the years were available and neatly categorized. “If you’re going to call me names, at least make it pretty! At least give it some class. "

“Never say or do anything sub-par. Even if its having a dirty tongue.” She licked her own along sexualized, bared teeth and half growled, half purred in the back of her throat. “Anyways, I'm sure the city's finest HAVE done this looking for answers of where incidents are going to happen, what seem like the most frequent hot spots, you know. But they aren't exactly going to share the information with the general public are they? Its classified to keep the peace and out of panic public and the integrity of the investigation. So while others prefer to just pray to god, I'm going to row for shore. "

"I’d offer you some tunes, but silence is the golden rule in the tombs here and we can’t take out the damn feesh like we could books. Can I make it up to you?”

“Howso?” He pushed his glasses up his nose.

Stroud crossed to him to lean over the back of his chair, pressing cheek to cheek over his shoulder while she wrapped her arms down his thin chest. If nothing else, he knew the game and was willing to play. He was also mostly poor thanks to the cost of materials. “How about a little upgrade? I can’t do it this month, but I can promise I’ll get you some real rocks. You know..from the dealers show instead of that craft store cut glass stuff you have to deal with. There’s a gem and jewelry show the first of the month at the museum. I’ll pay the entry and a what......$200 of goods? Is that worth a a couple more hours of the old college try?”

There was the guilty sigh, and the guilty face. Offer more than something was worth and people would give you 6 miles instead of 2. Perfect. “I love you, Quince.”

“Quenton.”

“Quenton, “ and she kissed his temple before straightening. “You’ve not been to a barber either. It’s getting really long. You going ren-faire on me? “

“I thought it looked good long...” He frowned and swivelled in his chair to look up at her from about navel level.

“It does! It does. But you’ve got to deal with the split ends and give it some sort of style at least. What do you say....finish up here, get some coffees, and then my treat to the OTHER library? It’s been a year at least since I saw that dive, and if I remember right they’ve got wonderful White Russians. Coffee with something extra special. You can crash on my fainting couch and I can get with the math while I’m still too trashed to hate it.”

“I’ve got to be at the studio in the morning.”
“You will be. I can drive you over when I stop at the diner for my morning joe after Math Adventures.”
“You aren’t going to sleep?”
“I’ve got tobacco and coffee. I can sleep when I’m dead.”
“And you expect me to feel safe with you driving?”
“No sweetstuff, I don’t expect you to ever feel safe. I expect you to feel alive.” She trailed her hand on the chair-back as she took the few steps back to her own, kicking up her legs to rest on a third chair. “Safety is the illusion of death that everyone practices with because they can’t HANDLE anything better. I know you can, Quincey. “

Which left them both to handling this. Another 12 rolls of film each, two pots of coffee, a trip to the vending machines for some Peanutbuddy Bars, 3 stretch breaks and two back cracks before they were zombie walking out to her car with a folder full of printed out news articles, handwritten notes of digital film reels, and a few extra slips here and there about exactly what she was doing - vigilante reporting from individual blogs and creepo, alien researchers. But the bulk of the footwork was done, and she'd have places to put those cameras when then arrived.

Then she'd get some hard facts together about these terrorists. Ideas followed facts, and then what? Well, she'd figure it out from there. At least it would mean having less annoyance at the couple times she even watched the news.