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Wendigo Hunting in Canada
Sep. 6th, 2017 04:35 pmEight stupid teenagers on some remote mountain in Alberta — nobody cared about it. Wilford hadn’t even heard about this story the first time around, but he wanted in on it this time. There was the potential for some excellent dirt on some very powerful people in this story, but it meant getting to Canada to cover it. And not just Canada. The other side of Canada.
And not just him.
He needed a team. He needed people who could do the job.
Surprisingly, getting the okay to take a team out was the easy part. It was convincing people to go that was tricky. It turned out, nobody wanted to take a trip out to the Canadian Rockies. Eventually, he threatens to break enough arms to gather a decent-sized crew for the trip.
And then comes the next problem: not fucking dying out there on some godforsaken mountaintop. There’s no way they’re getting any amount of firepower through customs, but Wilford had an excellent plan to get around that. As soon as he got home, he gathered up every gun and case of ammo he had lying around his apartment and slipped it quietly into his room at the bar in the middle of the night while everyone was asleep.
Timing is not Wilford’s friend. He can’t figure out for the life of him how time on his world relates to time on Milliways, much beyond the obvious answer of ‘not at all.’ When it’s time to get his guns back through the door into the waiting hotel room, it’s the middle of the goddamn day. Most of the people, Wilford doesn’t care about, but he has to be quick in case some of the people he does care about happen to spot the enormous rifle he can’t manage to cram into his inventory.
And not just him.
He needed a team. He needed people who could do the job.
Surprisingly, getting the okay to take a team out was the easy part. It was convincing people to go that was tricky. It turned out, nobody wanted to take a trip out to the Canadian Rockies. Eventually, he threatens to break enough arms to gather a decent-sized crew for the trip.
And then comes the next problem: not fucking dying out there on some godforsaken mountaintop. There’s no way they’re getting any amount of firepower through customs, but Wilford had an excellent plan to get around that. As soon as he got home, he gathered up every gun and case of ammo he had lying around his apartment and slipped it quietly into his room at the bar in the middle of the night while everyone was asleep.
Timing is not Wilford’s friend. He can’t figure out for the life of him how time on his world relates to time on Milliways, much beyond the obvious answer of ‘not at all.’ When it’s time to get his guns back through the door into the waiting hotel room, it’s the middle of the goddamn day. Most of the people, Wilford doesn’t care about, but he has to be quick in case some of the people he does care about happen to spot the enormous rifle he can’t manage to cram into his inventory.
