The sky over Nashville was still pitch-black, even at five in the morning, with forty-five minutes to sunup and a clear sky. They made their way to a parking garage Downtown, a few blocks from the half-built visage of the Paramount, with forged security passes and cheap drone-stunners, clambering over bulkheads and sneaking up stairs. The equipment, covered in a blue tarp, was waved through by a bribed security guard – the last relic of humanity on the complex. They unpacked it on the concrete, a floor below the roof, and gleefully hooked them onto the walls. They were ready.
They were criminals, around twenty in number, and even the few who hadn’t broken any laws beforehand would do so today. The greener members exited the scene the same way they came, leaving five motley veterans at the van.
The leader, a genial-looking man in a dark suit, opened the glove compartment and retrieved a bottle of bourbon and five plastic cups. The veterans poured their drinks, and the leader made a toast:
“To technology!”