Misdirection Mayhem

Rene squinted, the afternoon sun a blatant, orange eye trying to burn a hole straight through her skull. She hunched low behind a dumpster overflowing with greasy cardboard boxes that smelled suspiciously like old conspiracy pamphlets. Deon, next to her, was struggling to maintain his camouflage, which consisted of draping a particularly vibrant purple paisley bedsheet over his head and periodically poking his phone through a hastily cut eye-hole.

"Rene, baby," Deon whispered, his voice vibrating with the urgency of a thousand fluttering pigeons, "You feel that hum? It’s strongest right here. They *know* we’re close. This sheet," he adjusted the draped fabric, causing it to shift precariously, "it’s the only thing deflecting the mind-rays from the satellite dish they definitely installed inside that laundromat vent."

Rene adjusted the bandana covering the lower half of her face, though she often forgot she was wearing it and ended up talking around it, making her sound like a perpetually congested chipmunk. “Don't breathe too loud, Deon. The vibrations carry through the asphalt. Remember what Leo the Lizard told me in county? Asphalt is a conductor for surveillance frequency.”