The filthy cameras followed them everywhere they went and recorded everything they did. No one knew whose cameras they were. Those sort of resources weren’t supposed to be available anymore. Ever again, some said.
They weren’t drones exactly. But they weren’t exactly NOT drones either. It wasn’t obvious what kept them aloft, and they seemed to be under some sort of guidance that had a strange purpose that no one had been able to figure out yet.
A pair of the filthy things had an enclave of dabnabbers pinned down at a park down on Waller and the river, hiding underneath a blue tarp strapped over a small fort next to jungle gym by the edge of the swing set.
“F’n cameras! Never leave ya the F alone!!” grumbled the one gnawing on a stalk of old broccoli.
Another was reclining, in a deep dab nod. He kept pointing towards the north, mumbling about the alignment of pyramids. There was no telling when he’d be back.
Telebob Bill was all jittery because his dose had worn out. He trembled as he looked up along the sights of his plinker sword cane, and watched one the not-drone cameras poking about, trying to force its lens under the tarp.
They were coming to get him, he knew it.
It moved nervously, like a neurotic hummingbird or a drunken wasp.
Bastards, he thought.
He exhaled memories and squeezed the trigger.