CRISIS CLASH: Signal Interference

The morning air at River Bottoms carried an electric charge that had nothing to do with the weather. Agent Kevin Koga felt it first—a subtle vibration through his bag as he reached for his favorite driver. The disc hummed against his palm, its flight plate warm despite the cool dawn. 📡

"Strange," he muttered, examining the plastic. No visible modifications, but something was definitely wrong. As he stepped up to the tee, the Fuzz Bandit tag at his hip began to pulse with erratic light patterns.

Across the course, similar discoveries rippled through the deployment. Agent Martinez pulled a disc from her bag only to drop it immediately as static electricity arced between her fingers and the rim. Agent Thompson watched his putter emit a low frequency whine that made nearby scorecards flutter like disturbed moths.

Chief Axel Chrome received the reports through increasingly distorted comm channels. His voice, for once, carried genuine concern beneath its usual intensity. "Agents, we have confirmation of compromised equipment. Those black market discs Vega promised? They're here. And they're active."

Koga's first throw confirmed everyone's fears. The disc left his hand normally but suddenly veered thirty feet right, its flight accompanied by a crackling trail of electromagnetic interference. Where it landed, the grass beneath showed strange burn patterns—concentric circles of yellowed vegetation spreading outward like infection. 🌪️

"Sir, my bag tag is... doing something," Koga reported, watching as the Fuzz Bandit medallion sparked and sputtered. Semi-transparent static began leaking from its surface, forming writhing tendrils of corrupted data in the air around him.

Chrome's response cut through waves of interference: "All agents, initiate containment protocols! We're dealing with—"

The channel died. Every comm unit, scoring tablet, and electronic device across River Bottoms went dark simultaneously. In the sudden silence, agents could hear only the ominous hum of compromised discs resonating in their bags.

Agent Sarah Chen was the first to notice the pattern. "The discs—they're synchronizing! Look at the frequencies!" She held up her driver, its edge glowing with pulsing light that matched the rhythm of every other infected disc on the course.

Then the disappearances began.

Agent Kowalski on hole seven threw an approach shot and vanished into a localized static field that erupted where his disc landed. Agent Freeman on hole twelve reached into her bag and simply... wasn't there anymore, leaving only a person-shaped cloud of electronic snow that dispersed in the morning breeze. 🌫️

Koga felt the Fuzz Bandit pulling at his consciousness, trying to phase him into whatever dimension had claimed the others. The bag tag had become a doorway, and something on the other side wanted in—or wanted him out.

"AGENTS!" Chrome's voice suddenly boomed across the course—not through comms, but through old-fashioned megaphone projection from the clubhouse roof. "THIS IS THE MOST UNPRECEDENTED ELECTRONIC WARFARE INCIDENT IN FEDERAL RECREATION HISTORY! I'm requesting superlative authorization from HQ to—"

The lights went out. Every bulb, every LED, every emergency exit sign across River Bottoms died instantly. Even the sunrise seemed dimmer, as if the electromagnetic chaos was draining light itself. In the growing darkness, the infected discs glowed brighter, their sinister luminescence the only illumination. 🌑

"Flashlight protocols!" Chrome commanded, his voice straining but determined. "Agency Regulation 7.3.2—when electronic systems fail, we go analog! Those flashlights aren't just for finding discs in the rough, people!"

Agents scrambled for their emergency gear. The agency-issued flashlights—heavy, outdated, but mercifully analog—cut through the electromagnetic haze with clean white beams. Where the light touched infected discs, the static patterns recoiled like living things.

Koga discovered something crucial as he swept his light across his bag. "The interference—it's afraid of direct illumination! The analog photons disrupt the digital corruption!"

But even as agents adapted, more disappeared. Cards of four became cards of three, then two. The Fuzz Bandit at Koga's hip grew more aggressive, its static tendrils reaching for nearby agents, trying to spread its infectious signal. He could feel it in his mind now—not words, but pure electronic hunger, a consciousness born from corrupted data seeking to expand its influence. 📻

"I can hear it," Koga gasped, fighting to maintain control. "The Fuzz Bandit—it's not just jamming signals. It's trying to convert us into carriers!"

Chrome made a command decision that would haunt agency records. "Agent Koga, you're our early warning system now. Stay central, call out the patterns. Everyone else—maintain twenty-foot minimum distance from Koga's position!"

The isolation stung, but Koga understood. He'd become a lightning rod for the electronic entity, drawing its attention while other agents worked to contain the outbreak. Through the Fuzz Bandit's chaotic interference, he began to recognize patterns—frequency spikes before each disappearance, electromagnetic dead zones where agents could move safely.

"Northwest sector, hole four—dead zone for the next thirty seconds!" he called out, his voice distorting as the entity fought for control. "Southeast, hole fifteen—spike incoming! Clear the fairway!"

Agents moved like a choreographed unit, dodging invisible electronic threats based on Koga's warnings. They played through the chaos, because that's what agents did. Every successful shot felt like defiance against the sabotage. Every completed hole was a small victory against the chaos Vega had unleashed. 🎯

Agent Williams made a crucial discovery on hole sixteen. "The infected discs—they're not random! Serial numbers all end in the same sequence. Someone marked them for us to find!"

Chrome processed this immediately. "Vega's not trying to destroy us—she's testing our adaptation! This is a drill disguised as an attack! Keep playing, agents! Show her we can function without our precious tech!"

As the round progressed, agents developed new strategies. They used their flashlights to create safe corridors, shepherding each other through the course. They kept score on paper, calculated distances by eye, and trusted instinct over instrument. The game became primal, pure—disc golf stripped to its essential elements. 🔦

Koga, meanwhile, fought a different battle. The Fuzz Bandit had grown strong enough to manifest visually—a writhing mass of static shaped vaguely like a person, superimposed over his form. He could feel it trying to digitize his consciousness, to add him to whatever collection it had made of the missing agents.

"No," he growled, gripping his least infected disc. "You're just corrupted code. And I know how to handle bad data."

In a moment of desperate inspiration, Koga began building a Faraday cage from disc golf baskets, dragging the metal structures into a rough circle around himself. The chain links, combined with the aluminum discs agents contributed, created a conductive shell that contained the Fuzz Bandit's influence.

"Chrome!" he shouted through the interference. "The missing agents—they're not gone! They're suspended in the static fields! We need to ground the entire course!"

The solution was absurdly simple. Using every metal disc, every chain basket, every conductive surface available, agents created a massive grounding network across River Bottoms. When Chrome gave the signal, they connected it all to the course's irrigation system—millions of gallons of water providing a perfect electrical ground. ⚡

The result was spectacular. Lightning-like discharges erupted from every infected disc simultaneously. The Fuzz Bandit shrieked—a sound like dial-up modems dying—as its electronic form was forcibly grounded. Around the course, static fields collapsed, depositing confused but unharmed agents back into reality.

Agent Kowalski materialized mid-throw, his disc sailing perfectly through the basket as if he'd never been gone. Agent Freeman appeared with her scorecard still in hand, only a few holes behind where she'd vanished. The crisis was contained, but the implications remained. 🎊

As dawn finally broke properly over River Bottoms, Chrome surveyed the aftermath. Infected discs lay scattered across fairways, their electronic components fried but plastic intact. The Fuzz Bandit tag at Koga's hip had returned to its dormant state, though everyone gave it a wide berth.

"Outstanding work, agents," Chrome said, his voice hoarse but proud. "We've just survived the first documented electronic warfare attack on a disc golf course. HQ's going to have a field day with this report."

Koga, exhausted but victorious, held up one of the dead sabotage discs. "Sir, these modifications—they're sophisticated. Whoever built these understood our systems inside and out."

Chrome nodded grimly. "The game's changed, people. Vega's not just bending rules anymore—she's rewriting the entire playbook. But today, we proved something important." His voice rose to its familiar boom: "WE PROVED THAT NO AMOUNT OF ELECTRONIC INTERFERENCE CAN STOP THE FEDERAL DEPARTMENT OF RECREATION ENFORCEMENT FROM COMPLETING THEIR MISSION!"

As agents packed their gear, careful to segregate the compromised equipment, whispers spread through the ranks. If Vega could turn their own bag tags against them, what else had she corrupted? The Fuzz Bandit incident was contained, but everyone knew this was just the beginning.

In the parking lot, Koga found a message spray-painted on his car in neon pink: "Nice catch, Kevin! But can you ground what you can't see? Next time, the corruption comes from within. -V.O."

The Crisis Clash was over, but the war for the agency's future had taken a dangerous new turn. And somewhere in the static between analog and digital, between order and chaos, the real enemy was still listening. 📡