The Rift
The Mission (#1)
It was the day of the tenth raid.
Calvin Endwall sat shivering at the edge of the rocky cliff, which overlooked the lush landscape. Dewy blades of grass marched over hills of soil for miles in each direction until the line of sight ended in a blanket of fog. A cool wind was sweeping across the ground from the east, chilling all that it touched.
Calvin held his gray cloak tighter to his chest and tried to ignore the numbing of his ears, while his black hair flew back from his temples. His eyes, the color of the storm clouds overhead, continued to scan the lay of the land below. It was important to knows one's surroundings.
A voice called out to him from the tents, temporarily breaking his concentration. "Damnit Calvin, haven't you had a good enough look by now? I mean, you've done hardly anything other than sit and stare since we got here."
Calvin turned and saw Microphone Mike striding toward him. The man was wrapped up awkwardly in two red cloaks, and he had a thick green one in his arms. Resting on this were two wooden pipes and a pouch of tobacco. With one of his hoods pulled up over his head and his thick glasses, he looked like a cross between a serial killer and a genie granting a man's wish for a smoke. The result of this exotic mix was man you couldn't help but feel compassion for.
"A man's got to know his environment, Mike," said Calvin. "Rule number one."
"Oh, for some reason I thought that one was 'always make sure he's dead', but it is difficult to keep track, you know." Mike sat down on a flat-topped rock beside Calvin and took the accessories from off the green cloak. "This is for you."
Calvin took the fuzzy green garment from his hand. "Thanks," he said throwing it over his shoulders. "and you're not wrong -- that is rule number one -- but there's several of them."
"Ahh, now it all makes sense." Mike unstrung the small pouch and held out one of the pipes. "Care for a smoke?"
"Why not?"
Mike lit the pipes (holding his hand over the lighter so the wind couldn't blow it out) and they sat studying the horizon. They inhaled the warm, relaxing smoke while the air chilled everything but their throats and lungs.
"You think we'll ever win this thing, Cal?" Mike asked seriously. He turned his face and then broke into a smile. "Ha. You really do, don't you? You're nuts."
"I don't really know," said Calvin. His eyes were focused on the land again. "And I don't think it matters, anyway. I'd be doing the same thing even if I knew we were fucked... just to spite them."
Mike sighed. "Yeah, I suppose I would be too; hell, most of the guys back at the tents probably would."
Calvin nodded. "What have they got to lose?"
He reached back into the the tobacco pouch and pinched a little extra leaf with his dirt-coated fingers. The third finger down bore a gold ring.
"Have you already double-checked all of the bots? Are they working okay?"
Microphone Mike thought about it for a second. "Yeah, I guess they're about as good as we can hope for at this point. They... could be a lot better if we had the resources. They'll work perfect for a diversion, though."
"That's all that's necessary."
"Right now, yeah. We'll need to make better ones, though. In time. I've actually got a guy working under me -- Miles is his name -- who's got quite a bit of talent. He knows a lot about designing machines for combat."
"That's good."
"Uh-huh."
Calvin laced his fingers and put his arms behind his head. "Are you ready for tonight? If you don't think you can do it, tell me."
Mike sighed. "I'll be fine. I mean I'm nervous as fuck, but I want to do it. How many hours do we have until seven anyways?"
"Eight."
He nodded. "Alright, well I guess I'm going to go back to the tent for an hour or so. What do have planned?"
It was the day of the tenth raid.
Calvin Endwall sat shivering at the edge of the rocky cliff, which overlooked the lush landscape. Dewy blades of grass marched over hills of soil for miles in each direction until the line of sight ended in a blanket of fog. A cool wind was sweeping across the ground from the east, chilling all that it touched.
Calvin held his gray cloak tighter to his chest and tried to ignore the numbing of his ears, while his black hair flew back from his temples. His eyes, the color of the storm clouds overhead, continued to scan the lay of the land below. It was important to knows one's surroundings.
A voice called out to him from the tents, temporarily breaking his concentration. "Damnit Calvin, haven't you had a good enough look by now? I mean, you've done hardly anything other than sit and stare since we got here."
Calvin turned and saw Microphone Mike striding toward him. The man was wrapped up awkwardly in two red cloaks, and he had a thick green one in his arms. Resting on this were two wooden pipes and a pouch of tobacco. With one of his hoods pulled up over his head and his thick glasses, he looked like a cross between a serial killer and a genie granting a man's wish for a smoke. The result of this exotic mix was man you couldn't help but feel compassion for.
"A man's got to know his environment, Mike," said Calvin. "Rule number one."
"Oh, for some reason I thought that one was 'always make sure he's dead', but it is difficult to keep track, you know." Mike sat down on a flat-topped rock beside Calvin and took the accessories from off the green cloak. "This is for you."
Calvin took the fuzzy green garment from his hand. "Thanks," he said throwing it over his shoulders. "and you're not wrong -- that is rule number one -- but there's several of them."
"Ahh, now it all makes sense." Mike unstrung the small pouch and held out one of the pipes. "Care for a smoke?"
"Why not?"
Mike lit the pipes (holding his hand over the lighter so the wind couldn't blow it out) and they sat studying the horizon. They inhaled the warm, relaxing smoke while the air chilled everything but their throats and lungs.
"You think we'll ever win this thing, Cal?" Mike asked seriously. He turned his face and then broke into a smile. "Ha. You really do, don't you? You're nuts."
"I don't really know," said Calvin. His eyes were focused on the land again. "And I don't think it matters, anyway. I'd be doing the same thing even if I knew we were fucked... just to spite them."
Mike sighed. "Yeah, I suppose I would be too; hell, most of the guys back at the tents probably would."
Calvin nodded. "What have they got to lose?"
He reached back into the the tobacco pouch and pinched a little extra leaf with his dirt-coated fingers. The third finger down bore a gold ring.
"Have you already double-checked all of the bots? Are they working okay?"
Microphone Mike thought about it for a second. "Yeah, I guess they're about as good as we can hope for at this point. They... could be a lot better if we had the resources. They'll work perfect for a diversion, though."
"That's all that's necessary."
"Right now, yeah. We'll need to make better ones, though. In time. I've actually got a guy working under me -- Miles is his name -- who's got quite a bit of talent. He knows a lot about designing machines for combat."
"That's good."
"Uh-huh."
Calvin laced his fingers and put his arms behind his head. "Are you ready for tonight? If you don't think you can do it, tell me."
Mike sighed. "I'll be fine. I mean I'm nervous as fuck, but I want to do it. How many hours do we have until seven anyways?"
"Eight."
He nodded. "Alright, well I guess I'm going to go back to the tent for an hour or so. What do have planned?"