The Mercenary

          I dreamed that I was alone in the waste, a scattering of barren deserts and vast, flat tundra. The sky was grey -- it always is, here -- betraying no sense of the time while I searched for a lost squad of rookie laser gunners. When I came upon a Quonset warehouse and a concrete outbuilding or two, everything around me was quiet. All I could see on the horizon were a few massive trees, perhaps a mile or so out, motionless. No wind. I entered the warehouse through gaping hangar doors, left open -- a bad sign. Inside was a cafeteria of sorts, white and black linoleum tile. Upended tables, plastic trays, paper wrappers and little drifts of snow were strewn across the floor. To one side, a body lay atop a broken table. His name was Scott, and he had been missing for two months. Everyone had given up looking; our numbers were too few to sustain a real search operation.
          I heard a humming in the distance -- the enemy's airships, a landing party. Two of the rookies I'd been looking for burst from the back room of the warehouse (evidently they'd figured out someone was coming and hid.) I turned again and saw four soldiers advancing on us quickly, clad in grey armor that sheeted their faces and covered all of their skin. The rookies ran to the mouth of the warehouse, firing their rifles wildly and without discipline. The two of them managed to laser one of the soldiers, but the other three closed the distance and kept firing.
          One tried to creep in from the left and I shot him first. My gun sparked, fizzed and malfunctioned. I dove to the side under a bolt from one of the troops and yanked poor dead Scott's laser from his belt -- it distinctly occurred to me that he wouldn't be needing it. The forward-most trooper was at the hangar doors, aiming to pick off one of the rookies. I lurched up into a crouch and shot him twice, first in the neck and then the face. The stricken areas cratered and froze solid. As he tipped over, I stood up straight and continued to fire past him, striking and disintegrating the last soldier with a shimmering wave of force, oscillating yellow and brown. More men were coming toward us through the haze on the horizon, two gunships hovering above them. We needed to escape.

.     .     .     .     .

          I got up, smoked with Alaric and kept packing papers and other junk for the move. I went into work halfheartedly, but it's cool to get overtime. After work, Alaric and I finished season 6A of The Sopranos and watched the premiere of 6B. We're getting there! I went for a late night run, one of my last in Fenway; being able to go out the door, down the block and be on the edge of the Fens was one of the few highlights of living in this decrepit little box. I packed most of my clothes, moved my desk out of my room and collapsed Sean's end table. As I continued industriously, a rainy, steely grey sky was gradually illuminated.
          Quote of the day:
"Why would you ever want to go to Ohio by choice, anyway?" - Lauren P