A limp cigarette in a thunderstorm. Its dull glow reflected on brown eyes. Rain drops dripped from the tips of ragged, black hair. The sun-tanned skin ticked with freckles and acne scars. It was a Midwestern prairie, overgrown with weeds and rimmed in trees. The morning sun hued the black clouds in orange and purple, silhouetting a long figure in a tree, strapped tight to the trunk. He sucked in on the cigarette and blew it out steady.
Big eye in the scope. He scanned the edge of the field as thunder cracked around him without the flash of lightning. His target crept cautious between the trees. A doe. No buck. No children. Solitary and unknowing. Make it easy, he thought. Make it easy and we'll both be better off. She stepped closer to the tree line, sniffing at the grass, looking out over the rainy plains. She wouldn't see him. Even if she did, he thought, she won't run.
Three hundred yards away, between him and the doe, a small watering hole sat choked with moss and beer cans. She needed a drink. The rain had flooded the river, making the deer trails too dangerous for approach. This was all she had.
With one last puff the boy let the cigarette drop from his lips and into the wet grass below, joining the rest of the pack that littered the mud. He shifted against the bark, but it was no use. It dug into his back and left bruises on his ass. Just a few more hours, he thought. Then he lifted the rifle back up and looked hard into the scope. He adjusted it out of boredom and watched the lone doe take her first steps into the field. Without the storm she might have taken her time trotting around the edges of the forest, looking to see if any coyotes or wild dogs were prowling, but the rain and the thirst made her impatient. Good, he thought. Maybe I'll be home before sun up.
Red stirred at the bottom of the tree, opening his sleepy eyes to shake his water-soaked fur. He yawned and stretched his back, moving closer to the trunk to avoid any more rain that he could. "Good boy," the boy said. "Here ya go." A tiny bit of chicken dropped down and red leapt on it. "Shh," the boy said. Red lowered himself and hugged the tree, nibbling on his treat.
Out in the field the doe was running, getting closer to the watering hole. The boy followed with the rifle, hands tight on the sandalwood, butt pressed hard into his shoulder. "Ready, boy?" The pup rose up, ears perked, tongue hanging out of its smiling mouth. "Just a little bit more." The doe stopped, head snapped, keeping still. "There's nothing there. Come on. Just a little bit more."
The German Shepard shook with anticipation. Dirt patches on its fur had turned to mud in the rain. His large brown eyes twitched from the field up to the boy in the tree, breathing hard, ready to go. "Almost there," the boy said. His finger hovered over the trigger. His thumb flicked the safety off. One deep breath in and none out. Left eye opened on the field. Pressing hard into the tree, letting it cut into him, hugging him with pain.
It was a long moment of stillness. Nothing moving but the rain running down the pup's fur, or tracing around the boy's twice-broken nose. Thunder held itself in the clouds, too nervous to make a sound.
Then it cracked with a gunshot and the paws of the pup smacking the wet mud. The doe didn't go down and it turned and ran. The boy fired again, three times in rapid succession, then unstrapped himself from the tree, leapt down, wobbled on the landing, and took off after the dog. Red leapt over a fallen log and barked into the rain as he ran through the grass that covered him. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, slapping against the side of his head.
Heavy steps. Heavy breaths. Rifle slung. The boy ran letting the wet grass brush his jeans. Long corduroy jacket flapping behind him, the water soaked into the fabric making it weight as much as him. Old boots letting water in, soaking his socks, not gripping in the mud and puddles. "Get 'em, Red!" The dog barked in reply.
The doe kicked up out of the field and into the trees. Red followed suit. When the boy got there he lifted his rifle and checked the scope. Both animals were out of sight. The leaves and bark and mud all blended together in a brown mess that made it hard to discern anything. Shouldering the gun, he looked at the ground. Paw print, blood trail. Moving slow, he followed into the thick.
It was a long trek with the rain obscuring the blood and the paw prints slowly dissolving into more solid ground. At a certain point, near a tall oak tree, the boy whistled, and in return Red barked and came running. He looked happy, like he had done something good. The boy ruffled his head and followed the direction from whence he came.
Lying in the tall grass, the dear wheezed its last breaths. The boy stood over it and looked at it, watching the life slip from it, like twine unraveling. He knelt and placed a hand on his face, to let it feel warmth one last time. And as it passed, he scratched Red's butt and removed a treat for him. Red sat and accepted it, taking it a few yards away to eat it in peace.
Though it was just a doe, it was still as big as the boy, with more muscle than them. Carrying it back home would be no easy feat. So he unslung his pack and his rifle, fixed them both to Red, and knelt down to grab the deer. Using the fireman's carry, he hefted the carcass onto his shoulder, turned and marched.
The rain continued for the hour long walk. They passed through the moor, dipping around to the waist high swamp, and crossed a prairie flooded by rain water. Over the old coal mines that dotted the hills and through a junkyard that was nothing but old treasures turned to rust. At the edge of that junkyard, a gravel path twisted through an iron gate up the road to a dead house, rotting from the inside out. Next to it, across the uncut grass, was a rustic shed made of sheet metal and cheap wood. The boy stopped at the edge of the gravel road and stared at the hut. When he left it earlier that morning, he had secured the door with a padlock from the inside, knowing that he could climb onto the roof and get in that way. Homeless would sometimes wander this way thinking the big house had food, and he didn't want his hut being squatted on. The last thing he wanted was to have to fight some old, drunk army vet for the right to sleep under the roof he grew up under. But now, in the dull glow of storm clouds and morning sun, the door was ajar.
He slung the deer into the grass and removed the rifle from Red. Scoping in he saw that the door wasn't busted, just opened. There was no movement inside. "Stay," he said. Red took a seat as the boy moved forward. At the porch to the dilapidated house, he crouched and got another close look with his scope. There was still no movement. The look seemed unbroken, but opened. Somebody knew what they were doing, he thought, and decided against further caution by standing up tall, gun raised and pointed, and moved straight at the hut.
His heart picked up as he got to the door, listening, pressing his ear to the sheet metal and hearing nothing but the wind whistling through the field. Slow breath in, safety off. One step put him in the doorway, turning his gun left then right, sweeping the small, five-foot diameter shack. Tools lined the walls, rusty and useless. A rickety desk sat against the back wall. There were several knives and rabbit pelts scattered on it. In the left corner, nearest the door, a pile of hay and a torn up coat made a bed for Red.
Sitting in the center of all of this, a box wrapped like a Christmas present, topped with a little bow and a card. The boy cocked his head. The gun lowered slowly to his side. Looking away from the box he checked his lock. Still worked. Checked under Red's bed. The key was present. Checked his roof hatch. There were no signs of entry. Someone picked his lock. Why?
Red watched from a hundred yards back. After checking the hut, the boy whistled for him and he came trotting up. Normally he'd go right inside and onto his bed. But this time he came in and went straight for the box, sniffing it, circling it. Licking it made him reel back and shake his jowls to rid himself of the taste. "Sit," said the boy. Red didn't listen. He made another circle and pawed at it, knocking it onto its side. It made a noise like something small was inside it. "Damn it, Red. I said sit." The boy moved up and Red backed away.
"Lay down." Red growled. "Lay. Down." Turning his head away, the pup laid down on the dirt floor. The boy reached into his pocket to give him another treat, but his hand came out empty. He looked down at the pup and kneeled next to him. "Good boy, good boy. I'll find you something."
Staying on his heels, he turned to the box and picked it up, turning it over in his hands, listening to something clunk inside. The box was solid cardboard and whatever was inside was metal. The boy could tell by the sounds. He could tell is was small enough to fit in his palm and couldn't be thicker than an empty wallet.
The card he removed and opened. "Happy birthday," it read on the front, along with a picture of some cartoon character riding a bike. Opening the cover, a card slid out and hit the dirt. The boy bent to pick it up as he read what was inside. "For Blue and Red. Don't spend it all in one place", in blue ink and fancy handwriting, no signature. The card was a credit card. It wasn't Mastercard or Visa. It had its own unique label. One easily recognizable by all. It stood for Overwatch.
Why? He thought. Red had gotten back up and nudged the box with his nose. When Blue turned, the pup backed away. "It's okay, buddy. You just gotta listen when I say to lay down." Red laid down. "Good boy," he said, and pet him on the head and scratched under his jaw.
The box was wrapped tight and elegant, with patience and thought. The actual construction of the box was solid as well, almost like a faux-wood. It smelt hand crafted, and when he put his nose to it, he could smell a long hint of perfume buried deep. It was salty water crashing into a sand castle on a hot day.
Inside the box there was a small holo-disk, commercially used to sending pictures to people, but this one wasn't purchased at Wal-Mart. It was made of metal, not plastic, and given a blueish tint to it. On the bottom, emblazoned in orange, another symbol of Overwatch. It was military grade hardware. Blue looked at it and the card. Someone broke into this hut to put this here for me, he thought. I'm being watched.
Both items fell into the dirt as Blue grabbed his rifle and aimed it out the door into the trees. He scanned passed the trunks in front of him, looking for reflection in scopes, waiting to see a sniper placed in a ghillie suit under a pile of inconspicuous leaves, finger on the trigger, ready for a moment. Then he looked up into the cloudy sky. Could they see me right now? He thought.
He turned back inside as Red sniffed at the holo-disk. There wasn't much to pack up, but he opened his pack and shoved all the knives and random tools he could in. No food, no water—the deer. Fuck, he thought. The deer sat a football field away in the grass, just waiting for a coyote to come pick at it, or for the vultures to swoop in. He couldn't carry it with him, not for an extended journey. He'd have to leave it. Hope for food elsewhere.
Red's snoot pressed into the holo-disk and it sparked to life. "Hello," it said. "You're probably wondering about the gift." A large Gorilla, with small spectacles and large, battle-ready armor, sat blue in the holo-disk's glow. "It's five-thousand dollars, acceptable at most restaurants, retailers, and landlords. It's yours. No one elses. We won't track it. You can take it and leave if you like. We won't follow you.
"What follows is a map. It leads to a location nearby. In this location are people. Bad people. And they are preparing to do bad things to the nearby region. We here at Overwatch cannot be everywhere at once, so we have reached out to you. If you have it in you, look at the information and do your world a service. If you succeed, we will know." The holo-disk flickered and came back in focus. "Good luck."
It shut down, leaving the hut in a black shadow, parted only by the cloudy morning pouring through the door.
Red looked up at Blue with excitement, tail wagging, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Blue opened his mouth to talk with the holo-disk flickered back on, spiraling out a blue, three-dimensional layout of a factory. Three stories tall, littered with red dots and a big gold star near the north side. It spun slow so that Blue could get a good look at it. As the key spiraled around, it said that red dots equaled operatives, and the gold star represented the target. After making another revolution, the hologram shrunk and moved to the side, bringing up a panel that listed operatives. There were fifteen of them, each of them ex-military. Next to each name was a list of weapons they were trained in and how many years they served in the Omnic war. After they spun around, they too shrank and the "target" appeared in its own panel. An EMP, small enough to fit in a briefcase. "Used to disable robotic presence in city," came up as a bullet point next to it.
Red circled around the holograms while Blue stared wide eyed. The blue lines that etched out from the tiny holo-disk, curved and bent like refracted light, breaking into smaller rays that twisted and carved out the images he saw. A masterwork of science and technology, shipped in a cardboard box. As the images rotated before him he looked down at the card, then to Red, and then out into the field, where several vultures were landing near the house, scoping out their next meal in the dead deer. His stomach rumbled and Red trotted over to him, licking his hand. The boy looked into the dog's eyes and then leaned his head in.
"Get your bed, buddy." He stood. "We're leaving."