Riders - Clandestine Axiom
Prologue
Play the tape.
Yes, sir.
A chair squeals as it is relieved of its earlier position.
An old man releases tension from his weary joints as his dependence is placed upon the earlier mentioned chair.
A click.
Interviewer: So, young man, who are you?
Interviewee: I already told you, I'm Lance. Would you mind telling me your name? Or is common courtesy too straight-forward for the army?
Interviewer: Go ahead, waste your wit on me. It's not like I've got any pride for you to take.
Lance: Most likely because –
Speed it up to where they actually start talking about the important things, could you?
Yes, sir.
The pitch of the playback spikes as time is wondrously turned forward nearly five minutes.
The button is released, and time sinks back into its original state of being.
Interviewer: Kid, you think you've got everything planned out, don't you?
Lance: Think so? I'd like to avoid cliché; but the truth is I know I've got it planned out, and I'm several steps ahead of you.
Interviewer: Then tell me, Lance, where do The Divine Wings rest right now?
Lance: Not where you think they are. The tables have turned, and power now rests in the hands of those who waited for it. Unfortunately, these people who waited are waiting to use their new-found power to cause pain and devastation for their own selfish motives. I'm the only one who knows this, and yet I'm locked up in a government compound. Is that what you were looking for?
Interviewer: But where is The Diving Wings?
Lance: Eden has fallen.
Interviewer: Lance, I'm losing my patience with you right now.
Lance: Funny, that's the third time you've said that now. And since life operates in exponents, I can only imagine how angry you are right now.
Interviewer: This isn't funny. You need to grow up right now, and tell the adults who can handle this situation where The Divine Wings is.
Lance: Remember how I said I was always a few steps ahead of you?
Interviewer: Yes, and what about it?
Lance: Volatilis recubo.
Interviewer: What -
An Explosion
And that's it?
Yes, sir.
The wheels in an old man's head turn; rusted from age, corroded and worn away like bone rubbing against bone. Provided he was still in his youth, the answer would be as clairvoyant as the sun in the sky.
An old man sits.
An old man thinks.
Your orders, sir?
An old man sits.
