"To Your Good Fortune in Liberty, Sir"

[Zephyranthes]

<"Roland, this is Charlemagne. Come in, Roland. Over.">
<"Roland here. Reading you five by five. Over.">
<"Target is moving from Point Navarra. Estimated ETA to Point Roncevaux is fifteen minutes. Evac will arrive in twenty. Stand by. Over.">
<"Ten-four, Charlemagne. Moving to vantage point. Roland out.">

The radio clicked off. Acid rain flooded the smoked out ruins of the former textile mill, one of the many relics of industrial decay that pockmarked the surface of Leeds. Fires burned throughout the landscape, little reminders past the horizon of the war that was being waged every day between the Bretonian populace and their Gallic occupiers. Occasionally, rumbling from an explosion miles away from where one was standing would punctuate that violence. But for the most part, the only sound heard this night was the pitter-patter of caustic water droplets colliding with whatever surface gravity dragged them down to.

A lone cigarette lit up the darkness in the rundown shed that Agent Norman O'Brien had taken shelter from the rain in. With each draw, the smoke he blew danced in the air before being whisked away by the cold, laughing wind. After a minute, O'Brien put out the small butt and retrieved his combat helmet from a small wooden crate at his feet, enabling the night vision mode on the visor. Hefting a heavy kinetic sniper rifle over his shoulder, the operative began to stroll over to another end of the factory. After five minutes, he took cover in a small maintenance room overlooking a large avenue. Headlights flashed in the distance as a convoy of Gallic military vehicles rumbled in his direction.

"That sounds like him," he whispered to himself. The sniper rifle slid perfectly into position behind some broken glass, obscured by the cover of night. There were some advantages to using a kinetic weapon instead of an energy-based small arm. For one thing, the distinctive beams of light caused by an energy discharge would thoroughly encourage the Gauls to light up Norman's position like a Roman candle on Liberty Day. With the right ammunition and delivery system, it was also more likely to penetrate the armor of whatever was carrying his target. It would be easy to time the shot with any of the explosions in the distance, or perhaps thunder. And with such a wide view of the convoy, which he could still spot from miles away, there was ample opportunity to take the shot at any time and still have time to exfil safely.

O'Brien pressed the side of his helmet, turning on his radio.

<"Charlemagne, this is Roland. Have arrived at vantage point overlooking target convoy's route. Target convoy is on approach. Over.">
<"Roger that Roland, you have the green light for engagement. The target's information is located in your datapad. Use it to your discretion, and RV at Point Andorra for extraction. Over.">
<"Copy, Charlemagne. You're buying drinks this time, over.">
<"Cut the chatter, Roland. Charlemagne, out.">

The radio cut off, and once again, O'Brien was left in the rain. This time, the sound of oil-fueled motors grew louder and louder as the Gauls neared. O'Brien exhumed his datapad from his rucksack, loading up the target's information. To O'Brien, the name was irrelevant. All that mattered was the face, the vehicle, and the location. The target was being chauffeured in what appeared to be a luxury limousine, possibly fitted with armor plating and shielding. Possibly.

"Jesus Christ, intel really screwed the goddamn pooch on this one..," O'Brien groaned, tossing aside the datapad and aiming down the scope. Thunder caused the building to quake, as if the lightning were throwing stones at the windows to shake and shatter them.

"Gotcha, ya bastard..," he quietly snickered as the target's vehicle came rolling along the avenue. The bearded Gaul in the backseat, resplendent in his formal military attire, was undoubtedly the man Norman had been waiting for. Aiming down the scope, he waited for the sound of thunder to roll in once again. Lightning impacted a skyscraper less than a mile away, and in the resulting flash of electric hell and explosion of sound blasts, two sounds were buried underneath the cacophony.

A gunshot and the shattering of a window.

---

Once again, William Foulke emerged from the waters of the past and onto the beach of the present day. This time, he awoke with someone else beside him. Miranda was sleeping soundly at his side, with her left arm wrapped around his torso. The room they were in seemed alien to him for a brief moment, before the revelation finally struck him.

"I'm back. That's right," he quietly mumbled, reaching out to the simulated window's morning sun with his right hand. Even after so many months, he always woke up forgetting that it was but a cold, metal doppelganger of that body part. The Battlegroup's propaganda of transhumanist transcendence and evolution through technology never actively resonated with him. It was his personal loyalties and fear that kept him there. Fear of what might happen if he returned to Liberty, or if Liberty returned to him. Fear of the Nomads winning. Fear of losing Miranda. And fear of others around him acting towards these goals, intentionally or not. In his mind, he knew it was a rancid cocktail of cynicism and paranoia, but it felt well-justified.

He was at least content to not have to brave the night alone anymore. And grateful for being able to shut his eyes in confidence that he could sleep.