' Wuld that I was an artist & had the material to paint this camp & all its horors or the tounge of some eloquent Statesman and had the privleage of expresing my mind to our hon. rulers at Washington, I should gloery to describe this hell on earth where it takes 7 of its ocupiants to make a shadow.'
July 9, 1864, Sgt. David Kennedy of the 9th Ohio Cavalry
“How long is he gonna sit there?” Sergeant Hill pointed at the Indian hanging naked on the Deadline fence.
The smoke clears and the explosions stop. I’m still standing and they aren’t.
I’m about to pursue the other half of the squad when I get the stand down order. “We’ve got it covered,” I hear on the Secret Service frequency.
I walk to the gate where I’m met by my new partners. Both of them are sporting some heavy mech.
“Agent James Yona, reporting for duty, sir.” The Rush is fading, enough for me to deal with conversation again.
“At ease. I’m agent Tovar, this is Agent Vasquez. You all right?
“Looks that way. Were you expecting company?”
I think I may need to expand the ending some. Opinions?
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Some members of the Kindred had been contemplating emigration since before I was born. Some sought a less technology dominated life, others, my parents included, wanted their children to grow up somewhere where being religious . . . being a true theist, not just paying lip service to ancient rites . . . wasn't regarded as being backwards and primitive.