Pitter Patter

In atmosphere, the Mulzac-class freighter flew like a brick with paper wings on a good day. And this, Miller decided, was most certainly not a good day. He had been to Cascade several times before, and somehow, it had rained every time. But this was a whole lot worse than a light drizzle.
His fingers coiled around the controls in a white-knuckle grip as the ship shuddered underneath him. The wind roared like the howl of a starving beast, and the rain struck and splattered against the viewport, more like the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire than a calming pitter-patter. Lightning flashed bright as day for a heartbeat, but there was nothing to see but a wet gray waste in the heart of the squall. Miller knew the crash of thunder was coming, but he jumped in his seat all the same, much to his co-pilot's amusement.
"Haha, it's just a little water, rookie!" Frank slapped Miller on the shoulder, and it took every restraint the younger man had not to shake off the man's hand. His co-pilot had a closely-shaven head to hide his receding hairline, and a thick moustache that scrunched up like a furry caterpillar whenever he smiled. And Miller had never seen Frank not smile.
"Pretty sure this is why people use the orbital!" Miller had to shout to hear himself over the storm.
"Using the orbital is how people like us get caught. Don't you worry, rook, the Cornucopia's a good ship-- she'll hold."
And was right. When the clouds parted, and the lights of Kowloon's skyline shone like a thousand candles in the dark, it was clear that whatever storm god Miller had gone and pissed off hadn't seen fit to dash him against Cascade's rocky shores. Not today, at least.
But his hands were still shaking, even as he flicked a switch and deployed the Cornucopia's landing gear.
"That's it, rook. Set her down nice and easy." Frank unbuckled his crash harness, and swung a heavy-looking duffel bag over his shoulder. "You coming? Or you staying with the ship?"
Miller fingers brushed against his hip, and felt the assuring cold frame of his Mk50 Sidekick pistol.
"I'll go. You sure this guy's cool?"
"Who? Terry?" Frank scoffed. "T-Dawg and I go way back. Lousy at small talk, but give him twenty credits, and there ain't nothing he won't let slide."
Miller nodded towards the duffel bag.
" That looks like a lot more than twenty."
"Compared to what we're hauling kid? Pocket change. Now, come on."
It was still sprinkling when they descended the gangplank, but it wasn't anything worth complaining about. Whenever Miller drew in a breath, he could smell and taste the rain, as well as the salty breeze blowing in from the sea. Two misshapen moons hung in the night sky, glowing like the eyes of a cat in the dark.
A lone man peeled away from the darkness as he stepped into the cone of the ship's headlights.
"Terry, my man! It's been a while hasn't it? How the hell are ya?"
"You came," Was all Terry had to offer. He was a big man, wider in the stomach than in the shoulders, but his arms were thick as tree trunks. Miller hadn't seen the man's mouth move, for it was lost beneath the wild scruff of his dark beard.
"'Course I did, T-Dawg. You ever know me to keep a friend waiting?"
"Yes."
Terry finally seemed to notice the young man at Frank's side. 
"Who's the kid?"
"Oh, Miller here?" Frank placed a hand on Miller's shoulder. The young man shuffled in place. "Took him on a few months ago while I was between jobs at Arsenal. Real crack pilot. Maybe one day he'll be as good as me!"
Frank laughed, but Miller wasn't sure what emotion he was seeing in Terry's dark eyes when their gaze met. Pity?
"And what're you hauling this time, Frank?"
He could have sworn he saw the corner of Frank's mouth twitch.
"Nosey today, aintcha, Terry?" Frank unslung the duffel bag, and tossed it. It landed at the big man's feet, but he didn't take a second look.
"You still smuggling weapons?"
There was that twitch again. 
"You know what I really used to like about you, T-Dawg? You used to know when to keep your mouth shut."
Miller felt his heart thumping in his chest. 
Frank drew his pistol from his waistband, but he didn't point it at Terry. Not just yet.
"Just take the credits, and go home. Buy your wife something nice."
"You shouldn't have come here today, Frank. You shouldn't have brought the kid, either. Things aren't the same."
Frank scoffed.
"Sure it is, Terry. Doesn't matter who's in charge. CAA, UNSC, the 'Created'," He spat on the ground to show what he thought about the supposed AI overlords. "Doesn't matter what they call themselves. I've slipped past them all."
"No," Terry said, almost sad. "You haven't."
Miller couldn't believe his eyes as he watched Terry's shadow detach itself, swirling and bending. The man was large, but the figure that bled into existence stood head and shoulders taller. A single cyclopean eye burned a deep crimson.
"Shit, Spartan! Run, rook!" Frank fired on the figure twice, three times, but the rounds didn't seem to touch it at all. Terry ducked, and began to bolt in the opposite direction, only for Frank's next shot to catch him between the shoulder blades. Whether the big man went down, or if he kept running, Miller couldn't say.
His own pistol was forgotten. Even if he had drawn it, he did not know if he would have had the presence of mind to shoot. Instead, he did as Frank said, and ran.
He didn't get far. As Miller was running up the gangplank back onto the Cornucopia, he tripped and hit the metal ramp hard. It was only when he looked down did he notice the burning hot knife in his calf. He screamed, more so in the shock of seeing the blade, glowing as red as the cyclops' eye, than the pain. 
And from seeing the cyclops lift Frank up by his neck, and shove its arm through his chest, as if he was nothing more than a soggy piece of paper. When it released its grip, Frank hit the pavement like a sack of spuds. His perpetual grin twisted into a gaping horror.
Miller must have made a noise-- a sob, probably, for the cyclops' head snapped in his direction. He started crawling up the gangplank, leaving a smear of blood on the metal as he did so. Just as he was within arm's reach of the ramp controls, he felt a stab of agony in his leg. The cyclops had caught him, and it yanked back down by his injured leg hard with an iron grip.
It flipped him over, and pinned him with the arm soaked to the elbow in red. In the other, it held a strange claw-shaped pistol that glowed a soft orange.
"UNKNOWN SUSPECT. IDENTIFY YOURSELF."
It was not right to call what the cyclops spoke with a "voice". A voice implied thought, emotion-- a soul. And there was nothing behind the large red eye as it scanned Miller. And yet it spoke, all the same, however crude its facsimile of human speech.
"J-Jacob... Miller," He managed through ragged breaths.
For a time, nothing happened. Whether it was seconds or minutes or hours, Miller couldn't say. But no matter which, it was longer than he expected to live after what he had seen. When he closed his eyes and waited for the coming end, the red eye was still there.
"JACOB MILLER. YOU ARE TO REPORT TO FORT SOUTHWICK IMMEDIATELY. CONGRATULATIONS ARE IN ORDER."
Before Miller could even begin to process the words being said to him, he felt a sharp prick in his arm.
"H-Hey, what are you--" 
His vision began to blur. Where there was one red burning eye, now there were three. Then five. Then seven. Then nine. Then none, as the world went black. The last thing he remembered was the calming pitter-patter of rain.
Category:Stories
Category:The Weekly