Chapter 1: A Not-So-Tough Choice
Pacidemia Shoreline, 2254 A.E.
The quiet shores of Pacidemia City lapped the beams of a beachfront house. A man swayed on his porch hammock, softly kicking the wood flooring to keep him swinging. A stereo softly played pacific coast tunes, as the sun set over the glistening horizon of sea. A glass bottle fell to the floor, its miniscule contents softly lapping inside. The kicking stopped. The man got out of the hammock, and picked up the nearly empty bottle of Hännguaffe beer, imported from Sweden over 200 years ago.
The man placed his arms on the banister of the porch, peering out to the sea, squinting slightly to lessen the brightness of the sun. He took the last swig of beer from the bottle, and set the bottle down at his feet.
A flash of bright blue light caught the man's eyes, distracting him from his lost-in-thought vibe. He turned to the direction of the flash, seeing now that it came from the pier. He shook his head lightly. "Nothin' more than a drone." he had a baritone voice, matching the strong stature of his stance, and reflecting his age.
The man's body was well toned, despite it being nearly seventy years old. Under the jungle of beard, he had a hard face, war torn from Planetary Revolution. A strong nose, probably broken as a child, bony, sullen cheeks, a chiseled jaw, and hard, bushy eyebrows. His eyes however, told a different story.
The brilliant blue color told of his daring and exhilarating childhood. But that time had passed. The revolution clouded his eyes from the memories of bliss, and each passing day made his eyes harder, and less inviting.
A knock rapped against his glass porch door. He glanced behind him briefly, before turning back to the sunset.
"Mr. Donahue," the old man greeted sharply. "Wasn't expecting you."
Mr. Donahue walked onto the porch, with a heavy step with each stride to the banister.
"I know, Halsen. This is urgent." Donahue slapped an inch thick file onto the banister railing. "We need you."
"I don't go by Halsen anymore. And you don't need me." The old man turned harshly and walked back inside his house. Donahue pursed his lips.
During the Revolution, Franklin Donahue was the old man's advisor and the head of the Galactic Board of Affairs. The old man was the N°1 in the United Systems Corps. The old man, Halsen at the time, was sent on numerous missions to end the revolution. Halsen stopped the revolution, under the flag of the United Systems. He was never credited. Angered, he left the United Systems Corps, and dissappeared.
Donahue walked back into the house, and closed the porch door behind him. He set the file on the old man's dining table. The house, rustic in feel, was open. Wood supports went through the floor and to the roof every eight feet. The living room, bedroom, kitchen and study bared no walls to separate them for privacy. The only private thing was the bathroom, and even that was questionable because its walls only covered waist down.
He was about to call the old man Halsen again, but figured he wouldn't respond. He called out his real name. "Regis Wilkins, please. For the sake of your government!"
Regis stopped in his tracks near his fridge door. He walked to Donahue slowly, and was suddenly inches from his face. "Don't call me that either." Donahue backed away.
"What else would I call you?"
Regis turned to the front door. Donahue followed. "Nothing. Don't call me." Regis opened the door and gestured outside.
"I'm not leaving until we get your help." Donahue stood as firm as his stocky physique would allow. Regis rolled his eyes and grabbed Franklin by the arm. "Regis wait! Regis!"
"Yes, you are!" Regis forced Donahue out the door, as he still blabbered on. Donahue stumbled out the door, and into the sand covered driveway. "Wilkins!"
Regis shut the door with a slam and locked it. He expected pounding on the door, but it never came. Instead, he heard his mail slot in his door open, and then close. A business card fell to the floor. Regis looked at it, and picked it up. It read, 'Just in case you change your mind' in fine print. Underneath was a number. Regis scoffed and threw the card onto his dining table. He returned to the fridge and picked out another bottle of Hännguaffe beer and headed back to the rear porch.
