"Now where is that folio...", I mutter under my breath, sweeping maps and charts from the shelves to the floor. A still, heavy air fills the otherwise quiet room--perhaps an evening rainstorm will help cover my escape.
By Val Fitzpatrick5 years ago in Futurism
“Thirty-second timer, set, the packet is in motion” Ricohn growled through my headset, cutting in through the soft radio static of the Hesseclaim Dispatch channel momentarily before he went quiet again.
