He looked and the door was closed. But it burst open and in walked a short form. No, not short, but shriveled, bent, and hunched. An old woman entered wearing only black. One knotted hand throttled an equally knotted cane. The other stayed at her side, fingers twitching as if ready to snatch at something. The ancient, scowling face of Peritha Haggis glared behind a thin black shawl at the unmoving backside of Anatha. Benjamin felt his brow harden as the old woman tapped her cane on the floor until Anatha turned, wearily. A high voice scratched behind the widow’s garb, “Anatha, my daughter, my heart!”

Immediately when she entered the factory, she knew something was wrong. It was not the fact that none of the slaves met her eyes. Despair and misery, plus the overseer’s whips ever ready to strike, accounted for that. It was not the fact that she smelled burnt pinestraw. It was not even the fact that she had a “new” pair of gloves that she had needed badly for the past week. It was the fact that an overseer stalked over to her, grinning maliciously. Dani dropped her eyes, hoping to avoid as much punishment as possible.

“You’re late, girl.” He snarled. Raczr never used any punctuation in his expression at all.

I felt a twinge of guilt as I pressed the red knife into the dead soldier's hands. I hated these Psyops missions. Around me, my squadmates were placing other incrminating evidence into the fallen soldiers hands. It would cause fear and chaos in their ranks, definitely, but it was wrong. A low sound caught my ears and put me on alert. "Incoming enemy, 7 o'clock. I picked up my rifle and beckoned for my team to evacuate. Then the gunfire started.