Dark Harvest Rebellion

Rated: MA-17
Gore, language, violence

"Buckle up! Hopper weaves a tale of galactic rebellion that's equal parts thrilling and hilarious."

-Wayne Thomas Batson

Best-selling author of Outcast, The Door Within Trilogy, and Myridian Constellation

CHAPTER 1

I blink, pinching the bridge of my nose. Trying to focus. Be a whole lot easier without the ice picks in my temples. D*** headache's as bad as I've had in a while. What the h*** happened?

I'm on the floor, face down... feels like the garage.

No, not the garage. Floor's too smooth. And it's... glowing?

I push myself up, head swirling, and focus on a metallic wall dead ahead. It's gray and dented. Scratches. The only point of interest is the outline of a five-inch neon-pink triangle stenciled near the top. No door, window, or anything else. Just the triangle. But above me, there's more light; the ceiling is white, like the floor.

I sit up, cursing the migraine, but keep taking in my surroundings, which aren't much. The room's other three walls look like the first with one exception: no pink triangle. Not sure what it means, but I use it to orient myself, deciding it's north until I have more intel on wherever the h*** I am.

I would stand, but I'm about to vomit. Probably pass out, too. Which is my first clue.

I'm hung over. And this is the brig.

S***.

I run a hand down my face as my brain tries sorting out the night. Checked in with the CO, headed off post, but then...

Nothing.

Wasn't out with the boys. Shirt's clean-need deodorant. Maybe I got pulled over. I smell my breath. Rancid, but no tequila. Cell phone's AWOL. So what the h***? I'm in a hold for something I have zero recollection of.

I blink a few more times and then do my best to stand. Knees weak, I catch myself on the nearest wall. "Steady," I say, noting how garbled my voice sounds.

Balance secured, my mind starts to pick up speed. So I wasn't out late, and I'm not drunk. Maybe drugged?

Yeah, sure, Atlas. Because people routinely break into Camp Pendleton to drug Marines.

"Alright," I say at last, loud enough for my minders to hear. "What'd I do?"

My hand stays on the wall as I wait for an answer. I've run a sweatbox or two like this one-okay, maybe not with the dramatic lighting. There's some boot tasked with watching me right now. He's too busy texting his girlfriend or looking at Pornhub to notice me yet, so I give a ten-count before adding, "Any time now."

No answer.

I stretch my arms, then my back. Everything feels okay besides being a little stiff. Hands aren't sore either. Rules out a fight. And I still got my bike and house keys in my jeans pocket. Wallet too. Means they weren't thorough, or they intend to let me go home soon. So I'm not far. Problem is, this doesn't feel like Pendleton... at least not any building I've been in. And being the only occupant of a twelve-by-twelve room is a waste of space for any jail from Huntington Beach to San Diego. So where the h*** am I?

"Someone coming in soon, or we playing hard to get?" I say, turning slowly to look for the cameras. I spot one high in the southeast corner and walk up to it. "Hey, there. Your boss ready to chat?"

Still nothing.

"You're on a tinkle break then. Fantastic."

Speaking of which, I gotta go myself. "Any chance you all have a head I can use? Or is the fancy floor okay?" I wait for an answer, and then hear something from the north door with the stenciled triangle on it. Nothing like biology to get a captor's attention. No one enjoys handcuffing a prisoner covered in their own mess.

I face the wall and wait to meet my minders...