7.1
The room was still dark, but one ray of the rising sun slipped through the curtains.
It shone as a golden beam, almost too pure to be real. But the room around it was bathed in red, a filter produced by the blood-colored curtains.
Under this golden-red dawn, Blake opened his eyes and smiled.
What a beautiful light, he thought, examining the ray and the single spot on the pinewood floor that it illuminated.
He slid his legs into a pair of sleek black dress pants and stood up, tugging on the sleeves of his white button-up to smoothen the fabric.
The first item on his agenda was a visit to the tiny bathroom, where he washed his face and brushed his teeth before checking to ensure that his hair, now parted at the middle with a wavy texture, fell evenly on either side of his forehead. Next, he lathered a thick shaving cream onto his chin and pulled a razor down his jawline, leaving no trace of any stubble behind.
After brushing the dust off his pants, he returned to his bedside and reached for the tie hanging on the wall. Slipping it around his collar, he navigated the knot with patient yet perfectly efficient fingers. With the same deliberate, almost artistic movements, he pulled a watch from his bedside table and fastened it around his wrist.
Its hands showed 7:13 AM.
He reached for the suit jacket that had been hanging next to his tie but paused with his hand held in midair, turning instead to pull apart the curtains. The hanging red fabric wavered slightly, blown by a soft wind that snuck through a crack in the room's only window.
He pinched the curtains between his fingers and pulled, resisting the urge to squint at the rising sun. Then he slid the window up, welcoming a cold November breeze.
His carefully styled hair blew across his eyes. He ran his hand back through it, the sun at his face and shadows at his back.
Finally, it was time to slip the black suit jacket over his shoulders and dress shoes onto his feet. His outfit appeared to be complete, but there was one last detail.
He gently plucked a pair of golden-frame glasses from his bedside table, sliding them over his ears as if fitting the final piece into a puzzle.
– – – – –
As Blake strode out the building's door, he pulled back his left sleeve to check the time.
7:19 AM. 11 minutes remaining.
Increasing his pace slightly, he turned right, walking with the rising sun at his left.
"Blake! Good morning!"
Blake turned his head to see the muscled figure of Owen wearing a broad grin across his face.
"Good morning, Owen," Blake replied coolly, checking his stride to wait for his partner.
Together, they headed north, each one of them content to remain in silence.
When Hoodsdale's military buildings came into view, Blake turned to Owen. "Have you seen Rosy?"
Owen met his gaze. "No. I haven't."
They both looked forward again, but Owen opened his mouth to speak again.
"I have never seen you wear glasses, Blake."
Blake smiled softly and said, "I'm going to need them."
For reasons known only to himself, Owen grinned broadly and turned his head left, eyes glinting in the rays of sunlight.
"We go directly to Blackpool, is that right, Blake?"
Blake nodded. "Yes. I might have to make another stop, but you don't need to come with me." After the brief silence that followed, Blake added, "I understand your desire to return. That's why we're hurrying back."
"Thank you," Owen replied. He turned away from the sun and met Blake's eyes. "It means a lot to me."
Blake's smile in response seemed to say, "I know."
"Wait! I'm here!"
They both turned at the sound of the voice, whose source was a glowing golden figure stumbling along behind them.
"Why do you always wear that, Rosy?" Blake asked, surveying Rosy's shining golden cap and gown with a hint of distaste on his face.
"U-uh I like to," Rosy mumbled, staring down at where her feet must have been.
"You could at least take the ski mask off," Blake suggested as he turned to continue forward again.
Rosy muttered something inaudible and trailed along behind him.
The three stepped forward into the vast dirt field that lay in front of the military barracks, eyes drawn to the helicopter whose propellers were already spinning, ready to take off at any given moment.
"Promptness seems to be their only redeeming quality," Blake spoke under his breath to no one in particular.
The wind from the propellers suddenly spiked in intensity, blowing Blake's hair straight back and nearly tearing Rosy's cap from her head.
Blake stepped up to the cockpit and rapped his knuckles on the window. The pilot removed his helmet and leaned in close to the glass, as if trying to hear what Blake had to say.
But considering the sound of propellers slicing through air and the helmet the pilot was wearing, talking was obviously useless, so Blake simply pointed at the pilot then jerked his thumb over his shoulder, encouraging the man to leave the aircraft.
The pilot furrowed his brow in confusion and slid the door open, craning his neck through it and looking at Blake for further explanation.
Blake sighed internally. Promptness is their only redeeming quality.
He reached a hand up and grabbed the pilot's chinstrap, wrenching the man down in one swift motion.
Even as the pilot tumbled four feet to the ground, Blake's hand remained clenched around the chinstrap until the helmet was torn roughly from the pilot's head.
Not sparing a single glance for the man sprawled at his feet, Blake fit the helmet over his head and motioned to Rosy and Owen that it was time to board the helicopter.
Blake climbed into the cockpit and examined the unfamiliar dashboard curiously.
It's hard to believe they've come out with something new, he thought, amused.
After around a minute of gazing at the various gauges, dials, and switches, he grabbed the controls and placed his feet on the pedals, smoothly directing the helicopter off the ground and into the sky over the city.
– – – – –
Approximately one hour later, the helicopter touched down in Blackpool's designated landing area, over 100 miles north of Hoodsdale.
Blake had already arranged for their arrival with the Blackpool officials, and a meeting, which he had only agreed to for sake of formality, was scheduled for 4:00 that afternoon.
Owen stepped down first, offering his hand to Rosy as she struggled over the cape around her feet.
Blake looked out the window and raised a hand in parting, though he would be back to see them again in no more than a few hours.
His next flight was short–just a few more miles north.
Blake glanced down at the large bay beneath him, its waters lying under the shadow of Mt. Olympus.
Gathering his bearings based on the shape of the water, he proceeded straight to the north, now looking expectantly through the front windshield.
Sure enough, a mass of dark, antenna-like structures sprouted up like a massive weed before him.
He smiled, now angling his helicopter down towards the city called Iron.