Manifest Fantasy

Groom Lake, Nevada. Area 51. November 3, 2024.

The sandstorm was a nuisance, no two ways about it. Captain Henry Donnager grumbled as he fought his way toward the hangar, the wind doing its best to yank his cap right off his head. Sand stung his eyes and scraped at his skin, making it a real bitch to see where he was going. The only consolation was that he wasn't alone in this misery – every poor bastard on base was battling the elements, rushing to secure equipment and seal off doors before the storm could do any real damage.

Even through the chaos, one corner of the base was still active as ever, sandstorm be damned. Henry squinted through the haze, making out the shape of the hangar housing the Manifest Project. He'd been there a million times, but today felt different. Apparently, the inclement weather wasn't enough to convince Dr. Lombard to postpone. Whatever she had planned, it couldn't wait.

The sound of crunching sand drew his attention, and he turned to see Lieutenant Ron Owens trudging towards him, a grin on his face that seemed to defy the raging storm. Ron was a mountain of a man, an imposing figure whose physical prowess could have comfortably secured him a spot on any NFL team. He'd been his wingman since they graduated from the Academy a couple of years back. Why he stuck with the Space Force was a perplexing mystery, his reasoning even more so. Whenever asked about his decision, his answer was unwavering: 'Adventure.'