Working title

Rain poured from the sky, soaking through the leaves and wetting the grass, turning flesh to dirt and dirt to mud. Bootprints vanished, washed away in a flood stemming from the rolling forest hills. The great trees loomed into the inky blackness of the sky, trembling and creaking as the torrential tirade carried on for what felt like hours, pounding away at the very foundations of life sowed decades ago. He adjusted his helmet, the rain pooling at the inward-curved rim and pouring outward every which way as soon as the next droplet rolled into the moat. His feet slogged through the thick layer of mire, padded boots softening the blows of his weighty footsteps and propelling him ever closer. He was unrecognizable, his olive drab poncho diluted his silhouette, caked with mud and slick with incessant precipitation. His enormous pack shifted around uncomfortably on his back, making him hunch, straining his knees and spine, ammunition and supplies dangled precariously off of every buckle. He clenched his left hand and gripped his rifle. He felt the smooth wood grain and the cold metal, working side by side, intertwining like threads, like a warm embrace. He saw the echo of the light of lightning darting between the trees, thunder so close it felt as if it would blow him away. The sound defeated him, and for a moment he found respite in the peace and quiet. The rain soon returned, the noise filling his ears, pouring in, inescapable. God, he missed home. The sound of a branch cracking behind him derailed the thought from his mind and filled him with dread. His right hand released the strap on his shoulder and snapped to the grip. His finger looped into the trigger guard and rested on the trigger. His left hand edged down the fore-end of the rifle, flicking the safety off. He twisted around, contorting himself so he could get a better view. Nothing. The path was long and treacherous, his bootprints faded back into the trail. His finger moved off of the trigger, now resting on the end of the trigger guard itself. His left hand flicked the safety. He carried on, lamenting this brief lapse in sensory integrity, pondering on the fact that his mind was deteriorating. He heard the echo of artillery fire, far, far away. This war could not go on for much longer, he knew, but a part of him was frightened by the prospect of it ending. He had been born after the war had started, and not knowing peacetime made him afraid of what it could be like. He had been told that soldiers were decorated in wars of old, given medals for bravery and sacrifice, but he knew this war was different, far longer and more destructive for his nation than any war had been, and perhaps will be. Lightning struck nearby, thunder following in its wake. 

He approached the chasm. The rim was lined in steel and concrete, the outer rim muddied and discolored, the inner rim in shiny grays and silvers, washed clean by the rain which now poured into the hollow. The moonlight, suppressed by the storm clouds high above, barely penetrated a few hundred feet into the excavation before it was engulfed by the abyss. It appeared like a black hole to him, tearing light and sound from physical reality and absorbing it into itself, a hole into which the world falls. A single rope permeated the darkness, bright yellow with a black briefcase-shaped device attached to the rope, with a small handle. The rope fell from a small machine that appeared bolted to the steel and concrete. He approached the contraption, and mounted the rope, grabbing onto the device by the handle. His rifle fell limp, flush along his chest by a light gray sling that wrapped around his backpack and poncho. He clipped a small metal ring around the handle of the device which originated from his vest underneath his poncho. The freezing rain penetrated deep into the clothes underneath his poncho as he made space for the clip. He shuddered. On the device, he flicked a small button, resembling a downward arrow. It began to whirr softly as he descended into the depths. He watched as the hole on the surface grew smaller and smaller. First, it engulfed his vision, then it was the size of his palm, and soon enough it was the size of a coin. The rain grew quieter, and the sound of water flowing down into the chasm became one of the few remaining sounds. He passed the final vestiges of moonlight and flicked on the light mounted on his helmet. Miles of pipeage and wiring wrapped in every direction around him, oozing liquids unrecognizable. It smelled of decay, like rotting fish at a market. He stared down at the abyss. A chill ran down his neck. He blinked.