THE WIND WHISTLED around Taps's ears as he climbed the mountain. He could see the Communications Station on the ground below, abuzz with activity as the occupying Sovereignty forces carried out their duties.
Taps hung from a pair of pickaxes high above the ground, a satchel full of rockets dangling from his shoulder. On his back was a bag containing an ancient parachute, which felt unnecessarily heavy. The rockets did nothing to ease Taps's burden as he slowly worked his way up the mountainside. His arms were burning. His muscles screamed at him to let go and fall, but he forced himself to keep going. There was too much at stake.
When Mad had assigned him this job, he committed himself to it. This was his chance to contribute to the Revolution, to impress Mad and ride off into the sunset.