High Bench Redoubt

Night smothered the yard. From the lower support beam, I ascended to the main timber planks, hauling my green scout by its flank. A pale pigeon feather lay wedged between two weathered slats, trembling in the cold draft like an unverified decoy. Immediate line-of-sight hazard. I stepped forward, boots biting into the damp grain. Lowering my frame, I drove an armored heel hard across the quill, snapping the spine and jamming the stem flat into the narrow crevice. Motion neutralized. My beast crawled forward, locking its plastic snout over the pinned shaft. High ground secured. We hold the dark bench until dawn.