Instead of raucous colors, insipid actors, or a catchy jingle, the commercial opened with dead silence and the image of a bushy-haired old man before a forest. A moment passed, and between his whiskers flashed a pearl-white smile. “Over a hundred and seventy years ago,” he rumbled in gravelly, heavily-accented English, “Countless brave men of character threw themselves into the wild unknown of the California frontier in the hopes of making it big. They strode into uncharted territory and incredible danger for wealth, thrills, and the spirit of adventure. Yet, my discovery is greater still.”
He laid a hand on his breast. “Who am I? You may call me the Prospector. This isn't about me, but what I've found.” The grizzled fellow stepped to the side, lifting up his arm to point out a roiling white tear situated upon a hill rising above the snow-caked trees and jagged cliffs. “One week ago I found a new frontier, a brand-new Rift alive with possibility. And tomorrow, I will host a new Gold Rush. Before the governments and corporations get their grubby fingers on it,
you,” he pointed right at the camera. “Will be able to plunge into lands unknown. Its splendors and treasures, yours for the taking. But do not delay. If you're in for the chance of a lifetime, be at Skiafjell Ski Lodge in Norway by 10 o'clock tomorrow—that's just twelve hours from now.” Cackling, the old man winked and held a finger to his lips. “And don't tell anyone!”
Then, just as abrupt as it came, the commercial blinked away. A soda pop ad came on in its wake. Countless pairs of eyes across the continent blinked in confusion. Was this a joke? Some kind of rich old fart's idea of having fun? Or was there some shred of truth to what he said...? A great many gave the strange commercial no more thought, but more than a couple fingers began to text and type. Word spread like wildfire, and with the grand hour so close at hand, an intrepid few heard destiny at the door, and leaped from their lives to say hello.
With a great big yawn, Marxion shoved the door open and stumbled inside. He rubbed at the exhaustion filling his eyes with his free fist, setting his case on the hardwood floor with the other, and blinked before looking around. Cozy, cheery, merry, comfortable. A delightful ski resort, the kind of place your everyday Joe Shmoe dreamed about kicking back in with a Schnapps or four. And here he was at last.
...What an old bastard. Who the hell would do something like this?
After catching wind of the Prospector's bizarre announcement, the organization was all in. With such a brief period to capitalize on the chance, they had to act fast. Out of sheer chance, Marxion happened to be the closest, living it up in Wales after a grueling assignment, which he'd obviously aced to the max.
No rest for the wicked. Eight hours later, here he stood, smack dab in the middle of picturesque nowhere fit to be tied. He checked his phone: nine-o-seven AM. Less than an hour until the big event. Enough time for a sweet catnap, maybe.
“Um, sir?”
Marxion glanced over at the receptionist. So, she could tell just by looking at him that he probably spoke English? Not surprising. She looked more than a little distressed, which didn't surprise him either. Even from here he could catch a glimpse of the decidedly un-relaxing spectacle at the other end of the spacious main hall. Clearly, those crowds weren't here for a peaceful alpine vacation. “'Ello there,” he greeted her, scooping up his bag and starting in the direction of the unusuals. “Don't mind me miss, jus' hear for the party.” Looking defeated, the woman sank back into her chair.
What a day, she was probably thinking, except in Norwedgian. She'd have to do without his sympathy.
Before he reached the other weirdos, he made a hard swerve at the plush couches and plopped himself down. “Ahhhhhh,” he breathed, ready to fall asleep there and then. Before doing so, however, he swept over the gathered people with a half-open eye. There seemed to be a couple assorted loners, and two larger, tight-knit groups. The more interesting bunch appeared to be a totally wild death metal group, its metal-and-black clad members loaded up with unusual weapons and in the process of getting hype for what was to come. If Marxion didn't know better, he'd think they were headed for the Rift just to have some rockin' monsters and crazy backdrops in their latest music videos.
As if computer imaging that sort of stuff wasn't about a billion times cheaper and safer. Meanwhile, the other squad was quiet, aloof, and subtly clad in muted, tactical gear. If that group wasn't from a PMC or government plant, Marxion didn't know what was. So much for beating the feds and corporations here. Still, the frontier opened in less than an hour; no policy or official response could roll out that fast. Most likely, they were scrabbling for a piece of the pie just like him. And that was just fine.
More or less satisfied, Marxion stretched out his arms and closed his eyes to relax. Things could be tough without a team, but when the going got tough Marxion got going. That would never change.
