Thatcher is annoyed and takes some of his frustrations out on a tiny fellow.

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Forced Relocation

There were quite a few perks to being the local pet to one of the most funded military operations in the world. Markus sat there in his little home, pristinely maintained, filled with various knick-knacks and other amenities that would be deemed essential in any comfy modern home: a large television, complete with a collection of movies, a high-end computer, a fast internet connection, and an assortment of food in the kitchen to sustain the little guy for a rather long time. And yet, as he looked out of his window, there was one difference this place had to a normal idyllic little house on an acre of land. The sky was a drab military gray. Slightly lighter gunsteel gray decorated the air around him like clouds, and mountains of people would shift by periodically, working hard on their day-to-day business. Nobody paid him much mind, and people would even stop by to say hi when it seemed like Markus was in the mood for it. But for now, he had everything he needed to be happy. But, to Markus, things seemed a little… clinically perfect.

One day though, that perfection was shaken, quite literally. Markus looked around as everything shook like an earthquake. A thunderous crash could be heard nearby as Thatcher slammed the door closed, muttering something under his breath.

Markus knew better than to ask what was wrong at the moment, and kept his head down, hiding away in his little house, out of sight. All that stared back at Thatcher was a bright, happy piece of green that surrounded it.

“Fookin recruits, thinkin they know better…” Thatcher grumbled, his voice imperceptible through his gas mask. He had thrown his boots off, and was about to continue to freeing himself from his gear, but realized that he was too done to even bother. He was too frustrated with how often they rushed in, wrong weapon in hand, completely unprepared for resistance they should have easily expected slamming them in the face. Training was his least favorite part of his job.

He tossed those boots to the side, shaking Markus’ home with the mere clatter of them crashing onto the floor next to the dresser the tiny haven was situated on. With a certain bloodlust that simulations were never quite able to solve, Thatcher diverted his attention to that green spot, darkened slightly by the tint of his bug-eyed gas mask. He walked over to his bed, groaning slightly and standing above that little plot of dirt, his hands balled into fists and resting on his hips.

Markus would see the lights coming through the window darken, as if a heavy cloud just hid away the Sun from him. He looked up from his computer and took a look outside, completely unable to get the entirety of the godlike operator in his field of view from the window. By his posture though, Markus could tell Thatcher was waiting expectantly for him. He gulped quietly, and quickly made his way outside through the front door.
“There you are, yah peeky little blighter.” Thatcher said. Despite being unable to see his face through the mask, Markus could tell there was a bit of annoyance and sarcasm alongside genuine happiness in Thatcher’s voice. “Might wanna step away for a bit, mate. It’s time for a relocation for yah, and your home won’t exactly be in condition for teatime in a moment.”

Markus backed away from the porch with haste once he spotted Thatcher lifting up his leg. The heel rested on the edge of the dresser as the massive wrinkly sole stretched across the sky, easily eclipsing everything over Markus. From this position, every detail of the sole was on full display: like the craters on the moon, patches of dead skin were scattered here and there, callouses that seemed more dirty than clean, faint streaks of black that were lint from Thatcher’s well-worn socks, stray pieces of fabric that were likely ten times larger than Markus himself. The air grew stuffy, and soon the mere heat and humidity from the sweaty sole made it feel more like spring, rather than the sharp chill of the room around him. Though, as it shifted downwards, Markus knew he had to move.

He soon broke out into a sprint as the big toe came down, lowering with seemingly little speed. Though, once it got closer, it slammed into his little home. With no resistance, the rooftop shattered, caving in on itself for a moment. The colossal toe seemed to rest on the barely-standing walls of the house, impossibly supporting its weight. It clearly wasn’t though, when Thatcher allowed his toe to lower more. The walls buckled, and bits of wood snapped and exploded off itself. Markus watched it all compress beneath the dome of doom that was the tip of Thatcher’s big toe, far off in the distance now. He then heard a painful grind as it dragged across the ground, cleaving a semi-circle into the dirt before him, dragging it out and turning the green hill into a brown valley, filled with debris.

Markus was in awe at the vulgar display. Indeed, Thatcher seemed aware of the stunned micro, the mask shifting towards the ant-sized speck, and a clearly smug smirk hidden behind a layer of fine machined leather, metal framing, and a plastic filter. Thatcher lowered one hand to Markus, surrounding the little man between two distant walls of black leather. One was Thatcher’s index finger, the other was his thumb. They crossed a vast distance, soon slamming into either side of Markus with a trail of dirt scraping under the surface as those fingers skimmed the land. Markus writhed between the two walls of thick leather, moaning happily as he realized Thatcher deftly picked him up without murdering him! An impressive feat that just came from a brute who destroyed his home.

Just because he was unharmed though, didn’t mean that being pinned between the two fingers was the most… comfortable position. Markus was submerged between the fingers, with not even a sliver to peer through, though he would have little bearing on where he was looking, as Thatcher swung his hands before plopping onto his bed. He crossed one leg over the knee of the other, wiggling his toes beneath his fingers like the tongue of a hungry dog that was awaiting a treat. The fingers parted, and Markus fell a short distance before landing in a perfectly round nook of skin. He looked around to see the canyon he was sitting in. Two thick spires of the operator’s toes extended into the sky, the bulbous ends looming high, and swaying with every idle movement by Thatcher. Markus shuddered, leaning back on a tuft of lint and relaxing there.

“Welcome to your new quarters, yah stinkin bed mite.” Thatcher said, teasing the little human by bringing his toes together, threatening to crush Markus into fine paste. Instead though, they receded. “Hope you don’t mind the mess. I can tell yah, this place wasn’t as messy as the Gulf War at least…”

Markus then noticed the “dust.” Small flakes of skin that shifted under his foot, like soft ice atop a puddle in the parking lot. With each step, it shifted, a sight that would remain unseen to anyone not at his current scale. Further up, out of reach, a small scar from what seemed to be a bad blister a few months ago served as an imperfection on the surface, like a rock in the desert dunes. Markus smiled, and hugged onto a nearby wall, not minding the hint of sweat that seeped from the skin where he pushed against.

Satisfied and calmed by this turn of events, Thatcher grabbed his socks, once more covering his foot, now with Markus along for the ride. The little man would watch the black fabric rush around him, overtaking the sky, like a storm cloud rapidly blotting out the Sun. Now tucked away in the profusely smelling tunnel, he grew tired, and relaxed there between Thatcher’s toes. To him, this was a step up from his previous residence.