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 Post subject: Life
PostPosted: Thu Jan 22, 2009 4:00 pm 
Combat Guru

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The plane is old, ragged. Hasn't seen a paint job in ages. Still the boy looks at it, lust in his eyes. She is going to be his. Sure he's a couple years shy of the 17 year mark they normally require for militia work, but he knows they need him. Since the tenuous peace of the commonwealth started failing fringe regions like this have been hit hard. And the old men, the retired military men, adventurers and mercenaries are dying off, not getting replaced. A figure wanders into the hangar, walks through the dusty glow of early morning light, and hands the boy a worn leather flight jacket. It's still a few sizes to big, but he'll probably grow into it.
***********************
A ragged looking, but smooth humming vintage biplane dives into the swarm scaring another plan loose, and chases it down. The young man, maybe 18, in the cockpit is smiling even as he feels rounds whipping by him, his flight jacket is worn, but seems well suited to him if not well fit. He knows he's better than anyone shooting at him, maybe the best up here. A tight immelman later and he's tearing back into the swarm, picking off another of the buzzing planes and hearing his newly minted nickname called over the radio. Old Tortugan mercenary gave it to him. He likes it. The other planes flee. A girl's name glistens as he does a victory barrel roll, the only new paint the plane has seen since before he was born.
***********************
Couldn't be more than a year, maybe two later. A man is standing, looking a hair self conscious in a tux that doesn't fit quite right, it is his father's after all. Across from him a woman, resplendent in white, it's her mother's. It's stunning. He does. She does. They come together. The packed church cheers. The whole town is here. Tears of joy run freely down his face. The bouquet is thrown. They escape out the doors into a waiting vintage bi-plane.
***********************
A sleek late model plane is on the tarmac, an older man impeccably dressed in fatigues is talking to a younger man in a worn flight jacket. He seems interested, nodding frequently. The fatigued figure motions indicating what appears to be a large sum of money. The younger man looks sold.
***********************
Hours later he's sitting at the kitchen table facing the woman. She looks strained, he looks confused. She finally nods, resignedly. He goes over and holds her in silence.
***********************
The flight jacket is gone. In its place dark fatigues. He's ducking behind a fallen tree with a number of men all dressed like him. The count of three, then he tosses a few grenades over the tree, counts to three again and follows them over just as they go off. His nickname has stuck, and he lives up to it. He fires downrange, greeted by screams and grunts as men in different fatigues fall around him. He laughs. This is what he was born for.
***********************
The jacket is still absent, he's drinking in a bar when he's approached by a man in an expensive, well cut suit whispers something in his ear. He shakes his head. He's a professional. The suit shrugs and slips a card in his pocket.
***********************
The fatigues have changed, must be almost five years have passed already. The man is pacing worriedly up and down the hall. He keeps glancing from his watch to the double doors. He's sweating bullets. The door opens, a man in white comes out smiling. It's a boy. The man's face cracks into huge grin and he hugs the doctor tightly before rushing into the room. Back in his plane a card lies out on the dash, the radio still tuned to the frequency on the card.
***********************
It's not a large group. Maybe forty or fifty all told. A small agrarian settlement, grows the wheat, mills it, sells that and bread to keep itself afloat in the world. They look worried, huddled out in one of their fields as they are. A man stands tall, looking smart in his black uniform. He talks soothingly to them. Calms them down. It's gonna be fine. It's all okay. He gently pries a teddy bear from a small girl. Tells her she can have it back in a second, he just has to go check something. He turns, at about seven paces he barks. The field erupts in sound and light. He doesn't turn around when the screams erupt. He is a professional after all. The bodies are doused in gasoline. The teddy bear is lit and tossed on causing the whole pile to ignite.
***********************
He's in the kitchen so is she. They've both aged. He has to be at least 30 . They're yelling, screaming. He missed his daughter being born. If he leaves again he isn't welcome back. In the dead of night a worn flight jacket can be seen making it's way to a late model plane. A pure bred killing machine. The name on the side is still clear though. On the kitchen table is a soft white envelope. It's heavier than it looks. His finger itches. It's missing something. It just can't quite place what it is.
***********************
He hits the ground. Hard. The heavy goggles he's wearing are screwing everything up, but with the gas around it's for the best. Then he sees the grenade. Maybe 20 feet away. He's glad most of him is buried in the muck. He'll miss that side of his face. At least the goggles will protect his eye.
***********************
The pen is set down. The letter is done. The man folds a thick stack of money into the letter before sealing the envelope shut. There's extra postage on the letter. And the postman is slipped a tip to make sure it gets to its destination. A worn flight jacket is hanging on the chair by the table.
***********************
The streets are empty, like his uniform. In the pockets are the correct insignia in case he gets picked up.
A young girl runs at him. He hits her with the butt of his rifle sending her to the ground. Another swift blow yields a satisfying crunch. Some of the men will be angry. They like the girls alive. He doesn't. Not clean. Not professional. He sends up a flare. The city can be seen burning from miles around.
***********************
Rumors, stories. They all fly thick in places like this. A middle aged man is sitting at a table by himself in black fatigues. The other patrons give him a wide berth. He hears something interesting. Close to home. An excuse maybe.
***********************
He already knew what he was going to find. A worn flight jacket is draped over a shoulder. The field looks almost empty. A few charred timbers here and there. The man is on his knees though he feels nothing. It hurts more because of that. Somehow. Somehow.
***********************
The world swims into focus. The girl is young enough to be his daughter. Again. He looks at a calendar. It's a month ahead. Wait. No. He's a month behind. It's getting worse. Months are getting lost now to the haze. His head is thrumming. Not drunk yet today. Gotta fix that. Or not. Gotta fix that too.
***********************
The man looks ancient with his beaten face and flight jacket. He's in a waiting room surrounded by kids. He knows what he's doing here. He can't imagine anymore what the kids are thinking. His name is called he goes into the office. The clerk doesn't even look up. Stamps the form and passes him a badge and a hat, both deep cobalt and waves him out.
***********************
He's famous again. At the top again. An old man now, at least by his reckoning. The jacket is a permanent fixture anymore. The placard on his desk reads General. More kills than anyone in the League's history. He rose fast. Doesn't really know how he got here. The men like him. The pencil pushers hate him. Same old story as always. People look up to him. It makes him sick inside.
***********************
He's standing again, the tux is replaced by a deep egyptian uniform draped in medals. He still looks on edge. She's across from him. Resplendent in white. Not her mother's though. They're both too old for that. He does. She does. They embrace. No one cheers. The chapel is nearly empty this time around. His side completely so. It doesn't matter.
***********************
He's sitting in another bar. Not drunk though. No more drinking. She walks in back from a long trip. She asks him for something. He drops his glass. She nods, holds her stomach. He hugs her tight. Maybe...

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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Sat Jan 24, 2009 10:48 am 

Joined: Tue Mar 04, 2008 9:08 pm
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Introspective silence is the immediate response here.


It is good, but that is so secondary to the content that simply bringing it up seems to cheapen the experience. Of course it's good, thats not the point.

I understand so much more of the character now. I appreciate that the perspective never hints at what the conflicts are about. To a soldier in the thick of things, that doesn't matter. There is just enough description at each snapshot to understand his state of mind, and the evolution of a man that it outlines has changed my perception of who he is. It casts everything he has done rcently, where I can see it, in a different light. If I knew this story in character, I would have too much respect (and perhaps a bit of fear) to utter the phrase "Crazy Taco."

Out of character though... Good Job CT.


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Mon Jan 26, 2009 7:35 am 
Explorer

Joined: Sat Jan 19, 2008 10:16 pm
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Don't know if I've read anything this poignant since we've been deprived of Bad Motivator's amazing writings.

Knowing the backstory from things picked up on the fringes and reading it like this are entirely different worlds. I love it.


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Mon Jan 26, 2009 12:27 pm 

Joined: Wed Jul 16, 2008 4:40 am
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((Don't know if you saw on IRC, but I figure it bears repeating.

Best thing I've read on the SCC since ever.))

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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Mon Jan 26, 2009 1:07 pm 
Legend

Joined: Wed Jan 23, 2008 9:51 am
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Whoa.


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Mon Jan 26, 2009 2:06 pm 
Developer

Joined: Tue Dec 12, 2006 7:29 am
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good work BL. here, less is more.

-PL-


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Mon Jan 26, 2009 2:10 pm 
Export Counsel

Joined: Tue Feb 19, 2008 5:52 am
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((Very nice.))

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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Mon Jan 26, 2009 4:05 pm 

Joined: Sat Jan 19, 2008 9:10 am
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Location: In the tavern.
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*salutes*


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Tue Jan 27, 2009 1:50 pm 

Joined: Wed Feb 27, 2008 2:36 pm
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Location: "writing" (snoozing with a book over my face)
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Bravo, BL. Bravo.

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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Thu Jan 29, 2009 10:47 pm 

Joined: Mon Apr 14, 2008 7:24 pm
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((I'm behind on my forum reading... but... Wow.)


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Fri Jan 30, 2009 12:28 am 
Min-Maxer

Joined: Sat Jan 19, 2008 5:24 am
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Thank you, BL.


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Tue Feb 03, 2009 1:02 pm 

Joined: Sat Mar 08, 2008 9:45 pm
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Superlative.


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Tue Feb 03, 2009 6:56 pm 

Joined: Fri Jan 25, 2008 3:14 pm
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*cheers* <3


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Sat Mar 28, 2009 9:02 pm 
Cinco de Mayo 2014

Joined: Sat May 24, 2008 7:27 pm
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{static}.

You are amazing.


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Sun Mar 29, 2009 6:20 am 
RP Guide

Joined: Sun Feb 08, 2009 1:34 am
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Well, this is just ten or so times better for getting the feel of the character than the wiki entry.

That's some fine writin', BL.


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Mon Mar 30, 2009 4:39 am 

Joined: Tue Jan 22, 2008 11:21 am
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Great writing. Reminded me of Hemingway.

Miissed this the first time around, thanks for bring it back up, Walther.


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 Post subject: Re: Life
PostPosted: Thu Sep 09, 2010 5:49 am 

Joined: Sun Jun 29, 2008 10:25 am
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Location: Kenai, Alaska... wait... *checks the gps*... Chicago?
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((*faints in the presence of the awesomeness*))

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