Post by Threid on Feb 14, 2010 18:17:33 GMT -5
"It was too soon!" Kyle vaulted out of the cockpit and trotted over to his locker. He pulled out a notebook and scanned the crisply-folded duty summons again. "Active duty tomorrow!" Kyle had been more disappointed than surprised when he had received it last week. With the recent beating the EFGF had taken, it was no wonder they were calling even the green recruits to battle. Still, he didn't feel quite ready.
True, he'd had more training in his mobile suit than many others who fought in the war. "Fought and died," Kyle thought to himself. It wouldn't do at all. For all his dreaming, preparation and scant experience, the mobile suit still awed him. And if he felt comfortable with it at all, it was only because he knew the tech that composed it; he was still unfamiliar with the whole. He glanced at the beam rifle and "beam" saber on his mobile suit. To think that the technology had been made practical this quickly! He remembered the massive models that he'd seen in the academy, and laughed at the contrast. Dr. Minovsky sure was a good guy to have on your side. The next Einstein, probably. "Maybe smarter," thought Kyle. He wished that he could attend one of his lectures, but only the top EF scientists were ever invited.
He ran his hand over some fresh scratches on the mobile suit's left arm. The neon green paint from the practice rounds clashed starkly with the purple/grey/red color scheme. He grabbed a washcloth and some fresh paint. Some pilots cleaned their suits by taking them out in the rain for a bit, but that wouldn't do for Kyle. He wanted every piece of his machine burnished brightly. "While I can," Kyle thought wryly. There would almost certainly be battle damage in the suit's near future. He shuddered; there would be no time for cleaning. "Hell, I'll be lucky if we can keep the suit's tech in decent working order."
Frowning, he mentally reviewed the recent sparring match. He had done things by the book: stayed in formation, made every shot or burst of cover fire count, took no unnecessary risks. "And probably lost an arm," he reminded himself, glaring at the bright green blemish. "A stray shot; it had to be!" He'd been careful not to place himself in direct fire, and it was easy enough to stay out of the incessant strafing the other trainees were so fond of.
He had noticed the shot just a fraction of a second too late. It was always a fraction of a second! One second, everything was fine. Nothing existed but his mobile suit and the battlefield around him, and he channeled all the chaos around him into a sharp, burning focus. He always could sense the danger - he saw the rifle aimed at him out of the corner of his eye, and knew from a quick red glow on his suit's arm or a nearby puddle that a beam was streaking toward his flank - but by the time he planned his reaction he was usually hit, or in a bad spot, if he was lucky. Reactions were a tricky thing. But if he flailed about every time he sensed danger, wouldn't he look just like a puppet on the strings of instinct?
He chuckled at the image of a mobile suit dancing around like a marionette. He still wasn't good at dancing. Better, but not great. Not that it would matter soon; he doubted there'd be much dancing where he was going. No more training exercises, no more studying and no more familiar faces. He would miss them, especially Nora. She was the only one who could both listen to him talk about tech, and understand most of it. It was nice having someone to bounce ideas off of, someone who understood his awe of the mobile suits. She'd listened, tight-lipped and stone-faced, when Kyle had told her about the call to active duty, and she hadn't stuck around long to talk about it. Then again, he hadn't expected her to. She was losing something familiar, just like him; it was, no doubt, difficult.
But all that wasn't going to matter. All that would matter was the mobile suit. He'd named it Mina - short for Mini Nova Sky, a play on Minovsky. Of course, he hadn't told anyone; no one actually named their mobile suit, did they? Well, he'd told Nora, but she'd just laughed and said, "You would!" But he felt that his mobile suit deserved a name, apart from its technical designation. It was, after all, his mobile suit, and he doubted he would feel quite as at home in a different suit of the same type.
He wondered if his mobile suit would be as comfortable in battle as it was during practice. Shooting classmates with paint rounds was all well and good, but in battle, it was real. Here, paint spattered and classmates laughed afterward, but in battle, rounds exploded and pilots were killed. Mobile suits weren't cleaned, they were repaired, or even destroyed. He wondered if he'd freeze up when it came to shooting live rounds at real people. He'd heard of other newbies who just stopped moving in battle. They never lasted long; always came home bound for a cemetery or a desk job. He knew other pilots who probably wouldn't hesitate. "What kind am I?" he wondered. "Probably something in-between."
"If only I had more time." He wished he'd had the chance to speak with a veteran pilot about battles, but there weren't many veterans. The living ones were all deployed, and he'd read what he could about the dead ones. Perhaps he'd meet someone out in the field. "Until then, I'd better say my goodbyes and get a good night's rest."
He tossed the now-green washcloth into a nearby bin, and stood back to take a good look at his gleaming mobile suit. "Might be a while before I see her like this again," he remarked to himself. That reminded him: Nora. He intended to visit her for some tech talk one last time before he left. As he hurried to meet her, he thought about the battles ahead, trying to run probable combat scenarios in his head, trying to imagine the reactions he might take when he sensed danger.
Abruptly, he found himself at the door to Nora's quarters. Sighing, he resolved to put battles out of his mind, at least during the impending tech talk and goodbye. He knocked firmly, 5 times, visions of streaking missiles and flashing beam sabers replaced by the latest tech news and appropriate words and demeanor for a goodbye. The door was opened, and Nora stood in the frame, tears already gleaming in her eyes. Kyle stepped forward. "I'd better do my best."
True, he'd had more training in his mobile suit than many others who fought in the war. "Fought and died," Kyle thought to himself. It wouldn't do at all. For all his dreaming, preparation and scant experience, the mobile suit still awed him. And if he felt comfortable with it at all, it was only because he knew the tech that composed it; he was still unfamiliar with the whole. He glanced at the beam rifle and "beam" saber on his mobile suit. To think that the technology had been made practical this quickly! He remembered the massive models that he'd seen in the academy, and laughed at the contrast. Dr. Minovsky sure was a good guy to have on your side. The next Einstein, probably. "Maybe smarter," thought Kyle. He wished that he could attend one of his lectures, but only the top EF scientists were ever invited.
He ran his hand over some fresh scratches on the mobile suit's left arm. The neon green paint from the practice rounds clashed starkly with the purple/grey/red color scheme. He grabbed a washcloth and some fresh paint. Some pilots cleaned their suits by taking them out in the rain for a bit, but that wouldn't do for Kyle. He wanted every piece of his machine burnished brightly. "While I can," Kyle thought wryly. There would almost certainly be battle damage in the suit's near future. He shuddered; there would be no time for cleaning. "Hell, I'll be lucky if we can keep the suit's tech in decent working order."
Frowning, he mentally reviewed the recent sparring match. He had done things by the book: stayed in formation, made every shot or burst of cover fire count, took no unnecessary risks. "And probably lost an arm," he reminded himself, glaring at the bright green blemish. "A stray shot; it had to be!" He'd been careful not to place himself in direct fire, and it was easy enough to stay out of the incessant strafing the other trainees were so fond of.
He had noticed the shot just a fraction of a second too late. It was always a fraction of a second! One second, everything was fine. Nothing existed but his mobile suit and the battlefield around him, and he channeled all the chaos around him into a sharp, burning focus. He always could sense the danger - he saw the rifle aimed at him out of the corner of his eye, and knew from a quick red glow on his suit's arm or a nearby puddle that a beam was streaking toward his flank - but by the time he planned his reaction he was usually hit, or in a bad spot, if he was lucky. Reactions were a tricky thing. But if he flailed about every time he sensed danger, wouldn't he look just like a puppet on the strings of instinct?
He chuckled at the image of a mobile suit dancing around like a marionette. He still wasn't good at dancing. Better, but not great. Not that it would matter soon; he doubted there'd be much dancing where he was going. No more training exercises, no more studying and no more familiar faces. He would miss them, especially Nora. She was the only one who could both listen to him talk about tech, and understand most of it. It was nice having someone to bounce ideas off of, someone who understood his awe of the mobile suits. She'd listened, tight-lipped and stone-faced, when Kyle had told her about the call to active duty, and she hadn't stuck around long to talk about it. Then again, he hadn't expected her to. She was losing something familiar, just like him; it was, no doubt, difficult.
But all that wasn't going to matter. All that would matter was the mobile suit. He'd named it Mina - short for Mini Nova Sky, a play on Minovsky. Of course, he hadn't told anyone; no one actually named their mobile suit, did they? Well, he'd told Nora, but she'd just laughed and said, "You would!" But he felt that his mobile suit deserved a name, apart from its technical designation. It was, after all, his mobile suit, and he doubted he would feel quite as at home in a different suit of the same type.
He wondered if his mobile suit would be as comfortable in battle as it was during practice. Shooting classmates with paint rounds was all well and good, but in battle, it was real. Here, paint spattered and classmates laughed afterward, but in battle, rounds exploded and pilots were killed. Mobile suits weren't cleaned, they were repaired, or even destroyed. He wondered if he'd freeze up when it came to shooting live rounds at real people. He'd heard of other newbies who just stopped moving in battle. They never lasted long; always came home bound for a cemetery or a desk job. He knew other pilots who probably wouldn't hesitate. "What kind am I?" he wondered. "Probably something in-between."
"If only I had more time." He wished he'd had the chance to speak with a veteran pilot about battles, but there weren't many veterans. The living ones were all deployed, and he'd read what he could about the dead ones. Perhaps he'd meet someone out in the field. "Until then, I'd better say my goodbyes and get a good night's rest."
He tossed the now-green washcloth into a nearby bin, and stood back to take a good look at his gleaming mobile suit. "Might be a while before I see her like this again," he remarked to himself. That reminded him: Nora. He intended to visit her for some tech talk one last time before he left. As he hurried to meet her, he thought about the battles ahead, trying to run probable combat scenarios in his head, trying to imagine the reactions he might take when he sensed danger.
Abruptly, he found himself at the door to Nora's quarters. Sighing, he resolved to put battles out of his mind, at least during the impending tech talk and goodbye. He knocked firmly, 5 times, visions of streaking missiles and flashing beam sabers replaced by the latest tech news and appropriate words and demeanor for a goodbye. The door was opened, and Nora stood in the frame, tears already gleaming in her eyes. Kyle stepped forward. "I'd better do my best."