Post by Threid on Feb 16, 2010 14:48:26 GMT -5
Kyle twirled a pencil over an empty meal tray, mentally replaying the recent sortie. It had certainly been exhilarating, but he had his regrets. The harsh desert conditions had turned his Gundam into a giant metal sandbag, and he'd only recently finished scrubbing the blasted desert out of his uniform. The minor mess hall celebration had waned considerably: just a few quiet stragglers and a portly janitor, snaking his way through the empty tables. He'd missed most of it. But it was worth downing a couple of Zeeks on his first day, even if they weren't mobile suits. "At least I didn't lose an arm," he thought, remembering his last sparring session at the academy.
He missed it already, but not as much as he'd expected to. His classmate Nora had given him a photograph of her, but he hadn't taken it with him into the sortie; he couldn't stand distractions - not while piloting. He glanced around at the cafeteria. It was empty now. What he missed most about the academy, he realized, was the camaraderie. Things were different here. Everyone had a different past and different duties. It would be harder to find common ground here.
He trotted his tray to the disposal bin, seeking a more populated area of the ship. The didn't have any bars or lounges on board, did they? Surely there were pilots who hadn't already retired to their quarters. He wanted to meet them, to discuss the battles they'd fought, the quirks of their mobile suits - "talk shop," as they said - like he'd talked with Nora about Minovsky particle physics.
He strolled into what appeared to be a lounge and settled into an empty chair. He wished one of the groups would recognize him as the new guy and introduce themselves; he was never good at starting conversations with strangers, unless they happened to be fans of Dr. Minovsky. Then again, he wasn't in a hurry. He settled back into the chair and did his best to keep thinking without looking disengaged; it wouldn't do to look surprised if someone did make an introduction.
"Blasted desert!" he thought. "Blasted sand-bagged suit!" He frowned, then quickly smiled. "Sand-blasted, more like it."
He tried stifling a laugh, but it escaped as a half-wheeze, half-sneeze. His face reddened, but he did his best to smile apologetically at the heads he'd turned. Folding his hands on his lap, he put his head down, acting like he was reading something. "I must be wound tighter than I thought." He wasn't usually the type to laugh at his own jokes.
In any case, it was doubtful the mechanics would bother cleaning the sand from his cockpit; everyone had had enough of the desert, and the mechanics had a hangar bay full of the gritty stuff. That meant he had some cleaning to do. It had been an acceptable sortie, but he had no desire to carry tiny, granular memories of it with him into the next one. There'd be more fighting soon, he'd overheard. Hoping his Gundam would be ready in time, he swore to be more careful in the future.
The crowd in the common area was beginning to thin out now. Kyle stretched in his chair. He'd wait around a bit more, just in case anyone felt like talking. After that? Well, he had a cockpit to clean.
He missed it already, but not as much as he'd expected to. His classmate Nora had given him a photograph of her, but he hadn't taken it with him into the sortie; he couldn't stand distractions - not while piloting. He glanced around at the cafeteria. It was empty now. What he missed most about the academy, he realized, was the camaraderie. Things were different here. Everyone had a different past and different duties. It would be harder to find common ground here.
He trotted his tray to the disposal bin, seeking a more populated area of the ship. The didn't have any bars or lounges on board, did they? Surely there were pilots who hadn't already retired to their quarters. He wanted to meet them, to discuss the battles they'd fought, the quirks of their mobile suits - "talk shop," as they said - like he'd talked with Nora about Minovsky particle physics.
He strolled into what appeared to be a lounge and settled into an empty chair. He wished one of the groups would recognize him as the new guy and introduce themselves; he was never good at starting conversations with strangers, unless they happened to be fans of Dr. Minovsky. Then again, he wasn't in a hurry. He settled back into the chair and did his best to keep thinking without looking disengaged; it wouldn't do to look surprised if someone did make an introduction.
"Blasted desert!" he thought. "Blasted sand-bagged suit!" He frowned, then quickly smiled. "Sand-blasted, more like it."
He tried stifling a laugh, but it escaped as a half-wheeze, half-sneeze. His face reddened, but he did his best to smile apologetically at the heads he'd turned. Folding his hands on his lap, he put his head down, acting like he was reading something. "I must be wound tighter than I thought." He wasn't usually the type to laugh at his own jokes.
In any case, it was doubtful the mechanics would bother cleaning the sand from his cockpit; everyone had had enough of the desert, and the mechanics had a hangar bay full of the gritty stuff. That meant he had some cleaning to do. It had been an acceptable sortie, but he had no desire to carry tiny, granular memories of it with him into the next one. There'd be more fighting soon, he'd overheard. Hoping his Gundam would be ready in time, he swore to be more careful in the future.
The crowd in the common area was beginning to thin out now. Kyle stretched in his chair. He'd wait around a bit more, just in case anyone felt like talking. After that? Well, he had a cockpit to clean.