Post by Threid on Mar 5, 2010 19:13:16 GMT -5
Madelaine rolled the battered creeper out from under her GM and wiped the grease off her face with an already-greasy rag. She hauled herself up onto the mobile suit's outstretched hand, and caught her mirror-image in one of the GM's brushed titanium panels. Haven't been this greasy since puberty. Now would have been a perfect time for a smoke, if she hadn't quit years ago.
The hangar was still buzzing with activity despite the lateness of the hour. The attack on Constantinople had left plenty of work for the mechanics; even some of the pilots were chipping in with repairs. Madelaine glanced over to Kyle's battered Gundam and grinned. For all the reverence that kid had for his machine and all his book knowledge, the kid was still pretty green. Sure, he had potential; it was just a question of whether or not he'd survive long enough to display it. She didn't mind serving under his command; the orders he gave were easy to follow, and allowed her plenty of flexibility on the battlefield.
She was still getting a handle on piloting the GM. It was worlds different than her old Type 61. For one thing, she had to drive and gun at the same time. In the tank, she'd only had to worry about choosing a path that wouldn't get them killed. If only Franz could see me now. Her late husband had been dead for years, killed in a training exercise off the Côte d'Ivoire. She mused on how generic that sounded. Doesn't everyone know someone who was killed in a training exercise? But - generic or not - it was true, and it sucked.
After the accident, her interest in tank piloting had flagged, and her apparent skill had correspondingly dropped. She was assigned to a hangar not too long after that, and had become a decent mechanic. I may be a bit broken, but I can still fix the hell out of stuff. Mechanic work was easy. You studied the manuals and learned the systems; after that, it was a relatively simple matter to find problems and fix them, especially when the problem was a easy to find as a hole blown through the machine. Easy.
Well - relative to piloting, at least. But God, it's a rush. She hadn't been too thrilled when she'd received orders to start piloting one of the newfangled mobile suits; she'd expected nothing but buggy systems, poorly-coordinated offensives, and unpleasant memories, but had been pleasantly-surprised on all counts. The GM was remarkably stable for something developed so hurriedly, and despite the EF's getting caught with their pants down, their counter-offensives weren't half-bad.
And I can deal with memories. She would have taken a long pull from her cigarette right about now. She glanced over her shoulder at the GM, and at Kyle's GMPGT. If she knew Kyle, he'd be down in the hangar soon to help fix his mobile suit. And nothing against the corporal, but I like my alone time with my machines. She hopped down onto the creeper and slung herself back under the GM.
The hangar was still buzzing with activity despite the lateness of the hour. The attack on Constantinople had left plenty of work for the mechanics; even some of the pilots were chipping in with repairs. Madelaine glanced over to Kyle's battered Gundam and grinned. For all the reverence that kid had for his machine and all his book knowledge, the kid was still pretty green. Sure, he had potential; it was just a question of whether or not he'd survive long enough to display it. She didn't mind serving under his command; the orders he gave were easy to follow, and allowed her plenty of flexibility on the battlefield.
She was still getting a handle on piloting the GM. It was worlds different than her old Type 61. For one thing, she had to drive and gun at the same time. In the tank, she'd only had to worry about choosing a path that wouldn't get them killed. If only Franz could see me now. Her late husband had been dead for years, killed in a training exercise off the Côte d'Ivoire. She mused on how generic that sounded. Doesn't everyone know someone who was killed in a training exercise? But - generic or not - it was true, and it sucked.
After the accident, her interest in tank piloting had flagged, and her apparent skill had correspondingly dropped. She was assigned to a hangar not too long after that, and had become a decent mechanic. I may be a bit broken, but I can still fix the hell out of stuff. Mechanic work was easy. You studied the manuals and learned the systems; after that, it was a relatively simple matter to find problems and fix them, especially when the problem was a easy to find as a hole blown through the machine. Easy.
Well - relative to piloting, at least. But God, it's a rush. She hadn't been too thrilled when she'd received orders to start piloting one of the newfangled mobile suits; she'd expected nothing but buggy systems, poorly-coordinated offensives, and unpleasant memories, but had been pleasantly-surprised on all counts. The GM was remarkably stable for something developed so hurriedly, and despite the EF's getting caught with their pants down, their counter-offensives weren't half-bad.
And I can deal with memories. She would have taken a long pull from her cigarette right about now. She glanced over her shoulder at the GM, and at Kyle's GMPGT. If she knew Kyle, he'd be down in the hangar soon to help fix his mobile suit. And nothing against the corporal, but I like my alone time with my machines. She hopped down onto the creeper and slung herself back under the GM.