Post by thomas on Apr 6, 2010 22:09:26 GMT -5
The sounds of battle drifted ever closer over the serene suburban Ukrainian plain.
"It won't be long now," someone muttered. There was little else to do--the mobile suits were prepped, ready to drop in the time it takes to blink--all that was left to the crew of the Oklahoma was the fierce, naked uncertainty afforded by death's nearness.
A distraction was needed desperately, and fittingly, it was found in the absence of the most distracting man aboard the ship. Thorvald Siggurdson was not in his cockpit. As soon as this became apparent, panic set in--mechanics and marines, porters and clerks: cries of "Siggurdson, get your bloody ass back in here!" and "Siggurdson's turned coward!" almost instantly began to echo throughout the tiny ship.
Even Marion was concerned. She could feel Thorvald's presence on the ship but couldn't explain why he wasn't in the Blue Destiny.
Thorvald, where the hell are you...?
For his part, Thorvald was in the bathroom of his quarters, struggling to remove a certain offending clothing item that a petty officer had threatened to apply to him by force. Once it was gone, he flushed it down the toilet and it fluttered harmlessly onto the Ukrainian fields below.
Now, he regarded himself in the mirror. The months of military service had tightened up his chest and he puffed it out with some pride. Clad only in his kilt (the Federation tartan, to which he'd taken a liking), his skin flushed and moist with sweat and excitement, he looked like a freakish hybrid of Freddie Mercury, Erik the Red, and Rob Roy. Bloody perfection, thought Thorvald, as the strains of Loch Lomond mingled with Under Pressure in his head:
You'll take the high road and I'll take the low
Under pressure!
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye!
It's the terror of knowing what this world's all about...
With a certain solemnity, Thorvald opened a new canister of blue woad (it was actually children's face paint) and began to apply it to his pectorals. In one final homage to British pop, he inscribed a blue lightning bolt across his face.
"It's now or never, Thorvald, lad..." he whispered to his ridiculous reflection. He was tempted to redo the make up but he knew, deep down, that was just an excuse--an excuse to stay in the bathroom for another ten minutes, and not go out to the deck where death awaited, full and real. This road, from the dusty encampments of Africa across continents and worlds, had been long and Thorvald couldn't help but feel that perhaps his time had come--but every time this thought surfaced, he pressed it out of his mind, trusting the Almighty and forcing himself to think no more on it. He had long since realized that it was only in the past few months, in the heat of battle and service, with Marion at his side, that he had truly begun to live. With this knowledge in hand, death did not seem so formidable. Still, it raised a peak in his breast every time he thought of it.
He did have one more distraction--EF Personal Security Item #HGLND9. He'd put a personal request in several months ago, first for its development and then for an assignment of the prototype. It had arrived in a long, shiny box, well over five feet long. Heaving it gently onto his shoulder, he began his long walk to the deck.
The panic over Thorvald's disappearance was reaching new heights when he appeared. He was initially besieged both by physical yells coming from the assembled crew members and the psychic admonishments emanating from Marion. With an odd serenity, he reached into the box and flung the lid off, raising the newly developed, official Earth Federation Claymore, acceptable for ceremonial use and (in dire situations) hand to hand combat, above his head. The small bits of sunlight streaming into the Medea glinted off its edge. Silence spread as quickly as the noise had begun, the fierce sight of Thorvald armed now greeting the Oklahoma.
Thorvald climbed atop a nearby crate and tossed casually the sword over his shoulder.
"Lads and lassies, I can nae apologize enough fer' the distress I've caused ye' jes' now. Don't ye worry; I've not turned coward. After I say me piece, I'll be up in the Blue Destiny, b'lieve me."
Clearing his throat, Thorvald continued, awkward for the formality he tried to affect.
"I'm realizin' now that this may be the last time we're all together, you know--in this world. So, if that's the case, I'd like to extend me thanks to ye' all. It's been--what do they call it? An honour and a privilege--to serve with ye' all. I think very affectionately on ye' all."
"Thorvald..." someone said gently, but he held up his hand.
"Now, don't ye' have no fear, not fer' ye'selves, and certainly not fer' me when we jump. 'Tain't no power on earth's yet been able to kill me, and there's many 'a tried. But..."
And here, he made a slight gagging, choking noise.
"If I don't come back, I'd ask any o' ye--any of ye' that comes out o' this thing alive, would ye' tell me ma' I'm gone? When I signed up, I told the Federation I'd no other livin' kin but I know me ma's still alive--her names Clara Regan-Siggurdson, and she's a washerwoman in Kirkwall, Orkney."
He held a hand up over his eyes, feeling the heat flowing out of them.
Thorvald...
"I ain't been a good son to her, I know..." he said, to no one really. Suddenly, his hand dropped and his eyes were blazing. "But goddammit, after today, t'ain't no one who'll say poor ol' Clara Regan oughtta' be ashamed o' her boy. With ye'all as me witnesses before God Awmighty Himself, I swear, I'm going to fucking eat those Zeeks alive!"
This was met with applause from the crew.
"Don't ye' fear them that'd seek to hurt ye'! I've seen ye' all in action, and ye' can make the angels themselves quake in terror! All that's left now for us to do is become heroes! Don't ye think abou' death--think about the stories ye'll tell yer' children and grandchildren, when they ask you what you did to free Earth! Show 'em the scars ye' had on this day, and let them feel the fear while's you tell o' the Zeek shells exploding 'round ye'! Fear's not a luxury we're meant for--those we're protecting, they can feel fear, but we've got nothing but to do our duty! Here's up the Federation! Here's up Fightin' 42nd!"
The applause turned into outright roars and Thorvald marched up into the Blue Destiny.
Thorvald, how drunk are you?
"Not very. I had a pint while's we waited and that's all, lass, don't ye' worry."
Marion smiled.
With you here, why would I worry?
"It won't be long now," someone muttered. There was little else to do--the mobile suits were prepped, ready to drop in the time it takes to blink--all that was left to the crew of the Oklahoma was the fierce, naked uncertainty afforded by death's nearness.
A distraction was needed desperately, and fittingly, it was found in the absence of the most distracting man aboard the ship. Thorvald Siggurdson was not in his cockpit. As soon as this became apparent, panic set in--mechanics and marines, porters and clerks: cries of "Siggurdson, get your bloody ass back in here!" and "Siggurdson's turned coward!" almost instantly began to echo throughout the tiny ship.
Even Marion was concerned. She could feel Thorvald's presence on the ship but couldn't explain why he wasn't in the Blue Destiny.
Thorvald, where the hell are you...?
For his part, Thorvald was in the bathroom of his quarters, struggling to remove a certain offending clothing item that a petty officer had threatened to apply to him by force. Once it was gone, he flushed it down the toilet and it fluttered harmlessly onto the Ukrainian fields below.
Now, he regarded himself in the mirror. The months of military service had tightened up his chest and he puffed it out with some pride. Clad only in his kilt (the Federation tartan, to which he'd taken a liking), his skin flushed and moist with sweat and excitement, he looked like a freakish hybrid of Freddie Mercury, Erik the Red, and Rob Roy. Bloody perfection, thought Thorvald, as the strains of Loch Lomond mingled with Under Pressure in his head:
You'll take the high road and I'll take the low
Under pressure!
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye!
It's the terror of knowing what this world's all about...
With a certain solemnity, Thorvald opened a new canister of blue woad (it was actually children's face paint) and began to apply it to his pectorals. In one final homage to British pop, he inscribed a blue lightning bolt across his face.
"It's now or never, Thorvald, lad..." he whispered to his ridiculous reflection. He was tempted to redo the make up but he knew, deep down, that was just an excuse--an excuse to stay in the bathroom for another ten minutes, and not go out to the deck where death awaited, full and real. This road, from the dusty encampments of Africa across continents and worlds, had been long and Thorvald couldn't help but feel that perhaps his time had come--but every time this thought surfaced, he pressed it out of his mind, trusting the Almighty and forcing himself to think no more on it. He had long since realized that it was only in the past few months, in the heat of battle and service, with Marion at his side, that he had truly begun to live. With this knowledge in hand, death did not seem so formidable. Still, it raised a peak in his breast every time he thought of it.
He did have one more distraction--EF Personal Security Item #HGLND9. He'd put a personal request in several months ago, first for its development and then for an assignment of the prototype. It had arrived in a long, shiny box, well over five feet long. Heaving it gently onto his shoulder, he began his long walk to the deck.
The panic over Thorvald's disappearance was reaching new heights when he appeared. He was initially besieged both by physical yells coming from the assembled crew members and the psychic admonishments emanating from Marion. With an odd serenity, he reached into the box and flung the lid off, raising the newly developed, official Earth Federation Claymore, acceptable for ceremonial use and (in dire situations) hand to hand combat, above his head. The small bits of sunlight streaming into the Medea glinted off its edge. Silence spread as quickly as the noise had begun, the fierce sight of Thorvald armed now greeting the Oklahoma.
Thorvald climbed atop a nearby crate and tossed casually the sword over his shoulder.
"Lads and lassies, I can nae apologize enough fer' the distress I've caused ye' jes' now. Don't ye worry; I've not turned coward. After I say me piece, I'll be up in the Blue Destiny, b'lieve me."
Clearing his throat, Thorvald continued, awkward for the formality he tried to affect.
"I'm realizin' now that this may be the last time we're all together, you know--in this world. So, if that's the case, I'd like to extend me thanks to ye' all. It's been--what do they call it? An honour and a privilege--to serve with ye' all. I think very affectionately on ye' all."
"Thorvald..." someone said gently, but he held up his hand.
"Now, don't ye' have no fear, not fer' ye'selves, and certainly not fer' me when we jump. 'Tain't no power on earth's yet been able to kill me, and there's many 'a tried. But..."
And here, he made a slight gagging, choking noise.
"If I don't come back, I'd ask any o' ye--any of ye' that comes out o' this thing alive, would ye' tell me ma' I'm gone? When I signed up, I told the Federation I'd no other livin' kin but I know me ma's still alive--her names Clara Regan-Siggurdson, and she's a washerwoman in Kirkwall, Orkney."
He held a hand up over his eyes, feeling the heat flowing out of them.
Thorvald...
"I ain't been a good son to her, I know..." he said, to no one really. Suddenly, his hand dropped and his eyes were blazing. "But goddammit, after today, t'ain't no one who'll say poor ol' Clara Regan oughtta' be ashamed o' her boy. With ye'all as me witnesses before God Awmighty Himself, I swear, I'm going to fucking eat those Zeeks alive!"
This was met with applause from the crew.
"Don't ye' fear them that'd seek to hurt ye'! I've seen ye' all in action, and ye' can make the angels themselves quake in terror! All that's left now for us to do is become heroes! Don't ye think abou' death--think about the stories ye'll tell yer' children and grandchildren, when they ask you what you did to free Earth! Show 'em the scars ye' had on this day, and let them feel the fear while's you tell o' the Zeek shells exploding 'round ye'! Fear's not a luxury we're meant for--those we're protecting, they can feel fear, but we've got nothing but to do our duty! Here's up the Federation! Here's up Fightin' 42nd!"
The applause turned into outright roars and Thorvald marched up into the Blue Destiny.
Thorvald, how drunk are you?
"Not very. I had a pint while's we waited and that's all, lass, don't ye' worry."
Marion smiled.
With you here, why would I worry?
