Escaped From New York!

Another afternoon, another few pints with the gents. Such was the situation aboard the Orange Base as it sailed smoothly over the Atlantic, trembling every now and then from the damage it has sustained in New York. Thorvald sat beside the Blue Destiny's massive foot with his usual cohort of mechanics and marines, with Maurice next to him, eyes closed and head down on his chest, a spliff sticking out of his gently snoring lips.

"Helluva' job you did with Paruta," said Sang, a Burmese marine who carried a wickedly curved knife on his belt at all times in place of a handgun. "We watched it from Orange Base. He's fuckin' toast, brother."

"I ain't shedding no tears over that sonuvabitch," scowled Carmichael, another marine. He shook his head slowly. "I saw my boys Mitchell and Garcia get cut to shreds by some shrapnel from one of his goddamned shells. Motherfucker."

"To Thorvald," de Sousa finished up, raising her pint glass. "For finishing off Paruta! I figure that's six or seven fewer GMs I've gotta fix up right there. At least!"

"To Thorvald!"

"To Thorvald!"

"Fuckin' A, Thorvald!"

"Aw, ye guys," Thorvald said, blushing. He sipped his pint modestly, obviously enjoying the attention. "But I nae could have done it wif'out that brave lad in the Dodai... I wish I could have saved him but I keep atelling the higher ups--don't they be still giving me pilots, what can't handle me style..."

An awkward silence settled over the group.

"But Thorvald--" de Sousa finally piped up. Maurice's eyes shot up and he sat up immediately, giving her a death glare and putting a finger to his lips.

"Lass?"

"Er..."

Thorvald glanced over at Maurice's angry, deadset face and bloodshot eyes.

"What's going on?" he wondered aloud.

"Er, Thorvald... Have you ever wondered what Maurice does in the Federation?" Sang said after another uncomfortable pause.

"Not really..." He laughed sheepishly. "T'be honest, lads and lassies, I do nae know what any of ye do. General Revil could be sittin' here for all I know."

"Maurice was your Dodai pilot, Thorvald. He bailed out at the last second."

The news hit Thorvald like a physical blow. He sat back in his chair, eyes wide and flesh pale despite the six pints he'd consumed in the last hour. He reached up and rubbed his eyes slowly.

"Lad, why did ye' nae tell me?"

Maurice sighed. "Thorvald, I shouldn't have to tell you. You're supposed to know the names of the people in your MS team. Also, you're supposed to, you know, talk to us."

"Exactly! I'd a-ignored ye, had I known! And where'd your accent go?!"

Maurice sighed again. "Mon, Thorvald, here's da ting--you gotta be chill, ya, wit' da fact dat dey gonna stick you wif pilots, mon. I and I gotta work togevvah, man, respect--no strife bet'ing the MS team, y'hear? Dey gonna give you anoddah' pilot 'for long so you'd best get ready bobsled."

Thorvald lowered his drunken gaze.

"Oh, lad, ye're right. But I don' want me friends to die, so--"

"Dere's no helpin' dat dere in da' war, Thorvald. A man gotta take his lot by and by and hope fer de best, y'see."

Thorvald was silent for a few minutes. Then, with a sigh, he stood up.

"Lads, lass--I'm gonna have me a wander 'round the ship, talk with me faery lady--this is jes' too much fer' me now. I hope ye' understan'."

With this, Thorvald finished his beer and stumbled off out of the hangar.