Post by Cid on Jul 28, 2010 20:15:52 GMT -5
Finding a fresh jawbone of an ass, he grabbed it and struck down a thousand men. Then Samson said,
"With an ass's jawbone
I have made asses of them.
With an ass's jawbone
I have killed a thousand men."
~Judges 15:15-16
---
The hangar was row upon row of men and machine, cutthroat determination and devious preparation, anxiety and every emotion few and far between. Though the Wraith commanded a good three hundred souls, each and every was in their place. Within its huge expanse, the Gwazine was a never-ending maw of shrilly men barking orders, grease monkeys hastily patching together mobile suits, scraggly pilots skimming over leaflets of yellowed paper some might construe as battle plans. Above the cacophony, the thrum of deep space bore into everything, making life as though it were confined to a fish bowl and nothing else. Each man had his own sunken ship or treasure chest to explore and nothing else on mind.
Riley stood before this, pleased. Sayer was to his left, Jacobin to his right, and Numbers somewhere to the rear where he belonged. They all observed a sober quietness, though the Martian never had much to say regardless. Numbers and Sayer usually spoke out of turn and oftentimes about inane and irritating things, but it was the Martian Riley admired utmost. Reservation was at the core of any great man--knowing when to not, but having the ability to do at any time. For instance, he knew Jacobin could tear his blithering compatriots' throats out before they could shed a single, blimin' tear of self-pity. He knew he could, but he didn't. How he didn't was another story.
"This be our legacy, boys," said Riley finally. "Two month long voyage, lads, n' we've done it all--seen it all. Trotted up to the devil's garage and stole his Gwazine with the keys still in 'er, pillaged an entire Belt's worth of Zeon gold, wiped the smug, shit-eating grins off those CMC cocksuckers, and killed our fair share of innocents."
Those few who dared and were near enough to eavesdrop, stopped what they were doing to listen for it was not very often the Wraith came out of his shell. Sayer grinned as if taking credit for most of the aforementioned.
"Raped, pillaged, tortured, murdered, fornicated, sodomized from the Belt to the Earth Sphere and no one's been able to do anything more than slow us down a drag. It's been all for this one moment, lads--this final 'counter between the two biggest bullies in the school yard. Our reputation's on the line, our legacy's on the pike." Riley looked to Sayer. "Best not besmirch it while I still breathe."
That last bit seemed to do the trick, for Sayer's cocky grin faded a shade and he retreated within himself. Both knew death could never stop the Wraith's fury, and perhaps through blind luck or misfortune, if the battle turned sour, he'd be the first to find himself without a mouthful of oxygen or a shitter's hope of ever making it. No one dared cross ol' Sam, whether it was from hushed whispers of jury-rigged explosives in all the hatchways and normal suits or simply because sailors were a superstitious lot and found ways of explaining simple unknowns with fabulously elaborate untruths. Suffice to say, since the majority of the pirates under his command were now filthy rich and about to be even filthier, and even richer, most saw him as God. Or, in the least, his antithesis.
The treble of space made them all aware of their duties once again, the rabble that had gathered around them dispersed. Riley was still looking on at his accomplishments, investigating every nook and cranny. He'd certainly done a lot for a bastard of a pirate, and though there was little good amongst the murky pea soup he called his life, he took great comfort in the fact that he was affecting so many people's lives, inconveniencing so many military bigwigs, and perhaps, ever so gently, sticking up for the little man. He knew for certain he wasn't the only man wronged by the great Jovian Empire, and if he were the betting man, he'd wager he wouldn't be the last.
Numbers stirred, flopping his clipboard and pen to his side in exhaustion. "It's possible."
This pleased the ol' scalawag greatly, so much so he turned and placed a single hand on the banker's shoulder. He felt him tense under his hold as if trapped. They locked gazes for a brief instance and despite the Wraith's time-honored rage, nothing erupted--no volcanoes of molten rage, no boiling seas of inhumanity. Instead of speaking, he grinned, and then paced away down the endless corridors. They watched him as he went, admiring him more than ever. His hobble was even something to be idolized. They were in the company of a great, great man and history would remember them.
---
A group of dirty men stood in the middle of the pilot's ready room--affectionately dubbed "The Bilge." The pirates marked as pilots were centered around a great view screen, their arms marked with varying colors of electrical tape, denoting their experience. Gerald Hogan had been tasked with this as per the captain's orders. They needed to know who got what, and since the walking tin cans were expensive as hell and near-impossible to replace, they needed resumes. Green denoted some experience, blue veteran, red was above average, and black ace. A sea of green and blue was before him, and Hogan had his doubts. Not entirely too experienced with the tin men himself, he wasn't one to judge. But he'd made it thus far, he supposed.
Standing brashly and inconveniently out in front of everyone stood the only man marked by black. He wore a white scarf around his neck that was basically little more than an ascot. So far he'd only stood, not finding words necessary. It irked Hogan. He was trying to lead a legit briefing, like he'd seen ol' "Blue Eyes" do in so many of those vintage war films he'd loved as a child. In them, all the men took a knee and looked on with admiration and respect--knowing full well their commander had it all planned, all mapped out in his scheming, devious mind. And everything would be all right. Most importantly, everything would be just fine.
"So--" The man with black began, taking charge as though it was something hardwired instead of learned. "This is a tricksy plan, for sure, an' though I ain't usually one to back-sass a sup'erior, you gotta be two sheets in to think anyone's gonna walk away from this."
He appeared to have some military training, and he held himself as though he'd braved more than a few. That didn't matter to Hogan. He was beyond irked and felt all hope of achieving his hackneyed, dramatic film fluff camaraderie flit away with each unwelcomed interjection by the plebeian masses. He took off his tri-point hat and ran two fingers over the feather, "And... you're name is?"
The man with black straightened a tad, oblivious to Hogan's annoyance. "The name's Jonathan Sully Grimes, though most just call me Grimes. Or Jack Sprat, or Maverick, or Bulls-eye. Supposin' you can call me Black Jack from now on if ye fancy. Found my way here after I heard about your exploits on the Monarch. It impressed me greatly, and not much's been able to do that."
Hogan waited. The other pilots murmured astonishment. Jack kept talking.
"I hear ye be taking resumes, well here's ol' Jack in a nutshell: I was one of the foolish blokes under that idiot Tianem tryin' to stop the Zeek's from droppin' a colony, shot down my share of tinnies though, I'm sure you've heard that we were unsuccessful. Then I was stationed at Luna II for some time..." He trailed off, for what seemed like an entire minute flipped through his mental encyclopedia. "Ah! And for what it's worth, I sat through Lourm in a gunner's chair. Can't say we won that one, either."
Jack stood, still apparently impressed by himself. The men's murmurs grew enough the Hogan had to knock his pistol on the podium to retain order.
"So, Mr. Grimes," said Hogan, refusing to use any of his silly, most definitely self-proclaimed monikers. "What made you leave behind all the fame and glory of being a Feddie ace?"
Grimes stilled, being taken aback almost into a blissless reverie. Hogan had hit his mark, right n' true. Then, suddenly, the man was right back in his skin, throwing punches. "Well, I was n'er class'fied an ace under any Fed tribunals. N' fact, only tribunals I e'er saw was at my discharge hearings. Apparently they had a case--who knows. Anyway, if ye truly be interested n' not merely eggin' an old soul such as me on with aims of makin' be shed a gentlemanly tear, what got me was--truly n' deeply--was how no one ever thanked me."
Everyone quieted, confused. Hogan's face was a mural of amusement. He'd never met someone so cocky in all his life, nor had he ever suffered such a insubordinate, unproductive spiel that seemed to have absolutely nothing to do with anything. It was astounding. Not only that, it was wasteful.
"Don't forget who signs the checks." This seemed to do the trick as every man envisioned his hypothetical end by the mythical Captain's hand, and the many creative way's he'd find to bring them there. Everything was hushed and space turned up the bass a decibel so a thrumming rhythm played all around them. It was a wonder, since they were nearly as centered in the vessel as one could get.
Hogan straightened and composed himself, his own thoughts coming back from somewhere dark. "All right, you scabs, jokes are over. It's time we got serious. Tomorrow's the day--the day of days--so before we all go out there and get killed, you need to know your assignments. Currently, thirty-three Zaku F's and eighteen Zaku C's are being assigned to active combat roles, with twelve F's in reserve. We have eight Ricky's for the more experienced guys, a handful of Gattle led by yours truly." Hogan paused, letting it sink in as he scanned down the crinkled duty roster. "Last but not least, Mr. Grimes gets himself a grade-A Fed GM. Hope you're happy."
Grimes shrugged, not really caring. "Don't have too, too many flight hours in one, but I've seen my share of mobile suit combat, in case yer wondrin'."
They weren't, their minds were all up on the board which now displayed the immensity of the Jovian defenses. Though they didn't pack anything quite as powerful as a Gwazine, they surely outnumbered in terms of mobile suits and fighters. All felt a very immense, impending doom. Hogan himself shuddered as he went down the list and read each individual assignment. As he read each syllable, he took stock of the faces around him. Never one to be blubbery and sentimental, he knew these men were already amongst the dead.
---
Mutie was a bucket of joy and sunshine, hooting and cawing at every constellation he spotted out the main viewer. The deck was clear, only a few skeletons here and there, and he could sense no misfortune in his horizons--"nothin' worth frettin' yer little bitty self over," as the captain would say. The life of a helmsman was the pinnacle moment of Mutie's existence, the paramount chapter in his autobiography. Everything was perfect, and though he could somehow feel the anxiety exuding like a fine bodily excretion all around him, he took it to be just another day with a boat full of pirates. Though he knew very little about pirate lore, having zero literacy, he'd known since meeting the captain what a real pirate was and wasn't. He, of course, was not a real pirate. He'd never achieve such a lofty nirvana, but there was always hope.
He knew, for sure, that "Numbers" was not a real pirate. He had no sense of flying, no feel for brutality or harshness. He was more a woman than anything, soft and selfish. Though Mutie had little use for women, he knew what others thought of them (or did).
Sayer was also not really a pirate, though he pretended well. He rarely rose to the occasion and couldn't rouse a crowd if he tried. He was a good fighter, perhaps the only real brawler amongst the crew, but aside from boozing and fighting, there wasn't anything else to the man.
The Martian was a no-brainer, and Mutie kept entirely out of his radar. Most of the crew tolerated his presence and oft-times reveled in his quietness, but somehow he got the feeling that the Martian wouldn't stand for his child-like behavior. He couldn't be sure. Best not stir the pot, he thought.
And then there was the captain. He embodied the very heart of brigandry, and though he was never privy to many one-on-ones with him, he knew he was capable of great feats of compassion and heroism. He could jar even the Queen of Jove to tears, and bring an entire asteroid of miners to their knees with admiration. He'd rallied an entire armada of men to fulfill his calling and could bind them, form them to his will. He'd seen it. He'd lived it. He would always have that image of the captain coming back for whatever daring adventure, scathed but still brilliantly alive. The endorphins still coursing strong through his veins, his hobble a little less noticeable.
He was an invincible figure, never swayed by the gradnest of dreams. He never shied from a fight, never took guff from anyone. He was his lighthouse keeper that never tired, never wavered, and always brought them home.
Transcendent, always eternal.
---
And when the day arrives I'll become the sky and I'll become the sea and the sea will come to kiss me for I am going home. Nothing can stop me now.
~Trent Reznor
"With an ass's jawbone
I have made asses of them.
With an ass's jawbone
I have killed a thousand men."
~Judges 15:15-16
---
The hangar was row upon row of men and machine, cutthroat determination and devious preparation, anxiety and every emotion few and far between. Though the Wraith commanded a good three hundred souls, each and every was in their place. Within its huge expanse, the Gwazine was a never-ending maw of shrilly men barking orders, grease monkeys hastily patching together mobile suits, scraggly pilots skimming over leaflets of yellowed paper some might construe as battle plans. Above the cacophony, the thrum of deep space bore into everything, making life as though it were confined to a fish bowl and nothing else. Each man had his own sunken ship or treasure chest to explore and nothing else on mind.
Riley stood before this, pleased. Sayer was to his left, Jacobin to his right, and Numbers somewhere to the rear where he belonged. They all observed a sober quietness, though the Martian never had much to say regardless. Numbers and Sayer usually spoke out of turn and oftentimes about inane and irritating things, but it was the Martian Riley admired utmost. Reservation was at the core of any great man--knowing when to not, but having the ability to do at any time. For instance, he knew Jacobin could tear his blithering compatriots' throats out before they could shed a single, blimin' tear of self-pity. He knew he could, but he didn't. How he didn't was another story.
"This be our legacy, boys," said Riley finally. "Two month long voyage, lads, n' we've done it all--seen it all. Trotted up to the devil's garage and stole his Gwazine with the keys still in 'er, pillaged an entire Belt's worth of Zeon gold, wiped the smug, shit-eating grins off those CMC cocksuckers, and killed our fair share of innocents."
Those few who dared and were near enough to eavesdrop, stopped what they were doing to listen for it was not very often the Wraith came out of his shell. Sayer grinned as if taking credit for most of the aforementioned.
"Raped, pillaged, tortured, murdered, fornicated, sodomized from the Belt to the Earth Sphere and no one's been able to do anything more than slow us down a drag. It's been all for this one moment, lads--this final 'counter between the two biggest bullies in the school yard. Our reputation's on the line, our legacy's on the pike." Riley looked to Sayer. "Best not besmirch it while I still breathe."
That last bit seemed to do the trick, for Sayer's cocky grin faded a shade and he retreated within himself. Both knew death could never stop the Wraith's fury, and perhaps through blind luck or misfortune, if the battle turned sour, he'd be the first to find himself without a mouthful of oxygen or a shitter's hope of ever making it. No one dared cross ol' Sam, whether it was from hushed whispers of jury-rigged explosives in all the hatchways and normal suits or simply because sailors were a superstitious lot and found ways of explaining simple unknowns with fabulously elaborate untruths. Suffice to say, since the majority of the pirates under his command were now filthy rich and about to be even filthier, and even richer, most saw him as God. Or, in the least, his antithesis.
The treble of space made them all aware of their duties once again, the rabble that had gathered around them dispersed. Riley was still looking on at his accomplishments, investigating every nook and cranny. He'd certainly done a lot for a bastard of a pirate, and though there was little good amongst the murky pea soup he called his life, he took great comfort in the fact that he was affecting so many people's lives, inconveniencing so many military bigwigs, and perhaps, ever so gently, sticking up for the little man. He knew for certain he wasn't the only man wronged by the great Jovian Empire, and if he were the betting man, he'd wager he wouldn't be the last.
Numbers stirred, flopping his clipboard and pen to his side in exhaustion. "It's possible."
This pleased the ol' scalawag greatly, so much so he turned and placed a single hand on the banker's shoulder. He felt him tense under his hold as if trapped. They locked gazes for a brief instance and despite the Wraith's time-honored rage, nothing erupted--no volcanoes of molten rage, no boiling seas of inhumanity. Instead of speaking, he grinned, and then paced away down the endless corridors. They watched him as he went, admiring him more than ever. His hobble was even something to be idolized. They were in the company of a great, great man and history would remember them.
---
A group of dirty men stood in the middle of the pilot's ready room--affectionately dubbed "The Bilge." The pirates marked as pilots were centered around a great view screen, their arms marked with varying colors of electrical tape, denoting their experience. Gerald Hogan had been tasked with this as per the captain's orders. They needed to know who got what, and since the walking tin cans were expensive as hell and near-impossible to replace, they needed resumes. Green denoted some experience, blue veteran, red was above average, and black ace. A sea of green and blue was before him, and Hogan had his doubts. Not entirely too experienced with the tin men himself, he wasn't one to judge. But he'd made it thus far, he supposed.
Standing brashly and inconveniently out in front of everyone stood the only man marked by black. He wore a white scarf around his neck that was basically little more than an ascot. So far he'd only stood, not finding words necessary. It irked Hogan. He was trying to lead a legit briefing, like he'd seen ol' "Blue Eyes" do in so many of those vintage war films he'd loved as a child. In them, all the men took a knee and looked on with admiration and respect--knowing full well their commander had it all planned, all mapped out in his scheming, devious mind. And everything would be all right. Most importantly, everything would be just fine.
"So--" The man with black began, taking charge as though it was something hardwired instead of learned. "This is a tricksy plan, for sure, an' though I ain't usually one to back-sass a sup'erior, you gotta be two sheets in to think anyone's gonna walk away from this."
He appeared to have some military training, and he held himself as though he'd braved more than a few. That didn't matter to Hogan. He was beyond irked and felt all hope of achieving his hackneyed, dramatic film fluff camaraderie flit away with each unwelcomed interjection by the plebeian masses. He took off his tri-point hat and ran two fingers over the feather, "And... you're name is?"
The man with black straightened a tad, oblivious to Hogan's annoyance. "The name's Jonathan Sully Grimes, though most just call me Grimes. Or Jack Sprat, or Maverick, or Bulls-eye. Supposin' you can call me Black Jack from now on if ye fancy. Found my way here after I heard about your exploits on the Monarch. It impressed me greatly, and not much's been able to do that."
Hogan waited. The other pilots murmured astonishment. Jack kept talking.
"I hear ye be taking resumes, well here's ol' Jack in a nutshell: I was one of the foolish blokes under that idiot Tianem tryin' to stop the Zeek's from droppin' a colony, shot down my share of tinnies though, I'm sure you've heard that we were unsuccessful. Then I was stationed at Luna II for some time..." He trailed off, for what seemed like an entire minute flipped through his mental encyclopedia. "Ah! And for what it's worth, I sat through Lourm in a gunner's chair. Can't say we won that one, either."
Jack stood, still apparently impressed by himself. The men's murmurs grew enough the Hogan had to knock his pistol on the podium to retain order.
"So, Mr. Grimes," said Hogan, refusing to use any of his silly, most definitely self-proclaimed monikers. "What made you leave behind all the fame and glory of being a Feddie ace?"
Grimes stilled, being taken aback almost into a blissless reverie. Hogan had hit his mark, right n' true. Then, suddenly, the man was right back in his skin, throwing punches. "Well, I was n'er class'fied an ace under any Fed tribunals. N' fact, only tribunals I e'er saw was at my discharge hearings. Apparently they had a case--who knows. Anyway, if ye truly be interested n' not merely eggin' an old soul such as me on with aims of makin' be shed a gentlemanly tear, what got me was--truly n' deeply--was how no one ever thanked me."
Everyone quieted, confused. Hogan's face was a mural of amusement. He'd never met someone so cocky in all his life, nor had he ever suffered such a insubordinate, unproductive spiel that seemed to have absolutely nothing to do with anything. It was astounding. Not only that, it was wasteful.
"Don't forget who signs the checks." This seemed to do the trick as every man envisioned his hypothetical end by the mythical Captain's hand, and the many creative way's he'd find to bring them there. Everything was hushed and space turned up the bass a decibel so a thrumming rhythm played all around them. It was a wonder, since they were nearly as centered in the vessel as one could get.
Hogan straightened and composed himself, his own thoughts coming back from somewhere dark. "All right, you scabs, jokes are over. It's time we got serious. Tomorrow's the day--the day of days--so before we all go out there and get killed, you need to know your assignments. Currently, thirty-three Zaku F's and eighteen Zaku C's are being assigned to active combat roles, with twelve F's in reserve. We have eight Ricky's for the more experienced guys, a handful of Gattle led by yours truly." Hogan paused, letting it sink in as he scanned down the crinkled duty roster. "Last but not least, Mr. Grimes gets himself a grade-A Fed GM. Hope you're happy."
Grimes shrugged, not really caring. "Don't have too, too many flight hours in one, but I've seen my share of mobile suit combat, in case yer wondrin'."
They weren't, their minds were all up on the board which now displayed the immensity of the Jovian defenses. Though they didn't pack anything quite as powerful as a Gwazine, they surely outnumbered in terms of mobile suits and fighters. All felt a very immense, impending doom. Hogan himself shuddered as he went down the list and read each individual assignment. As he read each syllable, he took stock of the faces around him. Never one to be blubbery and sentimental, he knew these men were already amongst the dead.
---
Mutie was a bucket of joy and sunshine, hooting and cawing at every constellation he spotted out the main viewer. The deck was clear, only a few skeletons here and there, and he could sense no misfortune in his horizons--"nothin' worth frettin' yer little bitty self over," as the captain would say. The life of a helmsman was the pinnacle moment of Mutie's existence, the paramount chapter in his autobiography. Everything was perfect, and though he could somehow feel the anxiety exuding like a fine bodily excretion all around him, he took it to be just another day with a boat full of pirates. Though he knew very little about pirate lore, having zero literacy, he'd known since meeting the captain what a real pirate was and wasn't. He, of course, was not a real pirate. He'd never achieve such a lofty nirvana, but there was always hope.
He knew, for sure, that "Numbers" was not a real pirate. He had no sense of flying, no feel for brutality or harshness. He was more a woman than anything, soft and selfish. Though Mutie had little use for women, he knew what others thought of them (or did).
Sayer was also not really a pirate, though he pretended well. He rarely rose to the occasion and couldn't rouse a crowd if he tried. He was a good fighter, perhaps the only real brawler amongst the crew, but aside from boozing and fighting, there wasn't anything else to the man.
The Martian was a no-brainer, and Mutie kept entirely out of his radar. Most of the crew tolerated his presence and oft-times reveled in his quietness, but somehow he got the feeling that the Martian wouldn't stand for his child-like behavior. He couldn't be sure. Best not stir the pot, he thought.
And then there was the captain. He embodied the very heart of brigandry, and though he was never privy to many one-on-ones with him, he knew he was capable of great feats of compassion and heroism. He could jar even the Queen of Jove to tears, and bring an entire asteroid of miners to their knees with admiration. He'd rallied an entire armada of men to fulfill his calling and could bind them, form them to his will. He'd seen it. He'd lived it. He would always have that image of the captain coming back for whatever daring adventure, scathed but still brilliantly alive. The endorphins still coursing strong through his veins, his hobble a little less noticeable.
He was an invincible figure, never swayed by the gradnest of dreams. He never shied from a fight, never took guff from anyone. He was his lighthouse keeper that never tired, never wavered, and always brought them home.
Transcendent, always eternal.
---
And when the day arrives I'll become the sky and I'll become the sea and the sea will come to kiss me for I am going home. Nothing can stop me now.
~Trent Reznor