kmo... uhm, what am I on?
8 Jul 2007 04:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaigouThis is only a draft, I repeat, this is only a draft. Hell, I didn't even reread before posting, so there may be tweaks later. Or not. Don't know.
Hilde once said that when all else fails, scream like a girl. Given that every time I blinked -- and with no one moving, I think my eyelids were the sole action in the entire bay -- it seemed like the nineteen-whatever gun-holding hands suddenly became thirty-eight, then seventy-six, and snapped back again -- I was giving the entire girl-screaming concept some serious thought. Quick thought, okay, but still serious.
So I was a little preoccupied when a once-familiar sound echoed across the shuttle bay. Maybe to the untrained ear it was just a click, but that barest hesitation a split-second before the click followed by a half-heard kaCHUNK was definitely the sound of an AR-15 being flipped over to fully automatic. Except... none of the men had moved. I blinked again. Had they? Not that I was that keen on someone putting a whole round of four-fifty-eights in my belly, being rather attached to my gut as it is, thanks, but if I'm about to deal with unfriendly fire, I want it where I can see it, and shoot right back.
"Gentlemen," a man's voice said, firm and polite, but clear and unamplified. Sounded like it was coming from above me, actually. A few of the men looked confused, glancing around, and I made a point to look just as bewildered, hands still raised just a hair, like I'd been about to surrender but wasn't sure why -- but other than my gaze darting up and around to see what little I could past the rim of the shuttle's docking tank -- and the boatload of guns still trained on me, damn it -- I couldn't see jack.
"I suggest you put down those weapons."
Okay, that time? Not needing to pretend at the bafflement, because I knew that voice. Quatre? What the fuck was Quatre doing there? And, oh, shit --
"Yo," a voice said from behind me, quietly. Jack. "What's going on?"
"I don't know," I whispered, trying not to move my mouth. "I think we've got--"
"This is your only chance," Quatre said, still the consumate diplomat, smooth, charming, but with a hint of steel.
"Trouble," I spat, and decided to hell with the guys with guns. I backpedaled, hands still up -- just so no one got the bright idea I was reaching for a weapon -- but I wasn't going out there. I grabbed Jack and yanked him backwards, around the corner from the open tank doors.
"What the hell?" His words tumbled over mine, and when he tripped, I jerked hard and we flew backwards, away.
Maybe two seconds, three, at most, between Quatre's warning and when I hit the deck with Jack beside me. He gave me a stunned look, and I said, "trust me, you don't want to be out there in the next twenty--"
And lo, did Quatre open fire.
Jack goggled. I yelled at the rest of the crew to get down, someone hit the mechanism to close the shuttle doors. Last thing we needed was stray gunfire burying itself in the bulkhead. Ship'd be out of commission for three months on repairs, and what the fuck was I doing worrying about some smuggler's ship when Quatre, the bloody fucking hell was he doing here?
The crew was running around, but amazingly quiet except for yelled updates as they powered down and closed up the tank doors, sealing us against any breaches short of -- well, short of Quatre. I was just reaching the pilot's seat and the transmission jacks when a massive explosion went off from somewhere under the starboard engine. The entire shuttle rocked right off its mooring-lock and slammed back down again, and I found myself face-first on the floor from the impact. My head ached, and for just that long, I wanted to close my eyes and pass out. It took everything I had to stumble to my feet, wipe away the blood now pouring from my nose and split lip, and check the shuttle's readouts.
"Fire on the lower starboard deck, and hull damage," someone reported. "I'm sealing off C-2, C-3."
"Got it," Jack yelled. "Everyone okay?"
Several voices called back, mine among them, and no one blinked. I'd not hurt them, after all, except to deprive them of seventeen hours of flying time -- and okay, so maybe that'd be major hurting in my book, but I admit I'm a unique case in some ways -- and for hte most part, we were suddenly all Sweepers and far more worried about the ship's systems than whether the gunfight going on outside the shuttle was going down, up, or sideways.
"Juice is dropping," a third voice hollered. "I think they're--"
Another jolt, this one throwing us sideways just as the pilot's sensors lit up like an entire colony in glowing blue. The light barely burned into my retinas before I yelled a warning, and grabbed the guy nearest me, shoving him away from the co-pilot's seat and throwing him down. The shuttle banks exploded, overloaded. The air smelled heavy of ozone, and I could swear my entire braid was standing on end from the electricity dispersing. Little pieces of melted plastic and bright sparks sprinkled down; I rolled off the guy with a groan. He was okay, but only once I landed on my back did I realize a chunk or two of circuit board must've made for a nice projectile.
I really, really wished I hadn't gotten out of bed that morning. Or the morning before, or seventy-two hours before. I couldn't remember. I rolled over again, only my stomach, and forced myself up. I'd meant to come in and take out these bastards, just like the last, and now I was trapped in a shuttle with the same guys I'd trapped in the kitchen, and seemed like everyone out there wanted to board this shuttle and take us out. Or get us to take them out, though not in the fun blood-everywhere, things-go-boom way.
Speaking of boom... another one, then a third. Jack was yelling himself hoarse, repeating the reports coming in from the six stations around the shuttle. No electricity, half those guys were working in the dark. Away from the pilot's seats, the docking bay's weak light didn't reach farther than the doorway, and beyond that was pitch black. I groaned, not liking the notion of heading in there amongst guys that I might be able to trust, maybe, if I didn't let down my guard. Then I spun at the co-pilot's yell to see Wufei standing on the nose of the shuttle, assault rifle tucked under his arm, beta c-mag hooked in waiting. I grabbed the co-pilot by the collar, again backing the hell up just as Wufei raised the assault rifle, threw a switch with his thumb, braced himself, and began firing.
The space-glass held... mostly. Then I realized he wasn't shooting it, but the bolts holding it in.
"What the fuck is he doing?" The copilot crouched behind me in the hallway, hands over his ears. He flinched with every report, echoing through the shuttle down the main hallway, sound beating against the metal like a million hands pounding on a tin drum -- with us stuck inside.
"He's taking out the seals," I yelled, and shoved the guy into the small storage locker. "Stay there. Keep down, and when the good guys show up, they'll let you out."
"What? Which ones are the good guys?" He bolted upright, but I shoved him back again, and pried the automatic door from its pocket, pulling it closed with a scream of metal grating on metal.
"The ones that don't try to shoot you," I replied, and with a last heave, threw the door closed and bolted it.
Wufei, taking out the seals, and Quatre, standing somewhere overhead and picking them off. Who else had come along for this party, and more importantly, who'd invited them? I found Jack in the portside weapons room, just forward of the kitchen. He nodded and held up a magazine.
"Need ammo?" He asked.
"Got plenty." I shrugged. "Doubt I'd ever have enough to hold off all of them outside."
"Yeah."
The shouting -- at least from inside the shuttle -- was gone. I frowned. "What's going on? The crew okay?"
"Should be fine." He gave me a quick flashing grin. "I locked them in the kitchen again. Rather dark in there, but it's midpoint. They should be fine, and hey, they can finish off that pizza." He tucked a last magazine into his belt. "Shall we?"
"Sounds fine to me." He could've been suggesting we storm the Alamo one last time for kicks and I would've gone along. Some part of me was just beginning to register that I'd voluntarily walked out onto the loading trunk of a shuttle and opened the door with absolutely no thought as to scoping out the area. I hadn't lost my touch, I knew that -- there were a shitload of dead bodies back on L3 that proved otherwise -- but I'd lost something. Wits. Oh, and way too much sleep.
If I'd ever wanted proof I wasn't fifteen anymore... I probably had it, right then. Damn it. I wanted to kick something, but I didn't; I had a suspicion the low-grav impact would send me just enough backwards that I'd end up knocking myself out on a low-hung pipe or something. The devil's own luck had run out, I guessed, so I stood with Jack, shoulder-to-shoulder, at the entrance to the shuttle loading tank. If there was a weak spot on the ship, that'd be it -- Wufei's histrionics with the assault rifle against the shuttle's nose notwithstanding.
"Hold in there," Jack whispered, placing a light hand on my shoulder.
"I'm good," I said, through gritted teeth. At least my gun-hand was steady, trained on the door -- so when the doors blew, I'm really rather surprised I didn't start firing immediately. Something held me back, just long enough to squint through the smoke and sparks flaring from where the ventilation pipes were now shunting down onto busted cable. A figure moved, and Jack tensed, but neither of us fired. Or maybe I did, and I couldn't tell any difference, with the ringing in my ears.
When the figure stepped out from the billowing smoke, I was rather glad I'd not fired. Mostly. Alright, I admit it, a part of me was really tempted. Just to wipe the smirk off his face.
"Lay down your guns," Trowa said, and there wasn't a single hint that he had a bad knee, or a bum shoulder. He moved with a panther's grace, gun trained on us with a steady hand that I knew wouldn't require even a heartbeat of concentration to check the sights -- he could shoot blind and hit his target. I glanced at Jack, who had an expectant look on his face, and I nodded.
Carefully, slowly -- and doing my best to keep my expression mimicking Jack's confusion and ignorance -- I set my gun on the metal decking. Jack set his beside mine, and we stood up. The motion of leaning over and back up again made me dizzy, but when I put my head down, I could tell my shirt was soaked in blood. My own blood. From my goddamn nose, how fucking pathetic. I stared past my chest at the gun at my feet, and tried to focus. I wanted to kill those bastards -- that's why I was there. I wanted them wiped off the face of the planet, but looked like the other pilots had come in and done it for me. I clenched my fists. Hilde hadn't been their best friend. She'd been mine, and this wasn't their--
"Kitchen," Jack said, and it dawned on me that there'd been talking and I'd not noticed. I tried to focus my eyes again. Jack said something to me, then again. "Pilot?"
"The co-pilot," I replied, and fought to keep my words from sounding slurred. "Locked in the... in the storage room. Locker...storage." I shrugged, wanted to glare. A last explosion outside the shuttle, but this time we weren't the target. The shuttle merely shifted in place, last cries of metal as it slid the final few inches free of the mooring rack to land on its side on the shuttle workfloor. A quick thump, and the shuttle was still.
Trowa nodded, lips moving, but I just stared past him, at the shower of sparks coming off the main power cable every time the ventilation system kicked in, trying to stabilize against the blown rear doors. Someone else was moving around out there, various shapes, but the sparks were awfully pretty. Coming down, gold and red, like fireworks...
I took a breath, and steeled myself for the last bit. This was probably where they'd sort out the bad from good, rescue the not-in-danger crew -- at least, I hoped not quite in danger -- and then... well, I had no idea. I couldn't even think of the next minute, to be honest. One minute there was one Trowa, then three; two Jacks, then four. And then abruptly, there was one Heero, and I started, instinctively squinting, shutting my eyes hard, opening them to see the reality and not four Trowas because if I wanted hell, that would be it-- and then my eyes did focus, but this time it was on Heero's quick step forward and that unexpected maneuver I should still know so well. A fist backed with bone and metal-bending muscle, and a world of hurt in the curl of his lips, all of it moving faster than I could follow, and the one blow landed in my gut and sent me to my knees.
All the air went right out of my lungs. I bet my eyes bugged out or something -- I could feel them go wide, but everything had gone black in the sudden removal of me from the oxygen-breathing part of the world. I think I gasped, choked, or maybe I just gracefully slid from consciousness, but I never did shit gracefully, I'm the wrong pilot if that's what you want. The metal grating dug into the palms of my hands, and I struggled to keep some dignity and not fall over, but then a hand landed on my shoulder. I choked again, and I was dragged up and thrown over a bony shoulder. Other things filtered in, as I slid over the person's ribs, falling into place in the uncomfortable position: footsteps storming off, clink of metal, Trowa speaking and Jack murmuring words at regular intervals, just two words: I do, I do. My wrists felt cold, ringed somehow. Just as my cheek came to rest against the black of a Preventer's jacket, all I could think was...
Nothing -- and no one -- ever really changes.
It's almost 4am, and my eyeballs are about to fall out. Think that's enough for now?
Hilde once said that when all else fails, scream like a girl. Given that every time I blinked -- and with no one moving, I think my eyelids were the sole action in the entire bay -- it seemed like the nineteen-whatever gun-holding hands suddenly became thirty-eight, then seventy-six, and snapped back again -- I was giving the entire girl-screaming concept some serious thought. Quick thought, okay, but still serious.
So I was a little preoccupied when a once-familiar sound echoed across the shuttle bay. Maybe to the untrained ear it was just a click, but that barest hesitation a split-second before the click followed by a half-heard kaCHUNK was definitely the sound of an AR-15 being flipped over to fully automatic. Except... none of the men had moved. I blinked again. Had they? Not that I was that keen on someone putting a whole round of four-fifty-eights in my belly, being rather attached to my gut as it is, thanks, but if I'm about to deal with unfriendly fire, I want it where I can see it, and shoot right back.
"Gentlemen," a man's voice said, firm and polite, but clear and unamplified. Sounded like it was coming from above me, actually. A few of the men looked confused, glancing around, and I made a point to look just as bewildered, hands still raised just a hair, like I'd been about to surrender but wasn't sure why -- but other than my gaze darting up and around to see what little I could past the rim of the shuttle's docking tank -- and the boatload of guns still trained on me, damn it -- I couldn't see jack.
"I suggest you put down those weapons."
Okay, that time? Not needing to pretend at the bafflement, because I knew that voice. Quatre? What the fuck was Quatre doing there? And, oh, shit --
"Yo," a voice said from behind me, quietly. Jack. "What's going on?"
"I don't know," I whispered, trying not to move my mouth. "I think we've got--"
"This is your only chance," Quatre said, still the consumate diplomat, smooth, charming, but with a hint of steel.
"Trouble," I spat, and decided to hell with the guys with guns. I backpedaled, hands still up -- just so no one got the bright idea I was reaching for a weapon -- but I wasn't going out there. I grabbed Jack and yanked him backwards, around the corner from the open tank doors.
"What the hell?" His words tumbled over mine, and when he tripped, I jerked hard and we flew backwards, away.
Maybe two seconds, three, at most, between Quatre's warning and when I hit the deck with Jack beside me. He gave me a stunned look, and I said, "trust me, you don't want to be out there in the next twenty--"
And lo, did Quatre open fire.
Jack goggled. I yelled at the rest of the crew to get down, someone hit the mechanism to close the shuttle doors. Last thing we needed was stray gunfire burying itself in the bulkhead. Ship'd be out of commission for three months on repairs, and what the fuck was I doing worrying about some smuggler's ship when Quatre, the bloody fucking hell was he doing here?
The crew was running around, but amazingly quiet except for yelled updates as they powered down and closed up the tank doors, sealing us against any breaches short of -- well, short of Quatre. I was just reaching the pilot's seat and the transmission jacks when a massive explosion went off from somewhere under the starboard engine. The entire shuttle rocked right off its mooring-lock and slammed back down again, and I found myself face-first on the floor from the impact. My head ached, and for just that long, I wanted to close my eyes and pass out. It took everything I had to stumble to my feet, wipe away the blood now pouring from my nose and split lip, and check the shuttle's readouts.
"Fire on the lower starboard deck, and hull damage," someone reported. "I'm sealing off C-2, C-3."
"Got it," Jack yelled. "Everyone okay?"
Several voices called back, mine among them, and no one blinked. I'd not hurt them, after all, except to deprive them of seventeen hours of flying time -- and okay, so maybe that'd be major hurting in my book, but I admit I'm a unique case in some ways -- and for hte most part, we were suddenly all Sweepers and far more worried about the ship's systems than whether the gunfight going on outside the shuttle was going down, up, or sideways.
"Juice is dropping," a third voice hollered. "I think they're--"
Another jolt, this one throwing us sideways just as the pilot's sensors lit up like an entire colony in glowing blue. The light barely burned into my retinas before I yelled a warning, and grabbed the guy nearest me, shoving him away from the co-pilot's seat and throwing him down. The shuttle banks exploded, overloaded. The air smelled heavy of ozone, and I could swear my entire braid was standing on end from the electricity dispersing. Little pieces of melted plastic and bright sparks sprinkled down; I rolled off the guy with a groan. He was okay, but only once I landed on my back did I realize a chunk or two of circuit board must've made for a nice projectile.
I really, really wished I hadn't gotten out of bed that morning. Or the morning before, or seventy-two hours before. I couldn't remember. I rolled over again, only my stomach, and forced myself up. I'd meant to come in and take out these bastards, just like the last, and now I was trapped in a shuttle with the same guys I'd trapped in the kitchen, and seemed like everyone out there wanted to board this shuttle and take us out. Or get us to take them out, though not in the fun blood-everywhere, things-go-boom way.
Speaking of boom... another one, then a third. Jack was yelling himself hoarse, repeating the reports coming in from the six stations around the shuttle. No electricity, half those guys were working in the dark. Away from the pilot's seats, the docking bay's weak light didn't reach farther than the doorway, and beyond that was pitch black. I groaned, not liking the notion of heading in there amongst guys that I might be able to trust, maybe, if I didn't let down my guard. Then I spun at the co-pilot's yell to see Wufei standing on the nose of the shuttle, assault rifle tucked under his arm, beta c-mag hooked in waiting. I grabbed the co-pilot by the collar, again backing the hell up just as Wufei raised the assault rifle, threw a switch with his thumb, braced himself, and began firing.
The space-glass held... mostly. Then I realized he wasn't shooting it, but the bolts holding it in.
"What the fuck is he doing?" The copilot crouched behind me in the hallway, hands over his ears. He flinched with every report, echoing through the shuttle down the main hallway, sound beating against the metal like a million hands pounding on a tin drum -- with us stuck inside.
"He's taking out the seals," I yelled, and shoved the guy into the small storage locker. "Stay there. Keep down, and when the good guys show up, they'll let you out."
"What? Which ones are the good guys?" He bolted upright, but I shoved him back again, and pried the automatic door from its pocket, pulling it closed with a scream of metal grating on metal.
"The ones that don't try to shoot you," I replied, and with a last heave, threw the door closed and bolted it.
Wufei, taking out the seals, and Quatre, standing somewhere overhead and picking them off. Who else had come along for this party, and more importantly, who'd invited them? I found Jack in the portside weapons room, just forward of the kitchen. He nodded and held up a magazine.
"Need ammo?" He asked.
"Got plenty." I shrugged. "Doubt I'd ever have enough to hold off all of them outside."
"Yeah."
The shouting -- at least from inside the shuttle -- was gone. I frowned. "What's going on? The crew okay?"
"Should be fine." He gave me a quick flashing grin. "I locked them in the kitchen again. Rather dark in there, but it's midpoint. They should be fine, and hey, they can finish off that pizza." He tucked a last magazine into his belt. "Shall we?"
"Sounds fine to me." He could've been suggesting we storm the Alamo one last time for kicks and I would've gone along. Some part of me was just beginning to register that I'd voluntarily walked out onto the loading trunk of a shuttle and opened the door with absolutely no thought as to scoping out the area. I hadn't lost my touch, I knew that -- there were a shitload of dead bodies back on L3 that proved otherwise -- but I'd lost something. Wits. Oh, and way too much sleep.
If I'd ever wanted proof I wasn't fifteen anymore... I probably had it, right then. Damn it. I wanted to kick something, but I didn't; I had a suspicion the low-grav impact would send me just enough backwards that I'd end up knocking myself out on a low-hung pipe or something. The devil's own luck had run out, I guessed, so I stood with Jack, shoulder-to-shoulder, at the entrance to the shuttle loading tank. If there was a weak spot on the ship, that'd be it -- Wufei's histrionics with the assault rifle against the shuttle's nose notwithstanding.
"Hold in there," Jack whispered, placing a light hand on my shoulder.
"I'm good," I said, through gritted teeth. At least my gun-hand was steady, trained on the door -- so when the doors blew, I'm really rather surprised I didn't start firing immediately. Something held me back, just long enough to squint through the smoke and sparks flaring from where the ventilation pipes were now shunting down onto busted cable. A figure moved, and Jack tensed, but neither of us fired. Or maybe I did, and I couldn't tell any difference, with the ringing in my ears.
When the figure stepped out from the billowing smoke, I was rather glad I'd not fired. Mostly. Alright, I admit it, a part of me was really tempted. Just to wipe the smirk off his face.
"Lay down your guns," Trowa said, and there wasn't a single hint that he had a bad knee, or a bum shoulder. He moved with a panther's grace, gun trained on us with a steady hand that I knew wouldn't require even a heartbeat of concentration to check the sights -- he could shoot blind and hit his target. I glanced at Jack, who had an expectant look on his face, and I nodded.
Carefully, slowly -- and doing my best to keep my expression mimicking Jack's confusion and ignorance -- I set my gun on the metal decking. Jack set his beside mine, and we stood up. The motion of leaning over and back up again made me dizzy, but when I put my head down, I could tell my shirt was soaked in blood. My own blood. From my goddamn nose, how fucking pathetic. I stared past my chest at the gun at my feet, and tried to focus. I wanted to kill those bastards -- that's why I was there. I wanted them wiped off the face of the planet, but looked like the other pilots had come in and done it for me. I clenched my fists. Hilde hadn't been their best friend. She'd been mine, and this wasn't their--
"Kitchen," Jack said, and it dawned on me that there'd been talking and I'd not noticed. I tried to focus my eyes again. Jack said something to me, then again. "Pilot?"
"The co-pilot," I replied, and fought to keep my words from sounding slurred. "Locked in the... in the storage room. Locker...storage." I shrugged, wanted to glare. A last explosion outside the shuttle, but this time we weren't the target. The shuttle merely shifted in place, last cries of metal as it slid the final few inches free of the mooring rack to land on its side on the shuttle workfloor. A quick thump, and the shuttle was still.
Trowa nodded, lips moving, but I just stared past him, at the shower of sparks coming off the main power cable every time the ventilation system kicked in, trying to stabilize against the blown rear doors. Someone else was moving around out there, various shapes, but the sparks were awfully pretty. Coming down, gold and red, like fireworks...
I took a breath, and steeled myself for the last bit. This was probably where they'd sort out the bad from good, rescue the not-in-danger crew -- at least, I hoped not quite in danger -- and then... well, I had no idea. I couldn't even think of the next minute, to be honest. One minute there was one Trowa, then three; two Jacks, then four. And then abruptly, there was one Heero, and I started, instinctively squinting, shutting my eyes hard, opening them to see the reality and not four Trowas because if I wanted hell, that would be it-- and then my eyes did focus, but this time it was on Heero's quick step forward and that unexpected maneuver I should still know so well. A fist backed with bone and metal-bending muscle, and a world of hurt in the curl of his lips, all of it moving faster than I could follow, and the one blow landed in my gut and sent me to my knees.
All the air went right out of my lungs. I bet my eyes bugged out or something -- I could feel them go wide, but everything had gone black in the sudden removal of me from the oxygen-breathing part of the world. I think I gasped, choked, or maybe I just gracefully slid from consciousness, but I never did shit gracefully, I'm the wrong pilot if that's what you want. The metal grating dug into the palms of my hands, and I struggled to keep some dignity and not fall over, but then a hand landed on my shoulder. I choked again, and I was dragged up and thrown over a bony shoulder. Other things filtered in, as I slid over the person's ribs, falling into place in the uncomfortable position: footsteps storming off, clink of metal, Trowa speaking and Jack murmuring words at regular intervals, just two words: I do, I do. My wrists felt cold, ringed somehow. Just as my cheek came to rest against the black of a Preventer's jacket, all I could think was...
Nothing -- and no one -- ever really changes.
It's almost 4am, and my eyeballs are about to fall out. Think that's enough for now?