Posted 19 August 2015 - 04:30 AM
P.S. If it hadn’t been me, I’d hunt down whatever idiot decided not to name my characters until they came up in conversation and break his legs.]
Three new figures entered the quietly refilling Watering Hole. They wore matching uniforms; polished black boots, pressed black combats with a black leather jacket over a pressed steel gray t-shirt. The jacket bore an interlocking, bright crimson pattern of parallel angular half inch thick lines. Some said the pattern was old norse, dating back to the days of the Earth Vikings on Terra, identifying the wearer and carrying powerful charms of protection and invoking the strength and might of the Old Gods. Others said that this was simply rubbish, it was merely designed to look like that or possibly just to look cool. Yes of course it does, say the first group, it’s old bloody norse in blood red on a black leather jacket...
It’s the kind of argument that can only end in a gunshot.
Speaking of the wearers, they just don’t look the part today. Their uniforms are immaculate, freshly laundered, steamed, pressed and vac sealed until they were put on. A foolish man could be forgiven to decide against picking a fight with the wearer of a uniform such as these, as he could lose a fist or perhaps an entire limb on a particularly lethal seam.
Their wearers just do not match. On another day perhaps, they could be mistaken for figures of legend, stepping out of time and into the bar clad in leather and khaki instead of the plate steel that must surely be their normal wear. For one would need such hardy stuff to slay gods and seduce goddesses (or perhaps the other way around) and forge the myths and legends that such noble figures surely do.
Their leader is a man of average height, for the leader he must be as it says ‘Colonel’ on his uniform right above the breast pocket on a green cloth tag. The seamstress, for it must have been a seamstress, has embroidered tiny pink urbanmechs with love hearts for torsos in exquisite stitching round the edges in silk thread, mere millimetres high. His physique is not particularly impressive, topping out a little under 6 foot with short red hair that is usually cropped quite short. It runs quite nicely down his cheeks into a chinstrap beard of a much more vibrant red, over his lips and down his chin in a usually neatly trimmed and close cropped goatee. His blue eyes are known to shine with mirth and occasionally blaze with intensity. His strides are seen to be long and purposeful, his carriage upright and full of determination. His voice is measured and powerful, carrying to the back of any room. The holovids would love him.
But that is other days and today is today. Today his hair is shaggy and much in need of a cut, his chinstrap and neat goatee have sprouted to a veritable plank of incandescent neckbeard that one could, in an emergency, potentially use as a battering ram to open a door in a student flat. His eyes are dull and darkly ringed in the royal purple of the utmost fatigue. His long purposeful stride is hobbled by a limp from a stiff right leg that seems most unwilling to bend. His voice, though it still projects unwanted into quiet corners, sounds like that of a drill sergeant after the completion of boot camp – strained and worn.
All in all he looks, as Walt the barman is about to say, like a man in dire need of a pint.
To his left is a giant of a man, skin as black as a House Lord’s heart and as bald as their ambition. His uniform says Captain in baby blue, on a neat strip of soft cream cotton with twelve baby blue angels holding up the edges. And they are, one can see if they look close enough, holding it up as the stitching does not link the angels. He has emerald green eyes – though right now they look like they could use a polish – and sparkling white teeth – though they need a brush. He dwarfs the Colonel, with the kind of broad chest and shoulders that make an Atlas consider renewing it’s gym membership and an extra few inches in height. On another day, with a twinkle in his eye and a blinding flash of teeth, he could be heard to describe the height difference as about a d*ng length, wouldn’t you say? With a cheeky elbow into the side of the third figure, a lady, and a wink.
But it is not another day, it is today, and he too looks exhausted. His proud frame seems somehow tight, like he hasn’t eaten enough and while his impudent nature cannot be suppressed for long in any conditions, his smile is infrequent and brief and could not have blinded Nicholas the clanner tomorrow morning at the height of the poor bondsman’s first ever hangover, had he been around to see it. Even his shaven skull is does not shine. If one knew him one would know him to be out of sorts, though he was shaven to the quick, for with no scalp wax he would normally feel undressed. For all his nobility and physical might, he moves like a man drifting along on the tide, quite unable and unwilling to determine his direction. He does not speak.
The third figure is a fine figure of a woman, if you like the type of strong woman who earns a more literal form of the description than most. Well toned, almost as tall as the black giant, with long blonde hair down to the small of her back. On that other day we’ve been mentioning she would most closely resemble a futuristic Valkyrie descended from Asgard - by the orders of the old gods her jacket may or may not reference – to carry fallen warriors back to the halls of Valhalla. But as has been said, it is not that day. Today she looks like she has a mind to fell those warriors herself and they can just stay right here or make their own way, thank you very much. Her hair falls loose and contrary to the two men by her side it is clear she has not let her standards of hygiene slip. Her hair is full bodied and lustrous, her skin clear and unblemished. Her makeup is subtle, just the necessities to hide the same fatigue as her companions. Her stride is angry, uncharacteristically graceless as she is forced to move slowly for their leader’s sake. Her rapid steps seem to beat an impatient rhythm. Her voice is waspish at present, like one in great annoyance. Her name tag is a sliver of half inch thick armour plate, embroidered onto her jacket with fine copper wire and simply reads ‘Chief,’ with a crossed wrench and screwdriver motif worked underneath with the copper thread. She hisses out the last word, for she is the sort that must always have it, and her blue eyes flash round the room in angry challenge. For what one can only guess but they soften quickly as they alight on Greta, who smiles and waves with a concerned look in her eyes, and holds up a finger.
“Ho Walt.” Says the leader, resting against the bar. One gets the impression from the pose that he’s supposed to be using a crutch or some other implement to keep the weight off his bad leg, but is instead the kind of stubborn idiot who has decided he is tired of such coddling and is determined to do without. He is concealing his relief well, but not well enough to avoid a vindictive smirk from the Valkyrie woman. Of course, knowing this, he is not going to give her the pleasure of actually looking, and instead continues kidding on he doesn’t care and looks at the barman.
“You look like a man in dire need of a pint,” Observed Walt with a raised eyebrow, already reaching for three large steins.
“That’s a bit more than a pint Walt.” Responds the black giant with a tired smile. It does not blind but it does flash a bit, briefly.
“Well Vantas, I have never seen you come in here and not had the other eleven so I thought I’d save myself a little time. Got these four pinters in for you special.” He said with a straight face, prompting a laugh from the Captain who was perfectly aware that they’d always been there. He’d noticed them his first night in The Watering Hole, and had never once ordered anything smaller that could legally be served in such quantity. “Got two good choices for you, Timbiqui Dark and the New Caledonian Oatmeal Stout.” Walt paused to wait for Vantas’ reaction but was interrupted by a loud cry.
“Get out of my bar!” Greta jumped onto the captain’s back, wrapping an arm round his neck and playfully slapping at his head with the other to mock howls of pain. “You always cause trouble!”
She gave a shriek as Vantas pulled her most of the way over his head and held her upside down, quickly pulling her skirt back down in an attempt at modesty. A difficult state to achieve with one’s bottom crooked over a giant’s shoulder at a height taller than most men’s heads, but she is to be congratulated for a solid attempt nonetheless. Hugging her tight he spun the still shrieking barmaid round, yelling “Help! Help! Ambush!” In a deep and booming, albeit muffled shout into her bosom. A pair of truly fearsome arms soon grabbed him round the waist and with a grunt, turned both the Captain upside down and Greta the right way up again. Releasing Greta, Vantas did his best to lean forward and look up at Sven from round about his kneecaps and gave a meek “I surrender?”
The bouncer grinned and returned the mechwarrior to his full and upright position. “F*ck you’re strong.” He said, clapping Viking’s hand.
“I do real work Vantas Strider,” Rumbled Sven with a wide grin. The Valkyrie pulled away from hugging Greta and the Colonel’s eyes grew hard. The levity that had begun to infect the big mechwarrior faded, and he leaned back on the bar. “Uh...sorry. Old joke. It went bad?”
“Very,” Replied Captain Vantas Strider, with a sad look and a sigh. “Very bad indeed.”
“Worst so far.” Growled the redhead. “15 mechs, 8 aerospace fighters, a Union class dropship and I don’t know how many ground vehicles. 9 mechwarriors dead, all the pilots, the crew of the Union, the staff on board and nearly two hundred civilians on board when it went down. Fell from two hundred feet.”
There was a moment of silence while the Hole’s staff processed the result of 3,600 hundred tonnes falling so far.
“Blake’s blood...” Whispered Greta. “I’m sorry Colonel Felth, di-“
“Gavin.” He interrupted. “Tonight...I’m just Gavin. No Greta. Everyone we’d taken out to the LZ...If they weren’t in a transport already, they didn’t make it. More fool me, I was still out there trying to take potshots at fighters. Ironborn got pulped. Salvageable, but she crushed my leg to return the courtesy.” He patted the offending limb and raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Oh yes, Walt, here,” He pulled a credit chit from his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”
Walt was still holding the three steins. “You left two thousand c-bills for your boys when you left.”
“Yes,” Replied Gavin evenly, “So how much do I owe you?”
The barman shrugged and took the chit. “Somewhere between another one and two.”
Gavin nodded at the chit. “There’s ten. You’re going to have a lot of Irregulars in in the next few days. Just tell them when the tab runs out and we’ll get it topped up.”
“Speaking of...?” Walt gestured with the steins again.
“The oatmeal for me, please mate.” The leader replied and settled onto a stool with a wince. “And for the love of the Sphere Walt, have one yourself would you?”
Vantas grinned at that. “The Dark for me, Walt.” He still leaned heavily against the bar and quietly accepted another hug from Greta. Love of the Sphere. Still getting used to that one.
Gavin looked over at the formidable looking woman, studying the cocktail menu as if she didn’t know it from memory. “A cider for the Chief I think.” She looked up in annoyance as if to retort but he wasn’t finished. “I’m sure she’ll have picked some esoteric concoction by the time she’s done talking to Mr. Green.”
Walt handed over the stout and started on the cider. “He might still be kicking about upstairs if you hurry Ms. Loaec.”
She rolled her eyes. “Walt, honey, if the Colonel is ‘just Gavin’ tonight you can bet every c-bill in this place I’m just Sara.” She took the cider and headed for the stairs.
“Last mention of business for the night Walt,” Gavin said, massaging his stiff leg with a grunt. “We need more recruits. Anyone that can fly and has a ride I’ll take. Mechwarriors we can trust, engineers, EMTs, the works. Any other companies willing to support us on mercy runs. We’re stretched so thin I’ll take armour and infantry. We’ve suddenly got the space.” He said bitterly. “Sara’s saying the same to Mr. Green and trying to organise repairs.”
Walt nodded, plugging the credit chit into the till and updating the tab for the Rogue’s Armoured Irregulars. “Should have a few you can use. Get the slab of midnight to drop over a poster and some fliers tomorrow, I’ll have Greta put them up when the place gets busy. Say,” He segwayed smoothly, reaching for a tulip and filling it for himself. “Why don’t you ask Sven what happened to the ceiling fan?”
The two Irregulars looked up at the ceiling quizzically. There was a moment while the exposed ceiling as observed, flaking and cracked plaster and a few stray wires properly taken in. Vantas nudged Gavin and pointed at the missing appliance, shuffled into a corner that Sven was trying hard to get in the way of.
“Sven...” Began Gavin, now sporting an impressive ale moustache.
“What on Terra happened to the fan, Sven?” Exclaimed Vantas with an upraised hand. “It’s summer Sven!”
Greta giggled and decided to go back to work, moving through the bar and making small talk with the other patrons. It was possibly her brightest smile of the evening, as an increasingly red faced Sven tried to explain to our three new friends how exactly a pint-sized drunk managed to boot a cup of recently produced urine into him and briefly take refuge on the fan. But her eyes were still a little sad, reflecting perhaps the questions she hadn’t asked and the dread of finding out who hadn’t come back.
[Hope that works guys, sorry for the Wall of Text!]
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