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On Tour With Dad


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#1 Thom Frankfurt


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Posted 26 June 2015 - 04:50 AM

[This past Sunday was the first Father's Day with the Old Man gone. Obviously that has left a lasting impression on me and gave me plenty to think about.

With that in mind I'm working forward with small time postings, basically just something to write out in the dark hours of the night when I'm having problems sleeping. Or when time allows.

I'm not sure if this will be a stand alone series or something else, but I'm thinking about everything centering on the Frankfurt Family and Thom's Terrors. And I'd like to toss out the invite to anyone willing to do so to hop in and post, whether it's about another member of the Terrors, random person or whatnot, all are welcome. The whole idea I have is just random stories in one place where all can enjoy reading for ease.

I'm going off into uncharted territory for me, if there's any inconsistencies or blatant mangling of cannon, be sure to point it out to me with source material so I can get it fixed. Otherwise enjoy!]

Don Thomas' Villa
New Havana, Republic of the Sphere
December 25, 3080, 13:26hrs

This better be the real thing, or I'm going to hunt down that merchant and oh, I don't know, string him up by his pubicals. Twilah thought while hefting the package in her hand. The comical sight of the weaselly man squirming brought a smile to the MechWarriors face as she turned her attention to the package it'self. A simple shoe box covered in a drab colored paper wrapper intricately folded then tied down with twine. It's contents a priceless ancient alabaster figurine of some obscure Egyptian goddess with a catlike head.

I just hope he doesn't have something like it already.

By this time it was no secret among the Terrors that the boss had something of a collection of knickknacks gathered throughout the years ever since he left Warlock so long ago, and though unlikely, there were rumors that the Old Man possessed a few items of immense value tucked away in the two locked sea trains that he toted from world to world. Though she dismissed most rumors right out of hand, such as Frankfurt having the pistol that Amaris used to assassinate Richard Cameron.

With that thought in mind, Twi gave out a weary sigh and strode forward across the red tiled floor of the villa's veranda, rounding the corner to take in the sight of her heavily tattooed father lounging about in Bermuda shorts and tropical styled shirt, his feet up talking to whom everyone in the Terrors refered to as Cousin Markus in an excited tone in Russian. With one hand the mercenary gestured wildly to the horizon where a score of off duty Terrors frolicked about on the beach, in the other a fat Cuban stogie rumor had that was rolled off on the inner thighs of one of Don Thomas' daughters.

Speak of the Devil... Twilah thought as two of the Don's daughters, Estella, and Gabriela, sauntered out upon the veranda through an open set of ornate double doors. Twilah fixed the two with a steely glare, their dress elegant and formal clashed with the mercenaries casual attire of jumpsuits, fatigues, and in the Commander's even more casual attire. Giggling the two presented Thom with an old bottle with a red bow, the elder merc barked out a laugh and offered a thanks in a horribly accentuated Spanish. The two young women giggled again and whispered things to Twilah's father in sultry voices...

Damn them and blind their eyes!

"Ugh... Oh's a'say Twilah, yous a'know Spanish 'aright? Wat des broads going on about?" the Elder Frankfurt asked noticing Twi for the first time.

"They were asking if you'd like a drink. A fine vintage they say..." She offered in an offhand way, putting the present in her other hand, rethinking of gifting it to her thuggish dad.

"Oh's all dat gibberish to'a ask someting simple a'like dat?" The man offered before turning to smile and nod at the two grinning girls who giggled and ran back in the villia to probably gather some glasses and ice.

"Beautiful, eh?" Twilah looked quizzically to her father to notice him gesturing to the horizon again. White wisps of clouds lazily crossed an azure sky, while below turquoise waters lapped up at a white sanded beach which stretched outwards to her right and to her left a healthy green rain forested capped mountains and cliffs dominated the skyline. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, catching a whiff of the shark meat Cousin Markus was grilling on open coals and slathering with a tamarind sauce. Nearby rock music played, she wasn't sure who, and just barely discernible the sound of the waves and jeers of the Terrors playing on the beach. She suddenly found herself at peace and opened her eyes and smiled.

"Der's a'nothin a'like havings Chirstmas in'a Bermuda shorts." He offered a smile and leaned back taking a long drag on the stogie. And suddenly she realized that everything about this assignment was a sham. Offically on paper the Terrors were listed as a rapid response unit to fly out and stamp out any remaining Blakist yet remaining upon the planet. That was a joke, they were there on vacation, globetrotting while Devin Stone picked up the tab. With that realization her eyes widened, Egypt for the pyramids, China for the Wall, the ancient battlefields and tourist traps... suddenly the weight of the gift in her hand multiplied, feeling like an anchor threatening to drag her down.

"Here. For you." She took a step forward and offered the package in disgust. She turned to leave but held back when Don Thomas' daughters came giggling back through the double doors, ice clinking in the tumbler glasses they carried. "Whoa...you'sa shouldn't have." the elder Frankfurt stated while tugging on the twine, with a 'thunk' the knot came undone, leaving the man to pull back the paper revealing the shoe box... "Go ahead open it, Thom," Twilah requested hoping that her gift would measure up with the local girls'. Lifting the lid, Thom gasped as the yellowed alabaster dully sparkled in the sunlight.

"Twilah dis is, ah, awesome...thank you." Slowly and gingerly the man fished the figurine from its crumpled newpaper cradle, and gave it an appraising look. "Ah, Sekhmet..." he smiled striking a pose with the figure and allowing Markus, Twilah, and the two girls a good glimpse. "A's God o' War," A pregnant pause followed that statement as the mercenary returned the figurine to it's box, a pause which lasted a mere five seconds before the Thomas' girls began their clucking while busying themselves with opening their gift and proceeding to pour drinks for everyone. Twilah feeling better about herself walked over to house to lean back upon the building with a smug smile on her face.

Yeah that's right, my gift was better you stup.... The bottle of rum suddenly shattering in Gabriela's hand closely accompanied by a nearby planter ended that train of thought causing the people to look upon each other curiously for few seconds before the rifle's report reached them.

"Snip-!" Twilah's shout drowned out as Gabriela's throat erupted in a crimson geyser, the sound of cracking crockery mingled with gurgled gasps as the woman collapsed and panicked shouts as the rifle's shot cracked.

Ducking low, Twilah peered in the direction that the shots seemed to be coming from, the nearby jungled hills and cliffs to their West. Markus ducked behind his barbecue wallowing in broken crockery, raw shark meat, and his taco's fixings. Estella sobbing clutched at her sister's throat trying to stem the crimson flow gradually spreading to soak into their white formal dresses. Dad seemed to be stunned, sitting there gaping at the jungled hills in disbelief as another bullet zipped in to punch through the grill. "Stravag!!" roared out Markus as sparks and bits of hot coals rained down upon him.

Activating her writs communicator Twilah began to bark out commands. "This is Nightmare Three, Nest is under sniper attack! Repeat, Nest is under attack! Terror actual is under fire! Requesting immediate fire support on grids W196 thru 200... Fry that hillside!!" The white stucco wall erupting a mere foot from her head caused the Canopian to duck her head back.

"Fraking Blakist!" She shouted even as replies came across her communicator. "Roger that Nightmare, Wicked Two moving to support, keep your heads down."No sh*t!" She shouted back watching in disbelief as Thom stumbled to his feet and waved a fist at the offending hillside daring to offer shelter to their assailants.

"YA FU*KING COWARDS!!! COME'S FORTH AN'A FIGHT'S ME LIKE'A MAN!!!" Seeing this, Twi sprang form her cover and darted forward tackling Thom and pinning him to the ground as another bullet zipped through the veranda shattering another planter.

"Jesus, Dad are you alright?!" Twiliah shouted at her father holding him close as the rifle report sounded again.

Suddenly overhead a dull chop, chop, chop passed followed with the unmistakable fabric ripping sound of light autocannon. In the distance foliage began to shred under the assault, a second later a high pitched whine proceeded several powerful explosions which trembled the earth and rattled the window panes as artillery slammed into the hillside. Not bothering to look at the devastation raining down upon the hillside, Twilah missed out as a Men Shen and Lao Hu appeared on the scene unleashing several hellish blast from their plasma rifles. Brilliant blueish flames cascading upon the hillside, liquid flame, devouring foliage, boiling off water and vaporizing flesh and bone.

It was there upon the bloodied tile floor, amongst the shattered crockery, admist the sobs, screams and chaos, in a tropical paradise turned warzone that Thom Frankfurt looked upon his daughter, Twilah Hunnington, (Frankfurt) for the first time. Slowly realization dawned upon the Warlockian's face.

"Dad?" He muttered out in disbelief.

Edited by Thom Frankfurt, 19 June 2019 - 01:00 AM.

#2 Andre Marek at the Uni


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Posted 05 July 2015 - 06:54 AM

Hi Thom,
I have a story of Marek’s that falls into this timeline, and also is very major in the theme of family. I am sorry to hear of your father's passing. You have my deepest sympathies.

Planet: Hood IV
Date: December 1, 3080
Time: 11:31 Hours
Name: Drock, Marek G
Age: 50
Allegiance: Lyran Commonwealth (taken bondsman in 3062 from Clan Wolf)

Marek stared solemnly at the holo disk news screen. News of an attack on Andiron near the FWL and LC border. Marek sighed as he watched a video of the destruction. Religious genocide is all that this was, in Marek’s mind. Nothing more than pure evil. Marek looked around at his wife, Maria. She was still young and beautiful. Long flowing black hair, a pointed chin and firm jaw line, risen cheek bones, deep luscious lips, and emerald green eyes. She had always been a vision of perfection in Marek’s mind. He himself was scared and battered. He had dark spiked hair, and once very handsome facial features. Now scars ran down his left cheek and across his eye as a reminder of his past. He bad a trimmed beard around his mouth and he was slightly greying at the temples.

He stroked his wife’s hair as she slept on the couch next to him, her head in his lap. Soon very soon, Marek would have the money to take them away. Take them into the Periphery and into a smaller faction. Factions not bothered by the outside world. He wanted solitude from the wars of the Inner Sphere and Clans. Having served with Clan Wolf and with House Steiner had taught him one thing: there is never anything right or good about war. He had lost so many of his men, his friends. Seeing the destruction on Anndiron brought it all back. Nate Files’ death at the hands of Khan Christu in the Refusal War was the most prominent. Nate had been young. A trueborn warrior, but something was different about him. Being in a unit of mostly Freeborn abtahka had changed Nate. He understood humor, love, and life. He kept it secret but he had understood it. Then after all that, he had been killed. Marek’s hands balled into fists as he remembered that. Marek heard the apartment doors open, and then a shout came out.

“Dad! You here?”

Marek got up and laid his wife’s head down on the couch as he walked into the hall. Arnoe stood there, arm in arm with a young woman (his long term partner). Arnoe and Benjamin (Marek’s sons) both grew up in Clan Wolf as a part of a Sibko, but like all freebirth they were to be put in second line units, until Marek managed to attain them as part of his unit. It took a long time for them to become accustomed to the concepts of love when they were taken as Isorla back to the Inner Sphere. Being back in a more normal civilization had given Marek the chance to be a father again, something he never got a chance to be when they were children. Marek hugged his youngest son and the girl as well.

“How are you?” Marek asked smiling. It hurt to smile. His scars had never healed, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Good, the Garrison has been good for us.” Arnoe replied. Arnoe had joined the Hood IV Garrison upon being accepted into Inner Sphere life. There he had met Aleah who was now his companion for life.

“Heard from your brother lately?” Marek inquired.

“Yeah. He talked to me yesterday. He was on Andiron when the Wobbies came around.” Arnoe replied, his expression going grim. “He is okay, but he reported that D’artanius was killed in action.”

Marek leaned against the wall stunned. D’artanius, one of his best friends. One who had been through everything with Marek, and even saved his life, dead. It was to much to handle for Marek. He howled and hit the wall denting the metal frame.

“F*ck them!” He shouted. “Goddamn those mother f*ckers to Hell!”

Edited by Marack Drock, 05 July 2015 - 06:57 AM.

#3 Thom Frankfurt


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Posted 09 August 2015 - 05:09 AM

[OOC: Thanks Marack. I meant to say that when I first read your post but somehow never got around to doing it. Super-Sorry.]

Once again, my knowledge of the Jihad and even the Blake organization are pretty much nil, so if anyone has any pointers or if there's issues with cannonicy be sure to send me some death threats to fix it. And thanks for reading, and as always, all are welcome to add to this. This welcome goes out to all, Old Fanfic Fanatics and the Young-Gun-Badasses from Bill's Golden Pen Event.

Also, I've been having computer issues of late and had to factory reset, so please bare me no ill will for any more grammar or language butchering than normal. ]

Mirador de Cerro nido
New Havana, Word of Blake Protectorate Republic of the Sphere
December 25, 3080, 13:30hrs

You are pathetic. You squeeze the trigger, not yank it.

It wasn't a pleasant thought, and certainly didn't offer any sort of positive encouragement, but that was the thought that the Acolyte had while spotting for his protegee. While the youth certainly had talent when it came to memorizing the Blessed Blake's Word, and was enthusiastic in fulfilling the Master's preaching, her skill with a rifle was sorely lacking. Gazing through his range finder binoculars he sighed as another bullet struck harmlessly, missing the cowering nonbelievers on the distant veranda and instead ruining whatever they had on the grill.

"Fine shooting, Samantha, you have them cowering in fear." was what he instead offered to his aimless lackey, whom he thought couldn't hit the broadside of a barn. He scanned the lot that were previously frolicking on the beach, finding them cowering under what cover could be found, an outcropping of rock, toppled picnic tables, and whatever other party supplies that they brought to the beach. He scanned back to the distant veranda as another spent shot fell harmlessly, blowing out a geyser of plaster from the villia's wall. Sudden movement caused him to gasp as the red tropical shirted mercenary stumbled to his feet and stood there like an idiot shaking his fist shouting obscenities their way.

"Him! Target that one!" Glee dripped from the acolyte's voice as he peered through the range finders, but it was fleeting for no shots came. Turning the Blakist looked on as his protegee stumbled with the long rifle's magazine, botching what should have been a simple reload, with a trembling hand and tear streaked face Samantha muttered out a stream of apologies and explanations that fell on the acolyte's deaf ears.

"Blake's Blood! give me that!" he hissed droping the binoculars and snatching up the rifle and magazine, Alejandro then slammed the 'zine home and yanked the bolt back with a well rehearsed motion, he then brought the rifle to his shoulder and spied through the scope finding the outlandish mohawked merc still standing there shouting out insults in a butchered English. Clicking up the magnification, the acolyte chuckled as the mercenary tore open his red and green tropical shirt, revealing a heavily tattooed torso.

Why is that a heart tattoo over his heart? Ha! it is... How delightful and ironic

Correcting his aim Alejandro brought his cross hairs slightly up and to right, just above the merc's shoulder. With the depression of the trigger the rifle jumped against the Blakist's shoulder and in the distance the figure crumpled, falling oddly... forward. Smiling the acolyte zoomed out, catching the movement of two antiquated Warrior VTOLs rapidly approaching over Old Havana's rooftops.

"Samantha, my dear, I think we may have wore out our welcome. Come, our work is done here." And with that the elder Blakist gently lifted his now sobbing protegee up by the elbow and began ushering her deeper into the forest following the old game trail they used to come in.

Edited by Thom Frankfurt, 19 June 2019 - 12:55 AM.

#4 Thom Frankfurt


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Posted 30 August 2015 - 04:24 PM

[OOC thoughts on character creation. Sometimes character creation is odd, well, for me anyways. It usually comes in one of three forms.

1. "Do you like my garden?" An organic process consisting of the very bare minimums, an idea, which slowly grows through play eventually leading to a final result. This can be a slow process starting off as simple as wanting to have a character pilot a certain mech/battlearmor, or whatnot. In all truth I spend more time thinking over what mech I should use, and recent days it's been me hunting down people (namely Rogue) looking for advice on jumpship/warship selections.

2. "It's all coming together now." Is a lot like the first process but it's not such a slow process. It usually starts with the idea of a final result, a picture in my mind and then it's cobbled together kind of like a jigsaw puzzle coming together in blocks and pieces.

3. "Big Bang Creation, or 'shut up, I'm talking here." This happens when I can't sleep at night. I'm laying in there, kicking around RP ideas "DeMarkus is going to do this, Thom is gonna be strutting through downdown Port Williams singing something off key, Tatianna is going to sexually assault some poor Snow Raven technician again.." And then someone rises up telling everyone to shut up. It's odd when that happens, it's like everything comes together all at once, Profession, name, description, and disposition...

With the creation of Larkin there were elements of all three basic steps.

It started with a scene in mind of a squad of battle armor troops searching about for signs of those 'Would be Blakist assassins' It then followed with me spending a God-awful amount of time trying to figure out what type of armor would be used. Then everything popped into place, the name, power armor, home world, description, hobbies, and disposition.

I thought it was interesting and wondered how character creation worked for everyone else. What thought process do you guys use during creation? ]]

#5 Thom Frankfurt


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Posted 30 August 2015 - 05:48 PM

Mirador de Cerro nido
New Havana, Word of Blake Protectorate Republic of the Sphere
December 25, 3080, 16:00hrs

"Anything?" Larkin whispered out the single word while dropping down to his knee to pry out a wickedly twisted chunk of shrapnel out of the base of a tree. Holding it aloft, the former leaguer turned it about in his Achileus' hand before tossing it carelessly to the side as his squad slowly checked in reporting that so far they've found no traces of the gunmen that killed Don Thomas' daughter while taking potshots at their commander.

"I think I have found something," cracked in the final member of his squad in a deep rumbling voice.

Turning Larkin turned to look upon the jungle hillside turned hellish landscape. Whereas earlier the hill boasted of thick vegetation, vibrant green, full of life, it now was torn and tortured, a lifeless moonscape, cratered, and strewn with shrapnel like the chuck that the trooper so recently tossed to the side. Blackened ruins of trees stabbed into the sky like broken fingers on a corpse's hand and everywhere silvery black ash rode the lazy breeze under the tropical sun.

"What is it, Finn?" Kyle asked spotting the black and gold armored trooper standing near the top of a boulder studded rise fifty meters distant. The figure raised a slab of dull metal and held it aloft over his power armor's head. "A bicycle, I think."

Wordlessly Larkin began walking in the direction of his subordinate, his footfalls adding more of the ash to the air, and not for the first time that day the Orientian thanked his power armor's air filtration system sparing him the toxic burnt plastic smell of plasma weapon discharges.

The ground is still hot. Klye thought while hoofing the distance to the rise, the bottoms of his armored feet growing unpleasantly warm. And despite his best efforts to he couldn't help but think of what a plasma weapon system could do to a trooper encased in a battle suit, and tried to focus on the bleak looking clouds heading their way.

"Storm's coming." Finn offered as a greeting reading Kyle's mind as he neared. "Going to be even harder to find anything in the rain." Larkin looked back towards the villa, his armor's HUD telling him it was just over three hundred meters distant, a chip shot for anyone with a decent rifle and any marksmen training. "Well then," the Terror turned to regard his comrade in arms. "We best stop enjoying this view and get to looking for something." The Orientian began to survey the hillside trying to judge where he'd set up to take shots at the villa. "About that, what exactly are we looking for?" Finn asked falling in beside him.

"I don't know. But we'll know when we find it. Best hurry though, I don't want to go back to the Old Man with empty hands."

Edited by Thom Frankfurt, 07 December 2015 - 02:47 AM.

#6 Thom Frankfurt


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Posted 15 May 2016 - 02:54 PM

Don Thomas' Villa
New Havana, Republic of the Sphere
December 25, 3080, 18:17hrs

Thom felt old. Surely more than his fifty three years of age. He chopped it up to a mixture of over a generation of war, of a near constant fight after fight against a never ending horde of enemies. Tossed in with the injuries he'd sustained on Solaris during the blitz, to the deaths of so many friends and loved ones during those early days of the Jihad, and now this, some faceless assassin trying to gun him down, on Christmas no less!

It's not the age, it's the mileage.... Thom thought bleakly, inclining his head to gaze out the study's window to look upon the rain pummeling the moonscaped hillside, yet not wanting to expose himself fully just incase there were still some ******* out there wondering if they had a bullet with his name on it. Turning his attention back to the study he had to admit, Don Thomas had a nice set up here. Besides the great view offered by the window, the Don's desk, an ancient slab of petrified English oak inlaid with an ultra modern computer, had up to the second security camera feed, from which Thom kept track of the local constables wrapping up their crime scene investigation. A quick glance back at the window still showed the traditional red and blue flashing lights flashing from the nearby private access road. Overhead a new series of Estella's sobs echoed from the vent, a clever way to keep tabs on ones daughter.

And speaking of daughter... Thom glanced at Twilah seated at another piece of petrified furniture, this time a respectable sized table, indifferently picking away at some candied yams, a bit of the Christmas feast that the villa's servants painstakingly made for all guest that were to attend the Don's Christmas ball. A ball, which in lieu of the afternoon's events, was canceled.

"You know... she does have your eyes, cousin." Markus budded into Thom's thoughts, like always making his remarks in Russian in a condescending tone. "Shut up!" Thom shot back, fixing Twilah with a withering look. [I[Sh!t, she really does have my eyes... [/I] The mercenary thought noticing for the first time. Twilah had joined up with the Terror's, Thom's not-so-merry band of misfits, shortly before his cutthroats shipped off Solaris to begin taking the fight to the Blakist. Thinking back on it, seeing the name Hunnington stitched across a Magistracy of Canopus uniform, with the dusky complexioned woman with the riot of black kinky curls did remind Thom of Twilah's mother, Shilah. But at the time he just saw the name, the service record with the Canopus military, and thought that this young woman in front of him was some sort of relation and nothing more. Now looking though he could see the resemblance, the steely gray eyes, the high cheekbones, and just enough of the shape of his ears to be comparable. As he admitted it to himself, he turned to look over the rooms furnishings, leaving his perch as another sob echoed from the vent.

This room is... stuffy. Yes, that's the word, 'stuffy.' Twilah thought while prodding at a particularly offending yam. She labeled the stuffiness partly to do with the windows and doors shut up to keep the burnt ozone stench from the plasma weapon discharges from permeating into the study, but mostly to do with the company she had. Her father, or more like sperm-doner, brooding beside a wrought iron framed window, gazing onto the crime scene with mild interest. The other occupant was the master tech Marcus, who shared her table idling snacking away on his plate with a mirthful expression and from time to time muttering something in Russian to Thom.

I really wish they'd stop doing that... Twi thought as another sob echoed from the rooms vent and looked over the decorations. Festive streamers lined the walls, stylized holly hangings, often with the words NOEL or Feliz Navidad dangling from them. She then glanced at Marcus' gritty and grease stained coveralls and dragged her eyes over to her father, noting the blood stained Bermuda shorts and tropical shirt with the gleaming white bandage covering the wound from her pulling him to cover and their tumble to the floor.

The blood soaked floor. Twilah reminded herself feeling a pang of pity for Don Thomas, his family and Estella particularly who gripped a dying Gabriella's hand with a vice-like grip while watching the life flee from her eyes. She then glanced back towards the window and watched the flashing red and blue play across her father's face. One thing was certain, everyone present would remember this Christmas for a very long time.

#7 Thom Frankfurt


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Posted 08 September 2019 - 10:22 AM

Catedral de San Cristobal
Havana (Old Town) Republic of the Sphere
December 31, 3080

They were burying Gabriela on New Year's Eve. A who's who of the local population attended to bid farewell to one of the beloved daughters of the Don. A good portion of the Terrors were in attendance, whether out of some unsung support of their paymaster, or obligation, Thom was unsure. Representatives from the newly forged Republic were in among the small throng of onlookers, not Stone or Prince Victor sadly, which was a shame. Among his mercenaries in their motley assortment uniforms (Terrors have no official dress code, field or otherwise) there was a somber sea of suits and dresses, blacks and browns with dots of white from the few from Eastern cultures. And as a bishop droned on, the mechwarrior's mind wandered as he looked over the interior of the cathedral.

First constructed in the mid 18th century, and undergoing numerous renovations during the millennia since 'Havana Cathedral' had stood up to the ravages of time very well. Constructed out of blocks of local coral, one could look intently into the pinkish white blocks and see the fossilized remains of ancient flora and fauna. The floor was black and white marble, the central nave was buttressed by eight stone flying arches located above the side aisles. From above and around him numerous statues and frescoes started out at the mass of people with what Thom viewed as judging eyes. Though one of the biggest claims to fame was that the church once held the remains of Christopher Columbus before they were shipped back to Spain and lost to history.

That thought got Frankfurt's thoughts wandering down a road it seldom ever went down; what would be his legacy and what would he leave behind? ***************************************************************************************************************
It was a beautiful service, with poetic benedictions. Twilah wiped away a tear at the edge of her eye with the back of a knuckle as the bishop reached the climax of his blessing. A slight nudge from Kaylee drew he attention to an proffered tissue. Gladly accepting and returning a warm smile to the technician, the mechwarrior glanced over the assembly of local politicians, mercenaries, house troops, and grieving Thomas family. She noticed her father seated across the center aisle from her in a staring contest with a statue of some long dead priest, though from the look of determination on his face, and knowing his bull-headedness, he looked like he'd win.

She thought about the week since the shooting, how detached the commander seemed to become, not just from her but the other Terrors as well. Security had increased with a infantry patrols and armored checkpoints. One of the armored infantry squad leaders had arrived shortly after her father came to the table where she sat prodding her candied yams with a folk. Kyle Larkin was an imposing man. Broad shouldered and muscled, with leathery skin from long hours in the sun, he spoke with a gravely voice that bordered on otherworldly, his uniform, FWL field fatigues, was crumpled, sweat stained, and his short blonde hair still damp. After a few moments of debriefing, he presented Thom with a handful of spent rifle cartridges in a caliber common with civilian hunting rifles.

Kaylee arrived shortly afterward, the tech thundering in like the storm that was currently raging outside. She was regarded as the go to among the technician corp, with even the few clan technicians deferring to her wishes on matters. DeMarkus Fankfurt's, her paternal grandfather, (interesting thought) widow, was aiding on a restructuring job in South America, on an installation up in the Andes Mountians, and must have only just arrived via shuttle. The silver and red haired technician nodded in greeting to the other tech in the room before glancing at Twilah with a thoughtful look on her face before turning her attention towards Thom. Lightning flashed lighting up the room and shortly afterward thunder boomed nearby.

"I just arrived from Cuzco, and I, oh boy, did I hear about some things while in transit," she offered while taking a seat. "I think it's a good idea that we have a nice talking to, Son." Kaylee stressed the word and Twilah wasn't sure what to make of that. Without question the other technician left with a nonchalant wave of the hand as bye and muttering something in Russian.

Twilah glanced towards the man that was her dad and then the technician who subdued the entire room with her mere presence. "Don't worry, girl. I got you." The widow offered in a warm tone before glancing at Thom. "You's are dismissed." Thom offered before turning his chair with a wince to look with a foul face squarely at the tech, and not wanting to see be in the stuffy room one second longer, she left, closing the door behind her. As she walked down the hall she glanced out the window at the strom raging just as shouts began to echo down the hall from the room she just vacated.

The next two days found Twilah aiding in cleanup efforts due to mudslides caused by the storm. She found comfort in the act, enjoying time in her Thunder aiding in moving or crushing hovercar sized boulders under her mechs feet. After all she was partly responsible, for ordering in support, she just wasn't aware of the overwhelming firepower that the Terrors would pump into the hillside. Atop of the autocannon fire from the VTOLs and the plasma discharges, there were missiles and even artillery plummeted into the hill. Blasted and scorched terrain mixed with rain spelled recipe for disaster, luckily nobody was injured in the slides. The rest of the time was uneventful for the most part, helping in maintenance on her mech and duties upon the Ora Lee taking the bulk.

She turned back to the service just as the bishop was wrapping up his sermon, and as the assembled mourners made to leave she glanced over to where her father remained in a staring contest with the long dead bishop's statue.

Edited by Thom Frankfurt, 08 September 2019 - 10:29 AM.

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