1
Once upon a time there was a hermit who lived on a remote swampy corner of a remote swampy planet. He used to be a MechWarrior, but hit the Inner Sphere Lottery Jackpot and gave up the life and retired there, keeping his Mech in a garage behind his home.
On a dark and stormy night, he basked alone in his overstuffed leather chair in front of the crackling heat of the fireplace, sixteen chapters into his favorite book, “Of `Mechs and Men”. Just as he poured himself a snifter of aged brandy, there was a sharp knock at his door. Intrigued, he opened the flimsy wooden door to the rainswept expanse of mire. On his doorstep stood a mysterious stranger, soaked to the skin and covered in the particularly sticky mud common to this particular swamp. The stranger pushed back his sodden hood, and spoke loudly to be heard over the drum of the rain on the `Mech garage.
“Good sir, I find myself midway through a journey and trapped in this swamp when the monsoon hit. Could I trouble you for a place to stay for the night?”
The hermit took pity on this soaked stranger.
“I can certainly give you some food, and a place by the fire, but I have to warn you.” The hermit held up his hand to keep the man from speaking. “I have only one place for you to stay, as my home is small. If you wish to sleep here overnight, you’ll have to do so in the cockpit of my BattleMech. It’s warm and dry, but I’m afraid it’s also haunted. No one I’ve ever met can sleep a full night there.”
The stranger smiled. “I think I can deal with a few unquiet ghosts in the machine. I’d like to take you up on your offer.”
The hermit wordlessly stepped back and ushered the man inside. They spent a pleasant evening discussing various topics while the stranger dried out in front of the fire. The hermit prepared a simple but hearty meal, much to the delight of the stranger. At last, it was time for bed. The hermit took the man down the long hallway that connected the garage to his home, opened the door and showed him the battle-worn BattleMech. Its chain ladder hung nearly to the ground, and a faint odor of grease and petrochemicals hung in the humid air. The drumming of the rain was a thunder in this place. Well-wishes for the evening were exchanged, and the stranger climbed the ladder to the open cockpit door, crawled inside, and closed the hatch. The hermit returned to the home proper, crawled into his bed, and went to sleep.
He was awakened by loud running footsteps in the garage hallway. Bleary-eyed, he sat up and hit the light to see the stranger dash into the room.
“You were right,” panted the stranger, “it IS haunted. But I can deal with this by using a little trick I picked up from the triple-breasted go-go-girl of H. Beas Canopian Pleasure Dome on Virgon Seven.” The hermit blinked at this. “I just need three little items. I need a candle, a block of wood, and a piece of string about yay long.” He held his hand shoulder width apart to indicate the length of string, and looked expectantly at the hermit.
Again, the hermit blinked. “Ah…certainly. I have those things in my cellar. I’ll just be a moment.” Choking back his curiosity over what the heck the stranger was going to do with the items, he retrieved them from the cellar and dumped them into the waiting stranger’s arms. The stranger nodded his thanks and wordlessly ran back toward the garage.
The hermit tried to go back to sleep, but his curiosity couldn’t be satisfied, and he lay awake for some time before giving it up as a bad job and deciding he’d be pulling an all-nighter. As such, he flopped in his comfortable chair in front of the embers and opened his book, hoping to question the stranger at length in the morning.
About an hour later, he heard a tremendous, blood-curdling scream from down the hallway. As he started in his chair, he heard the door to the garage burst open, and the cloaked stranger sprinted down the hallway, gathering a full head of steam, and before the hermit could utter a word, burst the front door off its hinges in a cloud of splinters and disappeared into the misty swamp.
The hermit was rather put out. He examined the door, realized he’d have to buy a new one, and ordered a delivery from the nearest city on the other side of the planet for one door, wooden, reinforced with metal bars. One couldn’t be too careful living out alone in a swamp, and the hermit decided he should have gotten a new door years ago. The door arrived, was installed and paid for, and the hermit settled back in to his solitary existence.
About a year later, on a dark and stormy night in the middle of the swamp, the hermit sat in front of his fire, enjoying chapter 21 of “Captain Dante’s Inferno”, when he heard a rapping at his door – a clear insistent tapping, somewhat louder than before. He swung himself out of the chair, wondering who it could be, and opened wide the door. Swampland there, and nothing more. Then from around the corner stooped the same stranger that he had seen the previous year. The man straightened and brushed the rain-soaked hair from his face.
“Sorry about that. I dropped my…well…never mind. Look, I owe you an apology sir. I destroyed your door (though I see you’ve upgraded – nice!) and I’m sorry. I can’t say what came over me. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me and let me stay here? I’ll surely die if I’m outside in a swamp on a night like tonight.”
Being of a more or less kind heart, the hermit gave in, but warned the stranger that, like the last year, the only place he could stay would be in the haunted Mech cockpit. Again, the stranger said it was no problem.
“Last year was just a fluke. Trust me, I’ll handle it fine this time.”
The pair enjoyed a fine dinner, and some in-depth conversation (which the hermit hadn’t had since the previous year), and eventually it was again time for bed. The stranger walked off down the hallway to the Mech garage, and the hermit settled in to go to sleep. He soon found, however, that he couldn’t sleep for some reason. Anticipation kept him awake, and he soon found out why. Not long after the lights had gone out, he heard the garage door open and the man came walking down the hallway.
“Well, it’s still haunted if you were wondering,” said the stranger, “but my trick’ll work this time. I just need a candle, a block of wood, and a piece of string about yay long.” He held his hands shoulder width apart to indicate the length of string, and looked expectantly at the hermit.
The hermit sighed and wordless went into his cellar to get the items. After a few moments of rummaging through Taurian personal ads (“Hottest babes in or out of the Inner Sphere – and that’s no bull!”) he found the candle, wood, and ball of string, and, clipping off the string to the requested length (“about yay long”), brought the items back upstairs. The stranger nodded his thanks and went back to his peculiar lodging.
This time the hermit didn’t even try to get back to sleep. He wanted to know what was up with the candle, the block of wood, and the piece of string “about yay long”, and so sat down with a notepad and started brainstorming about all the different ways he could think of to use the items. After perhaps ninety minutes of this, he was startled by a horrendous, spine-tingling shriek from the garage. He jumped from his chair, but got tangled between it and the table. He extricated himself just in time to see the blur of the stranger dash past him, burst his door to flinders, and vanish into the swamp.
Sighing in resignation, the hermit looked out into the rainswept night, but saw no sign of the stranger. He hung a tarp over the door, and the next day placed an order to have a new door delivered. This one would be a heavy, plasteel-laced door that would give even a military demolitions specialist a few moments of trouble. After all, there were some pretty big and nasty critters out here in the swamp. One can never be too careful.
Around a year later, on a rain-soaked, lightning-filled night, the hermit sat in front of his fire, enjoying his premium copy of “The Man in the Iron Maskirovka”, when he heard a loud knocking from his door. He dropped the book and darted his eyes to the calendar on the wall. There, under the wool-encrusted form of Miss Federated Suns, was the date: exactly a year from the night the stranger had last stopped by his abode. He stepped to the door and swung it open and there, dripping with water and with mudstains up to his knees, stood the stranger, his hand frozen in the act of knocking.
“Ah,” said the hermit with a cocked eyebrow. “You again.”
The stranger smiled an abashed grin. “Yes, me. I find myself without transport through the swamp, and I don’t think I’ll make it to morning with the way lighting is coming down, and it looks like hail. Can I maybe stay for the night?” He held up his hands quickly to forestall the hermit’s response. “I promise I’ll be able to get rid of the ghosts in your `Mech for you.”
The hermit sighed and closed his eyes, wordlessly waving the man inside.
The pair enjoyed a fine dinner, and some in-depth conversation (which the hermit hadn’t had since the previous year), and eventually it was again time for bed. The stranger walked off down the hallway to the Mech garage, and the hermit settled in to wait for the stranger’s material requests. Not long after the lights had gone out, he heard the garage door open and the man came walking down the hallway.
“Okay,” said the stranger, “it’s still haunted. They’ve gotten lucky so far, but I’ve got them this time. I’m going to need a candle, a block of wood, and a piece of string about yay long.” He held his hands shoulder width apart to indicate the length of string, and looked expectantly at the hermit.
The hermit immediately picked the candle, the block of wood, and the piece of string “about yay long” from under the table and handed them to the stranger. The stranger thanked him and jogged exuberantly back to the garage. The hermit settled in for the wait, determined this time not to let the man burst his door. He couldn’t see how the man could possibly do so, given that it was a plasteel door, but he didn’t want to take chances. He started hunting for things to brace the door. It was while he was down in the cellar looking for just that that he heard the now-familiar dreadful, bowel-vacating howl from the garage. Cursing, he dashed upstairs just in time to see the heavy and expensive door he had put in the previous year go up in pieces like a bomb had hit it.
This time, the hermit wasn’t taking chances. On the morning, he walked back into the garage, grabbed some tools and pulled a few spare sheets of BattleMech armor he had lying around into his workspace. It took him several hours, but in the end, he had a front door composed entirely of enough `Mech armor to stop a particle cannon cold.
For the next year, the stranger consumed his thinking. The longer he thought about it, the less he concentrated on the repeated destruction of the door and more about the why. Specifically, why did he need a candle to dispel ghosts? Why did he need a block of wood? And what in the name of Herb did the man need with the piece of string “about yay long”? He wanted to know. He had to know. He WOULD know!
The hermit counted down the days until the stranger would arrive at his home again, seeking shelter for the night. By day he passed the time wondering exactly how the encounter would play out, wondering what he would say to the stranger. By night, he slept little, but caught up on a lot of reading. Finally the day arrived.
The hermit lounged in his massive chair in front of the roaring fire. He had closed the back cover of “Far Country” mere minutes ago, and was seriously contemplating throwing it in the flames when the long-awaited knock came. In a flash, he was out of the chair and opening the door, waving the sodden stranger inside before the man could say a word.
They came inside and sat down to an excellent dinner. All through the meal, the hermit quizzed the stranger about the items. Why did he need these things? Who taught him? Could HE learn about them? All through the meal, the stranger deflected the questions.
“I’m afraid I can’t answer the questions, good hermit,” said the stranger. “I took a solemn oath never to reveal the secrets behind the method, and if I don’t have my word, what do I have?”
Finally, it was time for bed. Disappointed, the hermit showed the stranger to the Mech garage, waved goodnight, and wordlessly closed the door. He opened the cabinet next to his bed, and pulled out the items he knew the stranger would need. He sank into the chair and dropped them to the floor beside him, staring blankly into the dying fire. It wasn’t fair. It was his door. After all he’d been through, he deserved to know what these things, these inane things, were for.
Soon, he heard the footsteps in the hallway. Turning his head, he saw the stranger enter the room and look at him quizzically. The hermit pointed to the items on the floor, leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes. He heard the man scoop up the items and walk quietly back to the garage.
He could see the scene playing out in his head as he sat there. The man would cry out, and run down the hallway. But instead of bursting the door off the hinges, he’d bounce off the Mech armor, stunned, and the hermit would have him at his mercy until the stranger revealed his secrets. But wait! The stranger had – somehow- broken clean through a door of plasteel. What if he could get through Mech armor too? It seemed too incredible to believe, but the hermit couldn’t take that chance. He had to know.
Quickly, he positioned himself at the end of the hallway, so that he could intercept the stranger as he ran. His vigilance was rewarded in mere minutes as a cry, muted though it was it still raised the hairs on his neck, echoed through the garage and down the hall. Then there was the growing thunder of footfalls as he heard the stranger race towards him. At the last moment, the hermit jumped out into the path of the stranger and was bowled over, both men bouncing and tumbling around from the impact. The hermit recovered first, crawled on top of the stranger, and grabbed his head in both hands.
“I swear, I have to know! I don’t care about the doors, but I HAVE…TO…KNOW! Why? Why do you need the candle? WHY do you need a block of wood? WHY, IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT’S HOLY, DO YOU NEED A PIECE OF STRING ABOUT YAY LONG? Tell me! Tell me or so help me I’ll bash your skull in here and now!”
The stranger sighed heavily. “All right. All right, I’ll tell you. I suppose you’ve earned the right to know by now.” The hermit started to speak up excitedly, but the stranger jumped in first. “BUT!” The hermit went still. “You have to promise me one thing. This is a true promise. You must promise me that you will never, EVER, tell anyone the secret of the candle, the block of wood and the piece of string. I’ll whisper it in your ear in you so swear.”
The hermit’s words fell over each other in his excitement. “Of course! I promise! I promise. Please, tell me!”
With that, the stranger sat up, leaned ever so close to the hermit, and whispered in his ear.
And do you know what? The hermit kept his promise.
Key to piloting a battlemech? Avoid seeing only what your opponents want you to see...
Edited by Hawkeye 72, 09 April 2012 - 06:40 AM.
