The Sweetest Thing – Part 5

I’ve gained a lot of things with the most recent The Damned post.

I lost my way a bit as well.  I had a lot of things I wanted to say, and even more that I wished to do, but I got bogged down so much in the character that I was enjoying that the thread of what I was trying to do slipped past me.

As such, it’s time to dust off an old project and give Damned time to breathe.  As I’ve come to find on multiple occasions throughout my career, having projects that you can turn to when you hit a dead end (even a temporary one) will allow you to keep putting one foot in front of the other on days you might otherwise despair.

So, it’s back to an old classic, which was in itself a retelling of an even older classic.

It’s time for that sweetest thing.

The Sweetest Thing – Part 5

Sargent McDowell, it would seem, did have it out for me today.  I looked into her eyes, and as I always did with my powers in full swing, I saw Agnes.  I saw the strength and the confidence of her stance.  The way her weight was perfectly balanced and that even standing at rest she never let her weight settle onto her heels.  I saw the quick, tight smile that was for me alone as she spied me watching her.  My breath hitched a bit at that smile, my heart skipping a beat that such a lovely creature seemed to desire me every bit as much as I did her.  I also saw the fear and the tension in the rapid transition from smile to grimace.  Her posture was too tight, as though she was surrounded by enemies and didn’t know which way to spring when the fighting started.

I swallowed, the sound loud in my ears, my heart raced my blood with each terrified beat.  The sounds added an edge of dread to the proceedings that the damaged war-grounds only accentuated.  Sargent McDowell stood nearby, his paunchy face and toad smile in full effect as he signed off on the paperwork which would allow me to be transferred, temporarily, to Captain Dunbar’s command.  I didn’t know which of the two of them were worse. I could smell the alcohol on McDowell from almost fifteen feet away, the grease and ionized air smell of the pods and the runners as the mechanics finished last minute repairs.

The drop-runners were an anomaly on the blood soaked grounds of the launching pad which was really just a farmers field burned to the dirt.  They gleamed, light reflecting off them as only burnished battle steel could.  The Shamans made it, of course, and while the plates couldn’t take the punishment of a nuclear strike head on, they could withstand practically anything else just fine.  The Shamans were limited with how much they could produce, hence the small size of each drop-pod and the lean, predatory angles of the drop-runners.

While the battle steel plates would keep both pilot and passenger safe, the reality is that the rest of the components of the runner were what a pilot was really protecting.  If you took a shot to the main plates, your runner might stay in one piece and drop like a stone anyway.  Wiring was still a delicate affair, and even the Shamans batteries couldn’t defeat the physics of concussive blows.

To be continued…

Shamanfully,
Justin