Post by Trent Valencia on Dec 28, 2012 2:24:33 GMT -5
Trent landed the Prophet of Sorrow amidst the triage unit that had become the hangar bay of ESS headquarters.
Mobile suits and their pilots were being tended to by mechanics and medics. Gaping holes shot clean through titanium shielding were patched and welded; open wounds were stitched and bandaged. Sparking electrical wires torn from their holds were powered down, soldered and slid back into place; spurting arteries and leaking veins were clamped and stitched shut while the pilots bit bullets or passed out from the pain. Metal limbs blasted beyond repair were cut free from the body and thrown in a scrap pile; human arms and legs charred beyond recognition were severed with a bone saw while technicians took measurements to fit an artificial joint. Too often the damage was too severe to save the patient. Suits were scavenged for parts; bodies were draped in flags.
As Trent exited the hatch and descended on his rip cord to the hangar deck, smoke billowed around him like some Hellish fog drifting in from the Stygian shore.
Chaos Rain, Prophet of Sorrow...such fitting names for my weapons of war, my harbingers of destruction. Do the suits conjure their own names or have their meanings become the man? Am I not as cloaked in death as they?
For every soldier that was laid out on a med cart, another sat, crouched or knelt on the hangar floor. No one stood proudly; not one soldier, pilot, medic or mechanic. Everyone was hunched, every head was hung.
Cowards, the lot of them. They seek refuge from certain death and yet I bring it to their door. What fools will follow me?
A pane of glass shattered at Trent's feet. He halted his step and looked up to see technicians removing jagged chunks of glass from a Taurus' cockpit, its edges rimmed in blood. The pilot was clasped to the ripcord and was being lowered down, unconscious or dead, Trent didn't know. Downy tufts of white and gray floated with him as he descended.
"Bird strike, sir," said a nearby technician who was following Trent's gaze. "Of all the luck, huh? As if we didn't have enough enemies without worrying about the ruddy birds!" The technician shook his head and walked off. Trent knelt and lifted a bloody feather from the ground and stowed it in his breast pocket.
-
Outside the doors to the ESS war room, two guards had been posted. Their faces weren't familiar to Trent, but with all the new recruits of late, that came as no surprise. What did surprise him were the guards' uniforms, not standard ESS Marine-wear, but something more...ceremonial.
"I have an urgent message for High Admiral Kofista. I must speak with him at once."
Trent held out his ID badge for the sake of protocol and waited for the men to step aside. They did not.
"Listen, fellas, this is really not the time to stand on principle. You can either let me in, or," he pointed to the man on the left, "I'm going to smash your teeth in," he pointed to the man on the right, "with the back of your skull. Do we have an understanding?"
If the guards happened to be Marines, Trent's bluff was about to end rather poorly for him. He was hoping the immaculately pressed and overly-decorative uniforms were worn by men who would rather bend a knee than bloody their knuckles. The guards exchanged a look, eyeballed Trent once more and opened the door.
"Thanks."
Trent announced himself and his intentions as he entered the room.
"Admiral, I've got questions and I've got answers. I'm hoping we can swap some of each."
He stopped in mid-stride as he eyed the head of the table. Kofista was nowhere to be seen. In his place sat a deflated President Jaeven Florenton. Some things suddenly made much more sense; others, much less.
"Mr. President," said Trent, saluting with one hand and while the other clenched into a fist. He stood at attention and waited to be acknowledged.
Mobile suits and their pilots were being tended to by mechanics and medics. Gaping holes shot clean through titanium shielding were patched and welded; open wounds were stitched and bandaged. Sparking electrical wires torn from their holds were powered down, soldered and slid back into place; spurting arteries and leaking veins were clamped and stitched shut while the pilots bit bullets or passed out from the pain. Metal limbs blasted beyond repair were cut free from the body and thrown in a scrap pile; human arms and legs charred beyond recognition were severed with a bone saw while technicians took measurements to fit an artificial joint. Too often the damage was too severe to save the patient. Suits were scavenged for parts; bodies were draped in flags.
As Trent exited the hatch and descended on his rip cord to the hangar deck, smoke billowed around him like some Hellish fog drifting in from the Stygian shore.
Chaos Rain, Prophet of Sorrow...such fitting names for my weapons of war, my harbingers of destruction. Do the suits conjure their own names or have their meanings become the man? Am I not as cloaked in death as they?
For every soldier that was laid out on a med cart, another sat, crouched or knelt on the hangar floor. No one stood proudly; not one soldier, pilot, medic or mechanic. Everyone was hunched, every head was hung.
Cowards, the lot of them. They seek refuge from certain death and yet I bring it to their door. What fools will follow me?
A pane of glass shattered at Trent's feet. He halted his step and looked up to see technicians removing jagged chunks of glass from a Taurus' cockpit, its edges rimmed in blood. The pilot was clasped to the ripcord and was being lowered down, unconscious or dead, Trent didn't know. Downy tufts of white and gray floated with him as he descended.
"Bird strike, sir," said a nearby technician who was following Trent's gaze. "Of all the luck, huh? As if we didn't have enough enemies without worrying about the ruddy birds!" The technician shook his head and walked off. Trent knelt and lifted a bloody feather from the ground and stowed it in his breast pocket.
-
Outside the doors to the ESS war room, two guards had been posted. Their faces weren't familiar to Trent, but with all the new recruits of late, that came as no surprise. What did surprise him were the guards' uniforms, not standard ESS Marine-wear, but something more...ceremonial.
"I have an urgent message for High Admiral Kofista. I must speak with him at once."
Trent held out his ID badge for the sake of protocol and waited for the men to step aside. They did not.
"Listen, fellas, this is really not the time to stand on principle. You can either let me in, or," he pointed to the man on the left, "I'm going to smash your teeth in," he pointed to the man on the right, "with the back of your skull. Do we have an understanding?"
If the guards happened to be Marines, Trent's bluff was about to end rather poorly for him. He was hoping the immaculately pressed and overly-decorative uniforms were worn by men who would rather bend a knee than bloody their knuckles. The guards exchanged a look, eyeballed Trent once more and opened the door.
"Thanks."
Trent announced himself and his intentions as he entered the room.
"Admiral, I've got questions and I've got answers. I'm hoping we can swap some of each."
He stopped in mid-stride as he eyed the head of the table. Kofista was nowhere to be seen. In his place sat a deflated President Jaeven Florenton. Some things suddenly made much more sense; others, much less.
"Mr. President," said Trent, saluting with one hand and while the other clenched into a fist. He stood at attention and waited to be acknowledged.
