Praise be! (tentative name) second piece.
Just random ramblings, extended from the last Gunmetal Chronicles piece. I might go somewhere with this, but no further than a few pieces; just to get a feel for the universe.
Trainees removed from their armor; the armor tended to by Academy repair personnel, and the larger body of personnel under his supervision closing their night out in their living quarters, Instructor Martes clocks-off; tending to a watered down concoction of alcohol as artificial tasting as the man-designed plants its base ingredients were distilled from.
At the Lost Mercenary on the south side of the expansive, military-focused and designed mercenary-inhabited city of Valhalla, he is just Diego Martes-yet another worn out sack of decaying flesh and bone in the dim lights, and dull, multi-colored neon glow, spending his creds and time, spinning their wheels, going nowhere. A heavy hybrid of guitar, drums and electronic synthesis pounds in the background, bass amplified to the point the unimportant song lyrics are lost in the overpowering noise, but Martes pays little mind; staring through his clear plastic cup, the urine-yellow liquid inside distorting the lights and play of shadows in a way distracting to his mind.
A shadow extends across the bar and a motion behind, draws Martes’ attention. His fingers touch the grip of a pistol tucked away in his coat pocket, but he looks up to the bar mirror, seeing a wobbling, younger man approach; hand raised to slap him in the back, Martes raises a finger up from the bar, letting the man know he sees.
Martes’ training assistant, Trent Argonan-seventeen years younger than he-grins, the smell of his breath reaching Martes even before the man takes a seat beside him. “You know, the guys who make those guns are making a killing,” Argonan says. “We can’t repair the damned things, so every time a trainee breaks one, we have to have it replaced. It’s like; the people who issued the contract knew what was going to happen.”
“Another conspiracy theory, Arg?” Martes asks, the man’s shortened nickname no secret. He turns his head, his chin resting on the top of the bar. “Are you drunk?”
“Aren’t you?” Argonan replies, and waves a hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine for tomorrow. I’ll take some stimulants, if it’s that bad in the morning.”
Martes isn’t so sure, but goes back to staring through his drink. “Ferris seized up,” he remarks.
Argonan orders another drink. “Oh,” he asks, “the other three do alright, though?”
“Deadly, efficient and they worked well as a squad,” Martes says, leaning his head up enough to drink. “I thought they might hit me, this time.”
“Now, why would anyone want to hit you?” Argonan asks, jokingly. “They’ve come too far to screw it up now, hitting their trainer. That’s why we don’t punish them for taking their anger out on the guns, remember?”
Martes eyes his assistant’s new drink, and goes back to his own. A cute, older red-haired woman tends to the entire place; most everyone’s looks drawn to her at one point or another, but not Martes. He’s already had two kids, grown older and moved away to get away from him, specifically. Everyone contributes to the gene pool, like it or not, when humanity’s survival is on the line, but people like Argonan are paragons of the greater good. Now, all Martes has is his trainees, and his mind wanders back to them, and the problems of the one or two in every group of fifty or so who have trouble with the training program. A problem that could get them or the people around them killed, when the forgiving training environment gives way to the real thing.
“I heard from the last batch of trainees, boss,” Argonan speaks up, interrupting Martes’ thoughts.
“Oh?”
Argonan nods, solemn. “Two of them will be credited with bonuses for their exemplary performances on the surface,” he says. “The other two paid the bill.”
Martes grunts, covering up his disappointment and the distanced sadness he feels for two individuals he trained and spent months with, suffering the inevitability of their chosen careers. “Two out of four isn’t bad, Arg,” he says, reaching for the positive amongst the negative, but his curiosity is morbid. “How did the two die? Was it honorable?”
Argonan nodded. “As honorable as dying to a Reevor powergun gets.”
“How unfortunate,” Martes says. “If their training pulled them through to the point a Reevor titan has to kill them, then it was time well spent.” He grabs his drink again, and raises it up. Argonan raises his. “Fuck the Reevor,” Martes toasts.
“Fuck ‘em,” Argonan toasts, as well.
Both instructors finish their drinks in silence. Another artificial night carries on miles underneath the surface of Galdon III; the light of a fusion bottle sun on their cavern’s ceiling covered by polarized plates, dimmed.
Trainees removed from their armor; the armor tended to by Academy repair personnel, and the larger body of personnel under his supervision closing their night out in their living quarters, Instructor Martes clocks-off; tending to a watered down concoction of alcohol as artificial tasting as the man-designed plants its base ingredients were distilled from.
At the Lost Mercenary on the south side of the expansive, military-focused and designed mercenary-inhabited city of Valhalla, he is just Diego Martes-yet another worn out sack of decaying flesh and bone in the dim lights, and dull, multi-colored neon glow, spending his creds and time, spinning their wheels, going nowhere. A heavy hybrid of guitar, drums and electronic synthesis pounds in the background, bass amplified to the point the unimportant song lyrics are lost in the overpowering noise, but Martes pays little mind; staring through his clear plastic cup, the urine-yellow liquid inside distorting the lights and play of shadows in a way distracting to his mind.
A shadow extends across the bar and a motion behind, draws Martes’ attention. His fingers touch the grip of a pistol tucked away in his coat pocket, but he looks up to the bar mirror, seeing a wobbling, younger man approach; hand raised to slap him in the back, Martes raises a finger up from the bar, letting the man know he sees.
Martes’ training assistant, Trent Argonan-seventeen years younger than he-grins, the smell of his breath reaching Martes even before the man takes a seat beside him. “You know, the guys who make those guns are making a killing,” Argonan says. “We can’t repair the damned things, so every time a trainee breaks one, we have to have it replaced. It’s like; the people who issued the contract knew what was going to happen.”
“Another conspiracy theory, Arg?” Martes asks, the man’s shortened nickname no secret. He turns his head, his chin resting on the top of the bar. “Are you drunk?”
“Aren’t you?” Argonan replies, and waves a hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine for tomorrow. I’ll take some stimulants, if it’s that bad in the morning.”
Martes isn’t so sure, but goes back to staring through his drink. “Ferris seized up,” he remarks.
Argonan orders another drink. “Oh,” he asks, “the other three do alright, though?”
“Deadly, efficient and they worked well as a squad,” Martes says, leaning his head up enough to drink. “I thought they might hit me, this time.”
“Now, why would anyone want to hit you?” Argonan asks, jokingly. “They’ve come too far to screw it up now, hitting their trainer. That’s why we don’t punish them for taking their anger out on the guns, remember?”
Martes eyes his assistant’s new drink, and goes back to his own. A cute, older red-haired woman tends to the entire place; most everyone’s looks drawn to her at one point or another, but not Martes. He’s already had two kids, grown older and moved away to get away from him, specifically. Everyone contributes to the gene pool, like it or not, when humanity’s survival is on the line, but people like Argonan are paragons of the greater good. Now, all Martes has is his trainees, and his mind wanders back to them, and the problems of the one or two in every group of fifty or so who have trouble with the training program. A problem that could get them or the people around them killed, when the forgiving training environment gives way to the real thing.
“I heard from the last batch of trainees, boss,” Argonan speaks up, interrupting Martes’ thoughts.
“Oh?”
Argonan nods, solemn. “Two of them will be credited with bonuses for their exemplary performances on the surface,” he says. “The other two paid the bill.”
Martes grunts, covering up his disappointment and the distanced sadness he feels for two individuals he trained and spent months with, suffering the inevitability of their chosen careers. “Two out of four isn’t bad, Arg,” he says, reaching for the positive amongst the negative, but his curiosity is morbid. “How did the two die? Was it honorable?”
Argonan nodded. “As honorable as dying to a Reevor powergun gets.”
“How unfortunate,” Martes says. “If their training pulled them through to the point a Reevor titan has to kill them, then it was time well spent.” He grabs his drink again, and raises it up. Argonan raises his. “Fuck the Reevor,” Martes toasts.
“Fuck ‘em,” Argonan toasts, as well.
Both instructors finish their drinks in silence. Another artificial night carries on miles underneath the surface of Galdon III; the light of a fusion bottle sun on their cavern’s ceiling covered by polarized plates, dimmed.