Is tomorrow's prompt going to be anything to do with spies, by any chance? :) Well done on catching up with comments by the way, as I see you're getting closer and closer to being up-to-date again!
The soldier's farewell Joaquin looked around: this was the compound, just outside the officer's mess. He couldn't remember what he was doing here: his memory was completely blank as though he'd just woken up. But he was sure he'd never sleepwalked, and sleepwalking out here, in Camp Trump on the edge of a warzone, would be a fast way to get sent home. In a box. He shook his head, hoping for memories to come back, and felt the oppressive heat on the back on his neck. Oddly, his uniform was comfortable, so he must have been inside somewhere with AC recently... the Commander's office? Unlikely. Maybe the med-centre... ah. He rubbed his head now. Concussion probably. The guys on the other side -- insurgents or combatants or whatever they were supposed to call them these days, but the bad guys nonetheless -- had been throwing concussive grenades all yesterday. He must have been a bit close to one. "Fam," said a friendly voice. A hand took his arm and pushed him gently towards the mess hall. It had been a public library before they'd moved in and set up camp: a squat but sprawling blocky building constructed from off-white stone that pushed back the blistering heat of the day. "You're standing out in the sun. You're going to get sunstroke like that." He patted his head; his hat was missing. He'd have to go back to the med-centre and pick that up, or they'd charge him for a replacement. "Food," said another voice, and someone came up on the other side of him and pushed the door to the mess hall open. A smell of pork fat drifted out, with a lighter, more acidic note -- frying tomatoes, maybe? He decided he was hungry. "Fam," said the first voice, with a hint of reproach. "I'm on a diet, right?" Joaquin laughed: one of the first things he remembered from basic training was being told that he'd need to eat at least twice what he was used to every day, and they'd been right. He looked over, and the laughter intensified: the soldier holding his arm was skinny as a rake. "Bro," he said, his memory hunting for the guy's name and coming up blank. "You look like you finished your diet and started someone else's." The soldier laughed, and kept pushing gently. Joaquin let himself be guided into the mess hall. "Don't mind Fam," said the other voice, ahead of them. "He just thinks he's funny." "Bro," said Joaquin, stumbling slightly over the threshold to the mess hall. "You're so nineties. No-one's fam anymore." "Fam's fam," said the second voice. It sounded oddly distant. "At least I think he is." There was a muted cheer, and Joaquin looked up. The mess hall was filled with soldiers, all stood around the edges of the room in a big circle, and there was the Commander and a 1-star General stood in the middle. They seemed to be saying something, but now his ears didn't seem to be working well. Then the General smiled faintly and everything else in the room seemed to freeze. "Come and say hello," said Famine, gently steering him towards the General. "And then farewell," said Pestilence, pushing a way through the crowd. "A brave soldier," said War, removing his General's cap. "It seemed only right to meet you personally." "...what happened, exactly?" asked Joaquin.
Martel drummed her fingers on the table. “I’ll need a day.”
“I’m afraid you’re quite obligated–“
“I need a day for preparations.”
“All supplies have been seen to–“
“I need a day for preparations,” she echoed, slower and a little strained.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid the captain was quite—”
“Insistent? Good for him, so am I.” She now stood. “You’ll wait a day, or you’ll go back empty-handed.”
“Then what am I to tell him when everything is shifted a day off schedule?”
“The great machine of the Republic doesn’t live or die by a single day.”
“The captain will insist.”
She sighed impatiently. “Blame weather, blame difficult terrain. Stars, blame me, make it my problem. At bare minimum I need twenty-four hours, we can shove off tomorrow night, if you’re so eager.”
The messenger shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure it’s wise—”
“It’s no more dangerous than whatever this grand mission is, I assure you.”
Finally the messenger sighed and nodded. “Very well. Day after tomorrow, we set out early.”
“We’ll see the sunrise from the southern hills, you have my word.”
And with a curt nod, the messenger took leave. Martel waited until she heard the front door close to drop back into her chair, and lean on the table, head in her hand. Ten years she had given to the Republic. She had only returned to Sestry about a year ago, and now they demanded her services again. The least she could ask for was time for a proper farewell.
A few more minutes passed before Owena gently knocked on the door and poked her head into the kitchen. “Not bad news, I hope?” Her tone was warm, but Martel could see in her eyes that she knew.
“Not expressly, no.” She took a deep breath. “I’m obliged once more to offer my skills in service to the Republic.”
“I see.” Owena joined her at the table. “Given their colors, I suppose I’m not wholly surprised.” She rested her hand on Martel’s. “How soon do you go?”
“If the captain had his way, I’d be out the door already. But I insisted on more time, so we leave early the day after tomorrow, before dawn.”
“Good. That’s good.” She nodded, perhaps trying to convince herself that it was.
It still twinged Martel’s heart, even more than she expected, but ultimately it was good. She hadn’t had proper goodbyes with either Qaz or her parents all those years ago, she wouldn’t be robbed of the opportunity a third time.
And who knows, she mused—maybe she might hear some word about her brother out there in the world. ======== I've been tossing around some more ideas for this character lately—there's a lot still up in the air, but I'm having some fun tinkering with it (even if I'm frequently punched in the heart by the fact that, as of the present timeline of the campaign, she and her brother have not seen each other in about 15 years).
3 comments:
Is tomorrow's prompt going to be anything to do with spies, by any chance? :)
Well done on catching up with comments by the way, as I see you're getting closer and closer to being up-to-date again!
The soldier's farewell
Joaquin looked around: this was the compound, just outside the officer's mess. He couldn't remember what he was doing here: his memory was completely blank as though he'd just woken up. But he was sure he'd never sleepwalked, and sleepwalking out here, in Camp Trump on the edge of a warzone, would be a fast way to get sent home. In a box. He shook his head, hoping for memories to come back, and felt the oppressive heat on the back on his neck. Oddly, his uniform was comfortable, so he must have been inside somewhere with AC recently... the Commander's office? Unlikely. Maybe the med-centre... ah. He rubbed his head now. Concussion probably. The guys on the other side -- insurgents or combatants or whatever they were supposed to call them these days, but the bad guys nonetheless -- had been throwing concussive grenades all yesterday. He must have been a bit close to one.
"Fam," said a friendly voice. A hand took his arm and pushed him gently towards the mess hall. It had been a public library before they'd moved in and set up camp: a squat but sprawling blocky building constructed from off-white stone that pushed back the blistering heat of the day. "You're standing out in the sun. You're going to get sunstroke like that."
He patted his head; his hat was missing. He'd have to go back to the med-centre and pick that up, or they'd charge him for a replacement.
"Food," said another voice, and someone came up on the other side of him and pushed the door to the mess hall open. A smell of pork fat drifted out, with a lighter, more acidic note -- frying tomatoes, maybe? He decided he was hungry.
"Fam," said the first voice, with a hint of reproach. "I'm on a diet, right?"
Joaquin laughed: one of the first things he remembered from basic training was being told that he'd need to eat at least twice what he was used to every day, and they'd been right. He looked over, and the laughter intensified: the soldier holding his arm was skinny as a rake.
"Bro," he said, his memory hunting for the guy's name and coming up blank. "You look like you finished your diet and started someone else's."
The soldier laughed, and kept pushing gently. Joaquin let himself be guided into the mess hall.
"Don't mind Fam," said the other voice, ahead of them. "He just thinks he's funny."
"Bro," said Joaquin, stumbling slightly over the threshold to the mess hall. "You're so nineties. No-one's fam anymore."
"Fam's fam," said the second voice. It sounded oddly distant. "At least I think he is."
There was a muted cheer, and Joaquin looked up. The mess hall was filled with soldiers, all stood around the edges of the room in a big circle, and there was the Commander and a 1-star General stood in the middle. They seemed to be saying something, but now his ears didn't seem to be working well. Then the General smiled faintly and everything else in the room seemed to freeze.
"Come and say hello," said Famine, gently steering him towards the General.
"And then farewell," said Pestilence, pushing a way through the crowd.
"A brave soldier," said War, removing his General's cap. "It seemed only right to meet you personally."
"...what happened, exactly?" asked Joaquin.
Martel drummed her fingers on the table. “I’ll need a day.”
“I’m afraid you’re quite obligated–“
“I need a day for preparations.”
“All supplies have been seen to–“
“I need a day for preparations,” she echoed, slower and a little strained.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid the captain was quite—”
“Insistent? Good for him, so am I.” She now stood. “You’ll wait a day, or you’ll go back empty-handed.”
“Then what am I to tell him when everything is shifted a day off schedule?”
“The great machine of the Republic doesn’t live or die by a single day.”
“The captain will insist.”
She sighed impatiently. “Blame weather, blame difficult terrain. Stars, blame me, make it my problem. At bare minimum I need twenty-four hours, we can shove off tomorrow night, if you’re so eager.”
The messenger shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure it’s wise—”
“It’s no more dangerous than whatever this grand mission is, I assure you.”
Finally the messenger sighed and nodded. “Very well. Day after tomorrow, we set out early.”
“We’ll see the sunrise from the southern hills, you have my word.”
And with a curt nod, the messenger took leave. Martel waited until she heard the front door close to drop back into her chair, and lean on the table, head in her hand. Ten years she had given to the Republic. She had only returned to Sestry about a year ago, and now they demanded her services again. The least she could ask for was time for a proper farewell.
A few more minutes passed before Owena gently knocked on the door and poked her head into the kitchen. “Not bad news, I hope?” Her tone was warm, but Martel could see in her eyes that she knew.
“Not expressly, no.” She took a deep breath. “I’m obliged once more to offer my skills in service to the Republic.”
“I see.” Owena joined her at the table. “Given their colors, I suppose I’m not wholly surprised.” She rested her hand on Martel’s. “How soon do you go?”
“If the captain had his way, I’d be out the door already. But I insisted on more time, so we leave early the day after tomorrow, before dawn.”
“Good. That’s good.” She nodded, perhaps trying to convince herself that it was.
It still twinged Martel’s heart, even more than she expected, but ultimately it was good. She hadn’t had proper goodbyes with either Qaz or her parents all those years ago, she wouldn’t be robbed of the opportunity a third time.
And who knows, she mused—maybe she might hear some word about her brother out there in the world.
========
I've been tossing around some more ideas for this character lately—there's a lot still up in the air, but I'm having some fun tinkering with it (even if I'm frequently punched in the heart by the fact that, as of the present timeline of the campaign, she and her brother have not seen each other in about 15 years).
Greg - it comes in waves, it seems. A couple more surges and I might actually be up to date again.
Ah, a different angle on these horsemen. I like it rather a lot.
g2 - this is lovely, in its way. Lovely and sad. But very well done, obviously.
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