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+--- Thread: Unforgiving Past, Unfortunate Future [Open] (/showthread.php?tid=138752)
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RE: Unforgiving Past, Unfortunate Future [Open] - Enkidu - 04-09-2019
Planet Cambridge, Cambridge System
Grantchester City
Neon Lights Lounge
Two men, grizzled, non-discerning specimens of the species. David and Christ of the Ozarks they were not, but they’d seen enough war to give them a solidly testamential glaze of possible post trauma that wrapped around them like a veil of gauze, sprayed, to the touch, with bleach. Effectively they were every fourth man on the street, yet there were two of them together. Two halves of a Sirius that was maiming itself, in the longest, most drawn out murder-suicide of human history. Essemtially they were boot-cut, generic, shaving-foam and unimaginative haircut Tommy Atkins with a body-fat index that implied they’d kept away from the atkins diet.
Military men. She’d tried to distance herself from the pragmatism of being a soldier under the consideration that to fight for somewhere, at least in theory, you would have a sense of belonging. That was the old Nesrin. The new Nesrin had gotten over all that infantile guff. The blond Fabio with the depressing eyes was radiating obvious disgruntlement at the fact she had roped herself into his airspace; he didn’t seem too happy with his companion either.
Angle of attack and energy retention; the bollocking rules of SEAD. When pinged, lased, or otherwise completely buggered, use the terrain, keep your head, maintain mach two at sea level, and look fucking charming, Sargent.
Yessir, will comply. Go with the lieutenant. “Kaistocracy. It’s the rule of the… morons. They’re calling the Admiralty morons. This is Cambridge. They bang big words together and call it a thesis.” Nesrin clarified, sitting to Ricks four o’clock low, just ajar enough from the blond one that she wouldn’t lock a possible superior in the eye. Veteran or not, one pissed off well connected blue-blood would be all she needed to suddenly cut the bounty going rate on killing radicalised, working class, radiation-fried edge-worlders without any other prospects or hopes.
Nesrin neura-signed off for a cider the size of her head, and made a mental note of how many ration cards it was going to cost her to emulate getting comfortably pissed. It was ludicrously expensive. She grimaced; Nesrin had the odd talent of being able to swear whilst whispering, and she was going to capitalise on it. "“We’re losing the war; two generations of kids are dead. Nobody under twenty five and over seventeen is growing old anymore, all the older, grizzled combat veterans who arn't just kids who can lumber through PT are either dead or deserted, Bretonia is going to be royally fucked. We’re never going to see our homeland bounce back in our lifetimes. I’m surprised they’re not more mad. We built the most tolerant, stable, ambitious house in the sector before, during, and after the eight-oh' war. Now look at us. Fucked, for two hundred years, maybe. It's all gone to the dog's proverbial bollocks, Sir. Give it another year and they'll be chopping off literal dog testicles to flavour the synth-soup. And yet we won't surrender. Why? Guess we're bloody conceited. I know I am.”
The cider arrived, boyed over by a tray with a wonky repulsor that spilt a good quart of it on her foot. "Thanks." She offhanded, to the inanimate robot, tipping it a quarter credit. Nobody tips in Bretonia. Especially nobody with a perfect Cants accent.
RE: Unforgiving Past, Unfortunate Future [Open] - Wolfs Ghost - 01-08-2020
Neon Lights Lounge
Austin smirked lightly at Holden's comments, but kept his gaze focused on the newsfeed that played above the three. "I haven't been in the loop with anything Government related for a while now. Especially not after the few times they've declared me a fugitive, or the couple of times that I deserted because the orders given were utterly asinine. But that's neither here nor there. All I know is I saw Dagon's ship get shot down in Gallia years ago, and haven't seen her since. I figured she was dead."
He paused, pressing his lips together, "Mmh... wait, no. Actually that's a lie... the last time I saw her was on Los Angeles, must've hit my head or something... or the alcohol is starting to actually work. Y'know... she's a pretty hard lass t' kill. I've taken my chances when she went rogue herself, definitely a better pilot than I could ever be, and I've downed plenty of decent pilots in my life time. Glad she's doin' okay, and even getting married. I would've been married around this time but my wife to be disappeared." He said picking up the empty porter and fiddling with the glass in his hands for a moment reflecting on his own words. Shortly after doing so he sat the glass down and leaned forwards, looking past Holden and at the woman who had requested a seat near them.
"We're sharing war stories, Holden here bumped his head and was in out of it for eight years, I saved a now dead Prime Minister from an early grave back during the opening years of the Tau Wars with Kusari. What's your story lass?"