Yay!! I'm in too!!
*holds up a bowl of goopy white... stuff* Who wants some?
TransFans: Bunch of Buggers
Moderators:Best First, spiderfrommars, IronHide
-
Optimus Prime Rib
- Over Pompous Autobot Commander
- Posts:2215
- Joined:Mon Apr 19, 2004 11:00 pm
- Location:College Station, TX
- Contact:
)-
Aaron Hong
- Me king!
- Posts:1269
- Joined:Fri Jan 11, 2002 12:00 am
- ::No pity for fools
- Location:...No let ME fold the map GAAH
Lunchtime for the senior TransFans was, as expected, a completely different kettle of fish.
Metal Vendetta's day had started off on four wrong feet, thanks to one Rebis, but it turned out eventually that he'd made Captain. A rank that came with its own car, which would come in handy as he realised that turning in his TransFans badge meant that he'd lost his ability to turn into a car and a jet and back, possibly for good.
MV couldn't find a thing to complain about on his current apparel, though. An authentic Desert Storm uniform, with the black specks colored gold to reflect his previous identity, Captain bars on the shoulders, and R L JONES in bold letters on a strip over the right breast pocket.
After a few minutes in front of the mirror, he decided it was best to ditch the silly pointy hat.
Lunchtime for Metal Vendetta was in a lush canteen with pristine white walls and stylish space-age tables, and actual silverware. MV didn't know how it was possible to sneak real silver into Boardspace, but he didn't argue.
He didn't bother to ask exactly what his role would be, and it seemed rather ironic that Jetfire, who'd also made Captain, carried a huge clue to it with just his presence.
"Heya," said Jetifre in way of greeting.
"Oh, hi," said MV through a mouthful of lobster. "You shoulda picked the lobster, man, this stuff r0xx0rz."
"I'm sure it does, but I'm allergic to shellfish," Jetfire replied, and stopped for a bit to cut his meat. "So, looks like quite a few of us got it in the shoulders instead of the arms - that's gotta be something, eh?"
"Eh?"
"I mean making officer the moment this thing started up," said Jetfire. "We get all the neat stuff - personal transport, running water, those neat little wall fridges, coffee in the mornings, how sweet is that?"
"Well for one thing, Tired Tracks is coffee in the morning so he probably doesn't care," MV began, "and secondly, it's important to remember the big picture here."
"Which is?"
"The military values experience over actual skill, Jetfire," said MV, holding his lobster's head in his hand and staring into its beady little eyes. "We made it in here because of the actual wars we've been through, the carnage we've seen - Carly, Brendocon, Total Mayhem - and there's a very good reason we're not down there with the ones who'll be doing the fighting, the same reason why we're up here, wearing the hats and flying the flags..."
Jetfire was also looking at the lobster head by this time.
"Leading by example, Jetfire," said Metal Vendetta. "The very fact that we've been made officers is a show of the illustrious example we are expected to make to the troops. It's not as easy as you think, Jetfire - the sky red with smog, the deafening explosions, the very ground shaking as eacn artillery shell comes down... and they'd be right there, in the thick of it, forced to carry heavy firearms and trudge through the remains of their own friends as they struggle towards the fortified objective, the raw incarnation of sheer bedlam that is the hell we put them in by our own hands..."
MV put down that lobster head at this point.
"...that's when we'll come in, sitting astride the cargo doors of a Blackhawk chopper, with an M60 in one hand and a can of beer in the other, and we'll say to them so loudly that you can hear it above the chaos, we'll say..."
"Rowwrr-rowwrr-ruff."
"Yes, rowwrr-rowwrr-WTF?!"
MV had been so lost in his monologue that he'd forgotten to look at his lobster head as he picked it up again, which was why he wound up grabbing a curious Rebis by the mouth - the shock of seeing that face up close caused MV to trip over his own chair, whereupon he grabbed at anything for support, and as a result pulled the tablecloth and the remainder of his lunch all over himself.
Every other officer in the canteen was looking at him by this time.
"What Rebis was trying to say," said a helpful Colonel Smooth from the table opposite, "is that all of us have a briefing to attend in about ten minutes. Very official stuff." Smooth stopped for a bit, trying to make sense of MV's current position. "And I can see you love your lobster, Robbie, but I don't think Compy wants you to leave it all over your uniform."
***
Colonel nee Professor Smooth turned out to be more helpful than that later on, as he offered to drive MV and Jetfire back to the Ivory Tower deep in the city. The trip down the highway, up the street and through the elevator was relatively uneventful, but the real surprise came as the elevator doors opened to Computron's office.
All the filing cabinets had disappeared, and Computron's beer stash was being shipped downstairs, one keg at a time, using those remote-controlled boxes that travelled on rails up the walls and along the ceilings. The rest of the palce was a mess. Compy himself had gotten his uniform though - still that Desert Storm motif, but the black specks were unusually shiny, and a more regular oval shape for some reason.
"I'm glad you folks could make it," said Computron for starters, as the assembled officers, Smooth, MV, Jetfire, Master Fwiffo and Stuart Denyer tried to find seats, and wound up sitting on the floor. "You've probably noticed by now that I'm moving my operations to the military complex outside the city, so I don't have a lot of time to say this..."
The TransFans paid close attention.
"The bulk of our officers have been delegated to command positions all over the place," Compy began, "with the bare minimum being given combat roles alongside the men. And despite our relative shorthandedness, Best First has seen fit to create a completely new branch of the military just for you five..."
The TransFans leaned closer.
"That unit is the Air Corps," said Compy. "Congratulations. You're all going to be combat pilots."
Metal Vendetta's day had started off on four wrong feet, thanks to one Rebis, but it turned out eventually that he'd made Captain. A rank that came with its own car, which would come in handy as he realised that turning in his TransFans badge meant that he'd lost his ability to turn into a car and a jet and back, possibly for good.
MV couldn't find a thing to complain about on his current apparel, though. An authentic Desert Storm uniform, with the black specks colored gold to reflect his previous identity, Captain bars on the shoulders, and R L JONES in bold letters on a strip over the right breast pocket.
After a few minutes in front of the mirror, he decided it was best to ditch the silly pointy hat.
Lunchtime for Metal Vendetta was in a lush canteen with pristine white walls and stylish space-age tables, and actual silverware. MV didn't know how it was possible to sneak real silver into Boardspace, but he didn't argue.
He didn't bother to ask exactly what his role would be, and it seemed rather ironic that Jetfire, who'd also made Captain, carried a huge clue to it with just his presence.
"Heya," said Jetifre in way of greeting.
"Oh, hi," said MV through a mouthful of lobster. "You shoulda picked the lobster, man, this stuff r0xx0rz."
"I'm sure it does, but I'm allergic to shellfish," Jetfire replied, and stopped for a bit to cut his meat. "So, looks like quite a few of us got it in the shoulders instead of the arms - that's gotta be something, eh?"
"Eh?"
"I mean making officer the moment this thing started up," said Jetfire. "We get all the neat stuff - personal transport, running water, those neat little wall fridges, coffee in the mornings, how sweet is that?"
"Well for one thing, Tired Tracks is coffee in the morning so he probably doesn't care," MV began, "and secondly, it's important to remember the big picture here."
"Which is?"
"The military values experience over actual skill, Jetfire," said MV, holding his lobster's head in his hand and staring into its beady little eyes. "We made it in here because of the actual wars we've been through, the carnage we've seen - Carly, Brendocon, Total Mayhem - and there's a very good reason we're not down there with the ones who'll be doing the fighting, the same reason why we're up here, wearing the hats and flying the flags..."
Jetfire was also looking at the lobster head by this time.
"Leading by example, Jetfire," said Metal Vendetta. "The very fact that we've been made officers is a show of the illustrious example we are expected to make to the troops. It's not as easy as you think, Jetfire - the sky red with smog, the deafening explosions, the very ground shaking as eacn artillery shell comes down... and they'd be right there, in the thick of it, forced to carry heavy firearms and trudge through the remains of their own friends as they struggle towards the fortified objective, the raw incarnation of sheer bedlam that is the hell we put them in by our own hands..."
MV put down that lobster head at this point.
"...that's when we'll come in, sitting astride the cargo doors of a Blackhawk chopper, with an M60 in one hand and a can of beer in the other, and we'll say to them so loudly that you can hear it above the chaos, we'll say..."
"Rowwrr-rowwrr-ruff."
"Yes, rowwrr-rowwrr-WTF?!"
MV had been so lost in his monologue that he'd forgotten to look at his lobster head as he picked it up again, which was why he wound up grabbing a curious Rebis by the mouth - the shock of seeing that face up close caused MV to trip over his own chair, whereupon he grabbed at anything for support, and as a result pulled the tablecloth and the remainder of his lunch all over himself.
Every other officer in the canteen was looking at him by this time.
"What Rebis was trying to say," said a helpful Colonel Smooth from the table opposite, "is that all of us have a briefing to attend in about ten minutes. Very official stuff." Smooth stopped for a bit, trying to make sense of MV's current position. "And I can see you love your lobster, Robbie, but I don't think Compy wants you to leave it all over your uniform."
***
Colonel nee Professor Smooth turned out to be more helpful than that later on, as he offered to drive MV and Jetfire back to the Ivory Tower deep in the city. The trip down the highway, up the street and through the elevator was relatively uneventful, but the real surprise came as the elevator doors opened to Computron's office.
All the filing cabinets had disappeared, and Computron's beer stash was being shipped downstairs, one keg at a time, using those remote-controlled boxes that travelled on rails up the walls and along the ceilings. The rest of the palce was a mess. Compy himself had gotten his uniform though - still that Desert Storm motif, but the black specks were unusually shiny, and a more regular oval shape for some reason.
"I'm glad you folks could make it," said Computron for starters, as the assembled officers, Smooth, MV, Jetfire, Master Fwiffo and Stuart Denyer tried to find seats, and wound up sitting on the floor. "You've probably noticed by now that I'm moving my operations to the military complex outside the city, so I don't have a lot of time to say this..."
The TransFans paid close attention.
"The bulk of our officers have been delegated to command positions all over the place," Compy began, "with the bare minimum being given combat roles alongside the men. And despite our relative shorthandedness, Best First has seen fit to create a completely new branch of the military just for you five..."
The TransFans leaned closer.
"That unit is the Air Corps," said Compy. "Congratulations. You're all going to be combat pilots."
-
Optimus Prime Rib
- Over Pompous Autobot Commander
- Posts:2215
- Joined:Mon Apr 19, 2004 11:00 pm
- Location:College Station, TX
- Contact:
-
Aaron Hong
- Me king!
- Posts:1269
- Joined:Fri Jan 11, 2002 12:00 am
- ::No pity for fools
- Location:...No let ME fold the map GAAH
"Seconds!" yelled Tired Tracks as he finished the last of his hunk of ham.
"They don't allow that here, TT," said Laser Rod Optimus Prime.
"Yeah, I heard about how they do things in yor normal military," said shaxper. "They pay more attention to how much food we get than you'd think. Some places you have to scan the barcode of your ID before they let you in."
"Well, I guess," said Tired Tracks eventually. "I was wondering about this other thing, though..." He looked at the bone leftover from his ham. "Where does this meat actually come from?"
"Therein lies an interesting tale," said shaxper.
***
THREE HOURS AGO
"Good mornin' sugars, this is your assistant head chef dear ol' Nebbie speakin'. We've been spendin' a couple of weeks or so preparin' the cookhouse of the TransFans army camp, currently codenamed Camp Vector Sigma. I got signed on to the cookhouse on account of my Southern culinary skills, and that means you kids back in the base are gonna expect some mighty fine game on the tables."
She wiped some mud off her tape recorder, and continued.
"I'm currently trudging through the swamplands south of teh river l33t, with my trusty shotgun on mah back, and I've spent the last three days trackin's some very big game indeed. I do declare, if we ever bag this game, we'll be able to beat people to death with the bones. It's hard to move silently in the swamp, but I'm downwind of him and carefully concealed behind this mangrove... oh, he's a big one all right. He seems vulnerable now but that's no reason to go soft on him. I might have to switch to mah elephant rounds for this one."
And Mecha, who'd only come all the way here to take a dump after Impactor Returns chased him out of the bathroom, raised an eyebrow at her.
***
PRESENT TIME
"...and that's why Sheba decided to slaughter half of her trolls instead," shaxper conclded. Tired Tracks could only stare at the bone on his plate, which was starting to look more and more like troll femur...
"Listen up, soldiers, important announcement," said Leatherneck as he joined them at the table - his current camouflage facepaint looked like the Beast Machines Maximal logo. "The moment you're done here, report behind the far end of the cookhouse. Some more important business."
"Like what? Hey...!" Tired Tracks resorted to waving, but Leatherneck didn't even slow down as he left. "What was that about?"
"Tracks, now's not the time," said LROP, with a hand on Tracks' shoulder. "One of the first rules in the army is, you don't ask questions..."
"I thought that was 'don't drop the soap'?" said Tracks.
"Let's just go," said shaxper. "Where's that Predabot kid gone anyway?"
"I think Neck's gonna find him," said LROP. "C'mon, let's move..."
"Ahemmm..."
Tracks, LROP and shax froze in their tracks (bad pun, I know) when they heard that sonorous Canadian throat being cleared behind them. They really didn't need to turn around to see that it was Sheba.
"Are we forgetting something now?" said Sheba, her eyes darting from the TransFans to the table. They looked back at her, then looked at the table, and still couldn't figure out what it was...
...until it was too late.
"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO WASH YOUR OWN PLATES HERE!! WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS PLACE IS, A RESTAURANT? THEN HOW COME I DON'T SEE ANY FRENCH WATRESSES OR GERMAN BEERMAIDS PRANCING AROUND, EH? AND THE FORKS AND KNIVES! RIGHT! THE SINKS ARE THAT WAY! MOVE! LEFT. RIGHT! LEFT, RIGHT!..."
***
When that horrific business was over, Tired Tracks, Laser Rod and shaxper burst out of a side door and leaned against the wall, panting and perspiring.
"Is she gone now?" TT asked.
"I dunno, I think she still has our scent," said shaxper, glancing into the door.
"Naah, I chucked a pepper bottle into her face, that usually stops them dead," said LROP. "All right, now which way?"
"Do you need some help?"
Tired Tracks realised at this point that greeting someone from behind was now common TransFan practice. It was always unsettling, of course, but at least this time it was a familiar voice in a familiar accent, and as the trio turned around and saw for themselves, an equally familiar face.
"Dylan!... I mean, sir!"
Tracks, LROP and shax managed their best salutes upon seeing the Colonel ranks now on Dylan's shoulders. The black specks on his Desert Storm uniform had been altered, of course, this time with bright green ASCII characters for some reason.
"That only applies when you're in uniform too," said Dylan, eagerly pulling their hands down. "Your sergeant is Leatherneck, right?"
"Yeah," shaxper replied... and Dylan thought hard.
"That puts you in A Company... and it's after lunchtime... right. Just follow me."
The trio followed Dylan unquestioningly as he made his way to the far end of the cookhouse. Dylan was just that sort of person - his natural charisma making him one of the most popular and respected TransFans (as well as a perfect front for the Dutch Conspiracy, but you didn't hear that from me) while coupled with a firm sense of responsibility, made him a perfect candidate for Colonel. It said a lot that the moderators didn't assign that many people under his leadership, but being Chief Medical Officer did give him authority over the entire unit, in a way.
"...and here we are. Just take a seat, and it should be over soon."
"Thanks," said the three TransFans as Dylan turned and left. They were now in front of a double black-glass door in the middle of a bare whitewashed wall, at the far end of the cookhouse as mentioned, but there was barely any indication of what they were supposed to do. Two rows of benches stood to the left of the door, and only one newbie sat here. Tired Tracks, shaxper and Laser Rod Optimus Prime decided to join him.
"Hey," said the new kid. "I'm Aux."
"Tired Tracks, nice to meet you," said Tracks, and they shook hands. "So what are you in for?"
LROP whacked TT's head for that.
"He's just kidding, welcome to the fold," said LROP to cover up. "I don't suppose they told you what you'd wind up doing?"
"Colonel Nagel said I might get into his Medical Corps," said Aux.
"Good for you, dude," shax commented.
"...only I hear he hasn't got that many people with him, really," Aux continued. "Is it supposed to go like that?"
"Medics are supposed to be outsourced to each company," said LROP. "So I figure you won't be spending much time under Dylan anyways - but don't let it bother you." He patted Aux on the back. "If you make medic, they gotta watch your back for their own sakes. Especially in wartime. Remember that."
"Thanks," said Aux. "Hey, any idea what's behind that door anyways...?"
"...and I don't understand, why the hell do I have to go through this?!"
"Impy?" said LROP quietly as he recognised the voice.
"Look, maybe they all have to because they're the ones out in the field and it makes things easier for them, but god crappit I'M A FREAKING TOILET CLEANER!!" yelled Impactor Returns. "I don't even leave the bloody base camp! What the hell is wrong you people?!"
"It's regulation," said a second voice dryly. "Well, regulation for anyone below warrant officer. And technically you're below private... heh heh, privates..."
"I don't see Orion Pax having to do this," Impactor growled as he stepped out into the daylight...
...and finally, Tired Tracks, Laser Rod, shaxper and Aux saw what it was they had to do.
Impactor Returns had some of his own hair dropping off his shoulders - his entire head had been shorn, with all his hair reduced to less than half an inch of fuzz. His scalp glowed white in the sunlight, but it was nothing compared to the angry glint in his eyes.
"What are you lot looking at?" he growled at the recruits.
They didn't reply. They didn't turn and run. They didn't even remember to breathe.
They simply screamed.
"They don't allow that here, TT," said Laser Rod Optimus Prime.
"Yeah, I heard about how they do things in yor normal military," said shaxper. "They pay more attention to how much food we get than you'd think. Some places you have to scan the barcode of your ID before they let you in."
"Well, I guess," said Tired Tracks eventually. "I was wondering about this other thing, though..." He looked at the bone leftover from his ham. "Where does this meat actually come from?"
"Therein lies an interesting tale," said shaxper.
***
THREE HOURS AGO
"Good mornin' sugars, this is your assistant head chef dear ol' Nebbie speakin'. We've been spendin' a couple of weeks or so preparin' the cookhouse of the TransFans army camp, currently codenamed Camp Vector Sigma. I got signed on to the cookhouse on account of my Southern culinary skills, and that means you kids back in the base are gonna expect some mighty fine game on the tables."
She wiped some mud off her tape recorder, and continued.
"I'm currently trudging through the swamplands south of teh river l33t, with my trusty shotgun on mah back, and I've spent the last three days trackin's some very big game indeed. I do declare, if we ever bag this game, we'll be able to beat people to death with the bones. It's hard to move silently in the swamp, but I'm downwind of him and carefully concealed behind this mangrove... oh, he's a big one all right. He seems vulnerable now but that's no reason to go soft on him. I might have to switch to mah elephant rounds for this one."
And Mecha, who'd only come all the way here to take a dump after Impactor Returns chased him out of the bathroom, raised an eyebrow at her.
***
PRESENT TIME
"...and that's why Sheba decided to slaughter half of her trolls instead," shaxper conclded. Tired Tracks could only stare at the bone on his plate, which was starting to look more and more like troll femur...
"Listen up, soldiers, important announcement," said Leatherneck as he joined them at the table - his current camouflage facepaint looked like the Beast Machines Maximal logo. "The moment you're done here, report behind the far end of the cookhouse. Some more important business."
"Like what? Hey...!" Tired Tracks resorted to waving, but Leatherneck didn't even slow down as he left. "What was that about?"
"Tracks, now's not the time," said LROP, with a hand on Tracks' shoulder. "One of the first rules in the army is, you don't ask questions..."
"I thought that was 'don't drop the soap'?" said Tracks.
"Let's just go," said shaxper. "Where's that Predabot kid gone anyway?"
"I think Neck's gonna find him," said LROP. "C'mon, let's move..."
"Ahemmm..."
Tracks, LROP and shax froze in their tracks (bad pun, I know) when they heard that sonorous Canadian throat being cleared behind them. They really didn't need to turn around to see that it was Sheba.
"Are we forgetting something now?" said Sheba, her eyes darting from the TransFans to the table. They looked back at her, then looked at the table, and still couldn't figure out what it was...
...until it was too late.
"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO WASH YOUR OWN PLATES HERE!! WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS PLACE IS, A RESTAURANT? THEN HOW COME I DON'T SEE ANY FRENCH WATRESSES OR GERMAN BEERMAIDS PRANCING AROUND, EH? AND THE FORKS AND KNIVES! RIGHT! THE SINKS ARE THAT WAY! MOVE! LEFT. RIGHT! LEFT, RIGHT!..."
***
When that horrific business was over, Tired Tracks, Laser Rod and shaxper burst out of a side door and leaned against the wall, panting and perspiring.
"Is she gone now?" TT asked.
"I dunno, I think she still has our scent," said shaxper, glancing into the door.
"Naah, I chucked a pepper bottle into her face, that usually stops them dead," said LROP. "All right, now which way?"
"Do you need some help?"
Tired Tracks realised at this point that greeting someone from behind was now common TransFan practice. It was always unsettling, of course, but at least this time it was a familiar voice in a familiar accent, and as the trio turned around and saw for themselves, an equally familiar face.
"Dylan!... I mean, sir!"
Tracks, LROP and shax managed their best salutes upon seeing the Colonel ranks now on Dylan's shoulders. The black specks on his Desert Storm uniform had been altered, of course, this time with bright green ASCII characters for some reason.
"That only applies when you're in uniform too," said Dylan, eagerly pulling their hands down. "Your sergeant is Leatherneck, right?"
"Yeah," shaxper replied... and Dylan thought hard.
"That puts you in A Company... and it's after lunchtime... right. Just follow me."
The trio followed Dylan unquestioningly as he made his way to the far end of the cookhouse. Dylan was just that sort of person - his natural charisma making him one of the most popular and respected TransFans (as well as a perfect front for the Dutch Conspiracy, but you didn't hear that from me) while coupled with a firm sense of responsibility, made him a perfect candidate for Colonel. It said a lot that the moderators didn't assign that many people under his leadership, but being Chief Medical Officer did give him authority over the entire unit, in a way.
"...and here we are. Just take a seat, and it should be over soon."
"Thanks," said the three TransFans as Dylan turned and left. They were now in front of a double black-glass door in the middle of a bare whitewashed wall, at the far end of the cookhouse as mentioned, but there was barely any indication of what they were supposed to do. Two rows of benches stood to the left of the door, and only one newbie sat here. Tired Tracks, shaxper and Laser Rod Optimus Prime decided to join him.
"Hey," said the new kid. "I'm Aux."
"Tired Tracks, nice to meet you," said Tracks, and they shook hands. "So what are you in for?"
LROP whacked TT's head for that.
"He's just kidding, welcome to the fold," said LROP to cover up. "I don't suppose they told you what you'd wind up doing?"
"Colonel Nagel said I might get into his Medical Corps," said Aux.
"Good for you, dude," shax commented.
"...only I hear he hasn't got that many people with him, really," Aux continued. "Is it supposed to go like that?"
"Medics are supposed to be outsourced to each company," said LROP. "So I figure you won't be spending much time under Dylan anyways - but don't let it bother you." He patted Aux on the back. "If you make medic, they gotta watch your back for their own sakes. Especially in wartime. Remember that."
"Thanks," said Aux. "Hey, any idea what's behind that door anyways...?"
"...and I don't understand, why the hell do I have to go through this?!"
"Impy?" said LROP quietly as he recognised the voice.
"Look, maybe they all have to because they're the ones out in the field and it makes things easier for them, but god crappit I'M A FREAKING TOILET CLEANER!!" yelled Impactor Returns. "I don't even leave the bloody base camp! What the hell is wrong you people?!"
"It's regulation," said a second voice dryly. "Well, regulation for anyone below warrant officer. And technically you're below private... heh heh, privates..."
"I don't see Orion Pax having to do this," Impactor growled as he stepped out into the daylight...
...and finally, Tired Tracks, Laser Rod, shaxper and Aux saw what it was they had to do.
Impactor Returns had some of his own hair dropping off his shoulders - his entire head had been shorn, with all his hair reduced to less than half an inch of fuzz. His scalp glowed white in the sunlight, but it was nothing compared to the angry glint in his eyes.
"What are you lot looking at?" he growled at the recruits.
They didn't reply. They didn't turn and run. They didn't even remember to breathe.
They simply screamed.
Last edited by Aaron Hong on Wed Dec 15, 2004 9:38 am, edited 1 time in total.
-
Optimus Prime Rib
- Over Pompous Autobot Commander
- Posts:2215
- Joined:Mon Apr 19, 2004 11:00 pm
- Location:College Station, TX
- Contact:
-
sidestreaker
- Back stabbing Seeker
- Posts:277
- Joined:Thu Jan 18, 2001 12:00 am
- Location:Close
-
Aaron Hong
- Me king!
- Posts:1269
- Joined:Fri Jan 11, 2002 12:00 am
- ::No pity for fools
- Location:...No let ME fold the map GAAH
grammar edit
Time for some tough love in this next bit. This IS the army, y'know.
***
ShrapnelClone spent a few more seconds staring into his cabinet mirror, looking very proud of his little decision indeed.
He'd been inspired for some obscure reason to get himself a buzz cut beforehand, and it was paying off already. There were horror stories going on about the TransFans camp barbershop already - some were saying that Aaron Hong with a gunblade made up the entire operation, and some said that Rebis manned (dogged?) the outfit, using the same clippers they used on him when... well.
Sitting three beds down was Predabot, who'd just found out that finishing lunch early was not a good idea - he was the first lamb at the shearer's, his messy curls jamming up three clippers before one of them reduced his mat to a nice even fuzz.
He certainly couldn't look at himself. It was hard for anyone else to, on account of the gleam.
Making the moment a little easier was the sight of Tired Tracks, Laser Rod Optimus Prime and shaxper, stepping into the bunk with three different variations of buzz cut. shaxper for some reason maintained a forward-swept buzz, and LROP had insisted that they take more off the sides, since he'd booked tickets for the sneaks of Blade Trinity... but Tracks had the oddest one of all. His fuzz stuck out perpendicular to his scalp in all directions, and a network of varicose veins only hinted at the Java-induced all-nighters he'd subjected himself to on occasion.
"You too, huh?" said Predabot.
"Oh, it's no big deal," said shaxper, finding himself a seat. "Back when I was in the Boy Scouts they made me cut my hair shorter than this."
"Are you sure?" said LROP. "I thought that was only in the Junior Marines or whatever it was that spat out Leatherneck..."
"I look like crap," Tracks lamented.
"Naah, it's not that bad, right shax?" said LROP, while furiously elbowing shaxper.
"Umm, yeah, it looks all right on you," said shax as he caught the drift. "The blood clots give you character."
Something else caught Predabot's attention at this point - bobaprime, leaning at the doorframe with arms folded, returning Predabot's current stare perfectly. Predabot had no idea what was supposed to happen at this point, or why bobaprime was in dress uniform with the sleeves rolled up, until...
"PREDABOT! FRONT AND CENTER!"
Predabot fell off his bed from it, but that wasn't all.
"Ten-HUT!" yelled shaxper, and everyone dropped everything and stood at attention, but it was too late. It had already been too late when Predabot stopped to think.
"Sorry soldiers," said bobaprime, "but thanks to your synaptically-impaired fellow recruit here - what's your name, boy?"
"...Lars," said Predabot. "Lars Johansson."
bobaprime sighed. "You need some help, soldier. If this was Leatherneck here you wouldn't even be standing right now, you know why?"
Predabot shook his head.
"LOOK AROUND YOU, SOLDIER!" bobaprime yelled. "Everyone's standing at attention and you're just gaping there?! In front of your bed! Suck in that gut! Chin up! Eyes front!"
For what it was worth, Predabot did have that inclination to do as he was told, and put up his best poker face as bobaprime verbally hammered him into shape.
"First things first... shaxper, would you care to explain to Predabot what he first did wrong?"
"Sir! Anyone who first sees a non-commissioned officer step into a bunk must call for attention from the others, SIR!" shaxper barked.
"Was that clear enough for you, Lars Johansson?" asked bobaprime.
"Ummm..."
"Drop and give me twenty!"
Predabot had seen enough army movies to know what that meant - he dropped to the floor with arms extended, ready to yell out twenty-pushups like every self-respecting soldier could. Unfortunately he hadn't put much of it into practice, which was why his arms buckled under his own weight instantly, causing his face to whack into the cement floor.
You could hear bobaprime's sigh from the far end of the room. Whitewash was known to have some acoustic properties.
"As I was saying," said bobaprime, "thanks to your new best friend Lars Johansson, you lot just earned some pre-dinner activity. Report in five minutes downstairs in running gear!"
"SIR YES SIR!"
"Now get changin'!"
***
TransFans was not known for cold nights (despite the amount of alcohol Computron was known to consume), but on the outer limits of the city, things were different.
The moderation had a tendency to keep the elements at bay as well. Boardspace was created from the minds of those within it, and thanks to the British community, there was a fair share of really bad weather, but Lieutenant General Best First could, despite actually being British, limit the amount of bad weather around the Ivory Tower and most of the city itself, not just by dint of being Administrator, but because he 'didn't need his nights to be any colder.'
So it was that A Company was gathered on the parking lot below their bunk, dressed in dark beige tracksuits with windbreakers and pants, decorated with little Ivory Towers on the left breast. The shoes were their own, though.
"...and next time you introduce yourself," said Tracks to Predabot, "you have to go 'Recruit Predabot', not Lars Ericsson. It's all on your dog tags, remember? Name, rank and IP address."
"He's coming! Rank and file, folks!" yelled shaxper, and everyone started shuffling around, lining up in four neat rows just as bobaprime - who for some reason wore much less than them, just a tanktop and shorts - came down the corridor and stopped in front of A Company.
"Company!" he yelled.
"SIR YES SIR!"
"Recruit Predabot..." said Predabot, who started trailing off and feeling very alone, as he realised he'd messed up again. The sight of bobaprime smacking his own head was indication enough.
"Fine day for a run," bobaprime commented, as he fingered the whistle around his neck. "All right, this'll be your official Grand Tour of Camp Vector Sigma, so I want everyone to pay attention and keep in line, and we'll be back in time for dinner. Now, jog on the spot..."
"What's this for?" asked Predabot, now the only one not moving.
"It's called a warm-up, they have to do this," LROP explained. "From the looks of it bobaprime already did his."
"Ready..." said bobaprime, while raising his whistle in a very deliberate fashion, while eyeing them to make sure they could see what he was doing...
...and blew the whistle.
***
A military run is not as simple as one may think. You can watch a dozen marathons on TV, you might even have that archived footage of Roger Bannister's four-minute mile, but it wouldn't even hint at how soldiers run.
Barring artillery shelling, a military run always goes at a forced, regular pace - everyone steps the same distance at the same time, keeping in a block of four rows the whole way. The object is not to get any exercise in the real sense, or even to show off the troops to the officers or concerned civilians and soccer moms, but to hone the soldiers' ability to coordinate, to move as one, to get that crunch-crunch of thirty pairs of feet on the tarmac timed perfectly.
This was the very fashion in which A Company went along the driveways and across the roads as bobaprime pointed out every major feature of Camp Vector Sigma - the running track, the obstacle course (Predabot had a bit of a shock when he saw the barbed wire), the tank sheds, the nicer buildings where the officers hung out, and last of all, five seemingly randomly-placed gates along the camp perimeter, none of which appeared to be proper camp exits, on account of the dense jungle behind all of them.
"That's your training area," bobaprime explained. "All five of the gates go in there, basically. Your pitching tents, your tank movements, your rolling in the mud with ten kilograms of equipment in the cold rain, that's where it all happens."
"Ohh yeah," muttered Shrapnel Clone.
"Right, that concludes the tour - down that road, and we'll be right back at the bunks. Ten minutes to shower before dinner. Think you can do it?"
"SISSISR YSSSES SISSI...." Running some five kilometres had sapped A Company of whatever diction and vocal control it had before.
"...right... C'mon! You're not tired, people!"
"Actually..." said Tired Tracks, but decided not to go on.
"One run back and it'll be over! Move it!!" yelled bobaprime again, blowing that whistle to get A Company moving. "C'mon! YOU'RE FORGETTING YOUR PACE, SOLDIERS!"
shaxper decided to step in - he called out the standart left-right chant, and after five or so steps everyone had followed his voice subconsciously and fallen in line.
"That's more like it," said bobaprime. "Now I want someone to lead the company with a marching song... Predabot?"
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you, soldier. Come on," said bobaprime, without actually turning to look at him as he jogged in time.
"Uhh..." Predabot had to think fast, but he'd always had a problem with jogging and thinking at the same time. Fortunately, the spirit of caramaderie traditionally imbued in the military shone through, as Tired Tracks reflexively volunteered his services.
"Guess who's back!"
"GUESS WHO'S BACK!"
"Back again!"
"BACK AGAIN!!"
"I.R's back!"
"I.R'S BACK!..."
***
ShrapnelClone spent a few more seconds staring into his cabinet mirror, looking very proud of his little decision indeed.
He'd been inspired for some obscure reason to get himself a buzz cut beforehand, and it was paying off already. There were horror stories going on about the TransFans camp barbershop already - some were saying that Aaron Hong with a gunblade made up the entire operation, and some said that Rebis manned (dogged?) the outfit, using the same clippers they used on him when... well.
Sitting three beds down was Predabot, who'd just found out that finishing lunch early was not a good idea - he was the first lamb at the shearer's, his messy curls jamming up three clippers before one of them reduced his mat to a nice even fuzz.
He certainly couldn't look at himself. It was hard for anyone else to, on account of the gleam.
Making the moment a little easier was the sight of Tired Tracks, Laser Rod Optimus Prime and shaxper, stepping into the bunk with three different variations of buzz cut. shaxper for some reason maintained a forward-swept buzz, and LROP had insisted that they take more off the sides, since he'd booked tickets for the sneaks of Blade Trinity... but Tracks had the oddest one of all. His fuzz stuck out perpendicular to his scalp in all directions, and a network of varicose veins only hinted at the Java-induced all-nighters he'd subjected himself to on occasion.
"You too, huh?" said Predabot.
"Oh, it's no big deal," said shaxper, finding himself a seat. "Back when I was in the Boy Scouts they made me cut my hair shorter than this."
"Are you sure?" said LROP. "I thought that was only in the Junior Marines or whatever it was that spat out Leatherneck..."
"I look like crap," Tracks lamented.
"Naah, it's not that bad, right shax?" said LROP, while furiously elbowing shaxper.
"Umm, yeah, it looks all right on you," said shax as he caught the drift. "The blood clots give you character."
Something else caught Predabot's attention at this point - bobaprime, leaning at the doorframe with arms folded, returning Predabot's current stare perfectly. Predabot had no idea what was supposed to happen at this point, or why bobaprime was in dress uniform with the sleeves rolled up, until...
"PREDABOT! FRONT AND CENTER!"
Predabot fell off his bed from it, but that wasn't all.
"Ten-HUT!" yelled shaxper, and everyone dropped everything and stood at attention, but it was too late. It had already been too late when Predabot stopped to think.
"Sorry soldiers," said bobaprime, "but thanks to your synaptically-impaired fellow recruit here - what's your name, boy?"
"...Lars," said Predabot. "Lars Johansson."
bobaprime sighed. "You need some help, soldier. If this was Leatherneck here you wouldn't even be standing right now, you know why?"
Predabot shook his head.
"LOOK AROUND YOU, SOLDIER!" bobaprime yelled. "Everyone's standing at attention and you're just gaping there?! In front of your bed! Suck in that gut! Chin up! Eyes front!"
For what it was worth, Predabot did have that inclination to do as he was told, and put up his best poker face as bobaprime verbally hammered him into shape.
"First things first... shaxper, would you care to explain to Predabot what he first did wrong?"
"Sir! Anyone who first sees a non-commissioned officer step into a bunk must call for attention from the others, SIR!" shaxper barked.
"Was that clear enough for you, Lars Johansson?" asked bobaprime.
"Ummm..."
"Drop and give me twenty!"
Predabot had seen enough army movies to know what that meant - he dropped to the floor with arms extended, ready to yell out twenty-pushups like every self-respecting soldier could. Unfortunately he hadn't put much of it into practice, which was why his arms buckled under his own weight instantly, causing his face to whack into the cement floor.
You could hear bobaprime's sigh from the far end of the room. Whitewash was known to have some acoustic properties.
"As I was saying," said bobaprime, "thanks to your new best friend Lars Johansson, you lot just earned some pre-dinner activity. Report in five minutes downstairs in running gear!"
"SIR YES SIR!"
"Now get changin'!"
***
TransFans was not known for cold nights (despite the amount of alcohol Computron was known to consume), but on the outer limits of the city, things were different.
The moderation had a tendency to keep the elements at bay as well. Boardspace was created from the minds of those within it, and thanks to the British community, there was a fair share of really bad weather, but Lieutenant General Best First could, despite actually being British, limit the amount of bad weather around the Ivory Tower and most of the city itself, not just by dint of being Administrator, but because he 'didn't need his nights to be any colder.'
So it was that A Company was gathered on the parking lot below their bunk, dressed in dark beige tracksuits with windbreakers and pants, decorated with little Ivory Towers on the left breast. The shoes were their own, though.
"...and next time you introduce yourself," said Tracks to Predabot, "you have to go 'Recruit Predabot', not Lars Ericsson. It's all on your dog tags, remember? Name, rank and IP address."
"He's coming! Rank and file, folks!" yelled shaxper, and everyone started shuffling around, lining up in four neat rows just as bobaprime - who for some reason wore much less than them, just a tanktop and shorts - came down the corridor and stopped in front of A Company.
"Company!" he yelled.
"SIR YES SIR!"
"Recruit Predabot..." said Predabot, who started trailing off and feeling very alone, as he realised he'd messed up again. The sight of bobaprime smacking his own head was indication enough.
"Fine day for a run," bobaprime commented, as he fingered the whistle around his neck. "All right, this'll be your official Grand Tour of Camp Vector Sigma, so I want everyone to pay attention and keep in line, and we'll be back in time for dinner. Now, jog on the spot..."
"What's this for?" asked Predabot, now the only one not moving.
"It's called a warm-up, they have to do this," LROP explained. "From the looks of it bobaprime already did his."
"Ready..." said bobaprime, while raising his whistle in a very deliberate fashion, while eyeing them to make sure they could see what he was doing...
...and blew the whistle.
***
A military run is not as simple as one may think. You can watch a dozen marathons on TV, you might even have that archived footage of Roger Bannister's four-minute mile, but it wouldn't even hint at how soldiers run.
Barring artillery shelling, a military run always goes at a forced, regular pace - everyone steps the same distance at the same time, keeping in a block of four rows the whole way. The object is not to get any exercise in the real sense, or even to show off the troops to the officers or concerned civilians and soccer moms, but to hone the soldiers' ability to coordinate, to move as one, to get that crunch-crunch of thirty pairs of feet on the tarmac timed perfectly.
This was the very fashion in which A Company went along the driveways and across the roads as bobaprime pointed out every major feature of Camp Vector Sigma - the running track, the obstacle course (Predabot had a bit of a shock when he saw the barbed wire), the tank sheds, the nicer buildings where the officers hung out, and last of all, five seemingly randomly-placed gates along the camp perimeter, none of which appeared to be proper camp exits, on account of the dense jungle behind all of them.
"That's your training area," bobaprime explained. "All five of the gates go in there, basically. Your pitching tents, your tank movements, your rolling in the mud with ten kilograms of equipment in the cold rain, that's where it all happens."
"Ohh yeah," muttered Shrapnel Clone.
"Right, that concludes the tour - down that road, and we'll be right back at the bunks. Ten minutes to shower before dinner. Think you can do it?"
"SISSISR YSSSES SISSI...." Running some five kilometres had sapped A Company of whatever diction and vocal control it had before.
"...right... C'mon! You're not tired, people!"
"Actually..." said Tired Tracks, but decided not to go on.
"One run back and it'll be over! Move it!!" yelled bobaprime again, blowing that whistle to get A Company moving. "C'mon! YOU'RE FORGETTING YOUR PACE, SOLDIERS!"
shaxper decided to step in - he called out the standart left-right chant, and after five or so steps everyone had followed his voice subconsciously and fallen in line.
"That's more like it," said bobaprime. "Now I want someone to lead the company with a marching song... Predabot?"
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you, soldier. Come on," said bobaprime, without actually turning to look at him as he jogged in time.
"Uhh..." Predabot had to think fast, but he'd always had a problem with jogging and thinking at the same time. Fortunately, the spirit of caramaderie traditionally imbued in the military shone through, as Tired Tracks reflexively volunteered his services.
"Guess who's back!"
"GUESS WHO'S BACK!"
"Back again!"
"BACK AGAIN!!"
"I.R's back!"
"I.R'S BACK!..."
Last edited by Aaron Hong on Thu Sep 19, 2013 1:18 pm, edited 2 times in total.
-
bobaprime85
- Got turned into the Spacebridge
- Posts:246
- Joined:Fri Dec 13, 2002 12:00 am
- Location:podunk,nowhere
-
Aaron Hong
- Me king!
- Posts:1269
- Joined:Fri Jan 11, 2002 12:00 am
- ::No pity for fools
- Location:...No let ME fold the map GAAH
It's a little known fact, mainly because The Man isn't quite that good at keeping secrets, that the most important posts in the military are the ones you never read about. Of course even the man on the street knows why the military would want to keep secrets of a classified nature, but the fact that said man on said street knows that there are secrets to be kept kind of defeats the purpose, don't you think?
TransFans of course had its undercover military personnel to spread rumors about. In the really old days there was a legendary TransFans Secret Police, but rumors of it had been rapidly quashed by the rising median rate of incompetence throughout TransFans, since nobody actually looked the part.
The moderators had taken this into consideration very carefully indeed.
Thus, a new breed of top secret military operatives, experienced TransFans molded into agents so secretive they didn't even know what the hell kind of outfit they were in, had been established - a Black Ops unit if you will, of which two agents were currently observing a CCTV display that showed A Company on their long trudge back to the barracks. Due to some form of twisted logic, one of them was the best known Board blabbermouth, the dude who thought feminine hygeine was a fun dinner subject, the very guy who'd earned a TMI patch on his dress uniform before he'd been issued with it.
And Obfleur was his name-oh.
His infamous shock-headed hairdo was always moderated into a taut French braid upon arriving in Boardspace, and the current military structure made it that much tauter. Not without reason was his Desert Storm uniform decorated with dozens of tampons.
Well, maybe without a valid reason.
"Well, how do they look so far?" asked Ob's immediate superior, Colonel Ikijigoku. "Think we'll hold out all right if the trolls attacked tomorrow?"
"It's... hard to say," said Obfleur, thinking up one word at a time. "Battle stress has... a different effect on different people. Right. Some actually do better in blood-and-guts combat than in camp with the training gloves on, that's the ticket."
"You're probably right," Iki commented. "There's certainly a bigger incentive to win... but don't forget the last few lines of our Black Ops directives, Obfleur. If required, we will actually have to ban our own fellow TransFans, if they turn out to be a threat to the Board. Remember, Ob - there are bigger things at stake here."
Obfleur swallowed, as quietly as he could.
"Well, chances are we'll have to rope in one or two of them to join our unit anyway, since we are arguably the most shorthanded division in TransFans," said Ikijigoku. "That idiot Best First, trying to recruit everyone he ever accused of being in the Dutch Conspiracy, now look what happened - Dylan and Richard made the Medical Corps, Eline's an instructor, the others mostly got beat down to recruit for this, but at least we got strafefox with us. That brings our strength up to - how many again?"
Obfleur sighed. "Three."
The two men paused to sip on cold sodas.
"Wait a sec, there's one possibility," said Obfleur. "We have a dozen non-commissioned officers still waiting placement, can't we just rope in another one?"
"Anyone you have in mind?" asked Ikijigoku - and Obfleur stopped to think. For all of three seconds.
"Legion."
Ikijigoku took another sip. "I'm not very familiar with that name."
"That's what you get for not frequenting General enough," said Obfleur. "He's the last of the white horses the other departments are fighting to have on their team, after Smooth, Tired Tracks and Aaron's placements were confirmed. Trust me - he's perfect."
***
Night had come at last to Camp Vector Sigma... and not a moment too soon.
Even after hitting the showers and having dinner, A Company was completely and thoroughly zonked out from the run - they stumbled through the bunk doors and fell over each other, not from the crowding, but from the fatigue.
"Heh," said someone from down the corridor. "Poor Alpha Company can't even get into the bunk properly. That's what you get for conscriptng nothing but newbies."
shaxper and Laser Rod Optimus acted quickly, placing their hands on Tired Tracks' shoulders as he arose. They looked at him knowingly, and he understood, maintaining a bold front as they stepped back into the hallway to address the individual.
"Funny, you look pretty new yourself," said LROP to the lone recruit standing in the hallway, while wondering to himself How come he gets to keep pointy hair like that? "You wanna tell us who the unwelcome comments are coming from, at least?"
"That's whom, actually," the dude explained, "and if I'm going to tell people like you my name, you'd better have the decency to remember it. Ishin no Ookami, at your service."
Proud Wolf, thought Tired Tracks as he translated it. The no is just there to make it sound important. Poser.
"Don't tell me you didn't wind up running circles for whoever gets to order you around," said shaxper.
"Oh, we in B company are far better than that," said Ishin, staring back coolly as the rest of A Company filled the hallway behind shax, LROP and Tracks. "There's a couple of very unique specimens making up our ranks, as you can see..."
The hallway darkened as a massive figure appeared behind Ishin no Ookami - someone with shoulders that nearly touched both walls, feet that currently stood in boots the size of TVs, topped with a stiff buzz cut on a head that could have come out of a kiln.
"Like my new best friend here, Optimus Prime Beef..."
"Rib," the large one corrected.
"...whatever," said Ishin without missing a beat - though it had to be said that he was relishing the current look on A Company's faces.
"There's no point to this, you know," said shaxper. "When the troll attacks start up, every person in every department will have to get off their butts and fight. Nobody cares what company's better or worse..."
"You haven't heard, have you?" said Ishin. "Every company's shorthanded as it is, and the brass are considering merging some of them. That means the weaker ones may not get flushed out, but they will be absorbed - assimilated - possibly forgotten."
"That only works if we've been around long enough to forge a company identity," said Tracks, "but did you know something, Ish - IT'S ONLY BEEN ONE DAY!"
Ishin no Ookami raised a proud eyebrow.
"Sweet wallhumping Jesus," Tracks swore, "if you're gonna meditate with your head in the toilet, you'd better have the decency to gargle before you step outside, or all the crap in your mouth will spew on people. Let's go, guys."
A bored sort of group murmur arose from A Company as they all walked back in, with a couple giving Tracks high-fives as well. Ishin's well-practiced poker face did not falter any further, even as the last of them went back in.
"You weren't supposed to actually say anything," said Ishin to Optimus Prime Rib.
"Well, you did get my name wrong..."
"Then have a simpler name! Do I have to think of everything?" Ishin snapped - he turned around, about to return to B Company's bunk, then realised there was no way to walk around Optimus Prime Rib. He had to wait till OPRib started walking as well. "Well, at least you got the swagger and the folding-your-arms timed perfectly. The poor idiots were stupefied, did you see that? That's your first lesson in mental warfare right there, buddy."
"Thanks," said OPRib. "I will always endeavour to remember these lessons you taught me, on thinking before acting, and fighting with my mind."
"Good on you," said Ishin, while thinking because lord knows I could never beat you in a physical fight...
TransFans of course had its undercover military personnel to spread rumors about. In the really old days there was a legendary TransFans Secret Police, but rumors of it had been rapidly quashed by the rising median rate of incompetence throughout TransFans, since nobody actually looked the part.
The moderators had taken this into consideration very carefully indeed.
Thus, a new breed of top secret military operatives, experienced TransFans molded into agents so secretive they didn't even know what the hell kind of outfit they were in, had been established - a Black Ops unit if you will, of which two agents were currently observing a CCTV display that showed A Company on their long trudge back to the barracks. Due to some form of twisted logic, one of them was the best known Board blabbermouth, the dude who thought feminine hygeine was a fun dinner subject, the very guy who'd earned a TMI patch on his dress uniform before he'd been issued with it.
And Obfleur was his name-oh.
His infamous shock-headed hairdo was always moderated into a taut French braid upon arriving in Boardspace, and the current military structure made it that much tauter. Not without reason was his Desert Storm uniform decorated with dozens of tampons.
Well, maybe without a valid reason.
"Well, how do they look so far?" asked Ob's immediate superior, Colonel Ikijigoku. "Think we'll hold out all right if the trolls attacked tomorrow?"
"It's... hard to say," said Obfleur, thinking up one word at a time. "Battle stress has... a different effect on different people. Right. Some actually do better in blood-and-guts combat than in camp with the training gloves on, that's the ticket."
"You're probably right," Iki commented. "There's certainly a bigger incentive to win... but don't forget the last few lines of our Black Ops directives, Obfleur. If required, we will actually have to ban our own fellow TransFans, if they turn out to be a threat to the Board. Remember, Ob - there are bigger things at stake here."
Obfleur swallowed, as quietly as he could.
"Well, chances are we'll have to rope in one or two of them to join our unit anyway, since we are arguably the most shorthanded division in TransFans," said Ikijigoku. "That idiot Best First, trying to recruit everyone he ever accused of being in the Dutch Conspiracy, now look what happened - Dylan and Richard made the Medical Corps, Eline's an instructor, the others mostly got beat down to recruit for this, but at least we got strafefox with us. That brings our strength up to - how many again?"
Obfleur sighed. "Three."
The two men paused to sip on cold sodas.
"Wait a sec, there's one possibility," said Obfleur. "We have a dozen non-commissioned officers still waiting placement, can't we just rope in another one?"
"Anyone you have in mind?" asked Ikijigoku - and Obfleur stopped to think. For all of three seconds.
"Legion."
Ikijigoku took another sip. "I'm not very familiar with that name."
"That's what you get for not frequenting General enough," said Obfleur. "He's the last of the white horses the other departments are fighting to have on their team, after Smooth, Tired Tracks and Aaron's placements were confirmed. Trust me - he's perfect."
***
Night had come at last to Camp Vector Sigma... and not a moment too soon.
Even after hitting the showers and having dinner, A Company was completely and thoroughly zonked out from the run - they stumbled through the bunk doors and fell over each other, not from the crowding, but from the fatigue.
"Heh," said someone from down the corridor. "Poor Alpha Company can't even get into the bunk properly. That's what you get for conscriptng nothing but newbies."
shaxper and Laser Rod Optimus acted quickly, placing their hands on Tired Tracks' shoulders as he arose. They looked at him knowingly, and he understood, maintaining a bold front as they stepped back into the hallway to address the individual.
"Funny, you look pretty new yourself," said LROP to the lone recruit standing in the hallway, while wondering to himself How come he gets to keep pointy hair like that? "You wanna tell us who the unwelcome comments are coming from, at least?"
"That's whom, actually," the dude explained, "and if I'm going to tell people like you my name, you'd better have the decency to remember it. Ishin no Ookami, at your service."
Proud Wolf, thought Tired Tracks as he translated it. The no is just there to make it sound important. Poser.
"Don't tell me you didn't wind up running circles for whoever gets to order you around," said shaxper.
"Oh, we in B company are far better than that," said Ishin, staring back coolly as the rest of A Company filled the hallway behind shax, LROP and Tracks. "There's a couple of very unique specimens making up our ranks, as you can see..."
The hallway darkened as a massive figure appeared behind Ishin no Ookami - someone with shoulders that nearly touched both walls, feet that currently stood in boots the size of TVs, topped with a stiff buzz cut on a head that could have come out of a kiln.
"Like my new best friend here, Optimus Prime Beef..."
"Rib," the large one corrected.
"...whatever," said Ishin without missing a beat - though it had to be said that he was relishing the current look on A Company's faces.
"There's no point to this, you know," said shaxper. "When the troll attacks start up, every person in every department will have to get off their butts and fight. Nobody cares what company's better or worse..."
"You haven't heard, have you?" said Ishin. "Every company's shorthanded as it is, and the brass are considering merging some of them. That means the weaker ones may not get flushed out, but they will be absorbed - assimilated - possibly forgotten."
"That only works if we've been around long enough to forge a company identity," said Tracks, "but did you know something, Ish - IT'S ONLY BEEN ONE DAY!"
Ishin no Ookami raised a proud eyebrow.
"Sweet wallhumping Jesus," Tracks swore, "if you're gonna meditate with your head in the toilet, you'd better have the decency to gargle before you step outside, or all the crap in your mouth will spew on people. Let's go, guys."
A bored sort of group murmur arose from A Company as they all walked back in, with a couple giving Tracks high-fives as well. Ishin's well-practiced poker face did not falter any further, even as the last of them went back in.
"You weren't supposed to actually say anything," said Ishin to Optimus Prime Rib.
"Well, you did get my name wrong..."
"Then have a simpler name! Do I have to think of everything?" Ishin snapped - he turned around, about to return to B Company's bunk, then realised there was no way to walk around Optimus Prime Rib. He had to wait till OPRib started walking as well. "Well, at least you got the swagger and the folding-your-arms timed perfectly. The poor idiots were stupefied, did you see that? That's your first lesson in mental warfare right there, buddy."
"Thanks," said OPRib. "I will always endeavour to remember these lessons you taught me, on thinking before acting, and fighting with my mind."
"Good on you," said Ishin, while thinking because lord knows I could never beat you in a physical fight...
Last edited by Aaron Hong on Sat Dec 18, 2004 6:09 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Aaron Hong
- Me king!
- Posts:1269
- Joined:Fri Jan 11, 2002 12:00 am
- ::No pity for fools
- Location:...No let ME fold the map GAAH
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Optimus Prime Rib
- Over Pompous Autobot Commander
- Posts:2215
- Joined:Mon Apr 19, 2004 11:00 pm
- Location:College Station, TX
- Contact:
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Aaron Hong
- Me king!
- Posts:1269
- Joined:Fri Jan 11, 2002 12:00 am
- ::No pity for fools
- Location:...No let ME fold the map GAAH
New Year update!
***
It is safe to say that everyone (that is to say, everyone who's been keeping track of Hollywood movies since Top Gun was made) had the same general image of combat pilots - cocky and arrogant, big smiles and bigger egos, gelled-hair sunglasses-wearing towel-snapping-in-the-shower, the whole kit and caboodle.
Unfortunately, Metal Vendetta was finding out for himself that life behind the Hollywood hype was far less glitzy. For one thing, this was bloody Boardspace, and that kind of behaviour was more commonly attributed to something else, emphasis on 'thing'.
A thump on his chair's foldout table panel awoke MV for the fifth time. Having Rebis rub his cold nose in MV's rump hadn't helped.
"...and why is that so, Robbie?" asked Colonel Smooth, the designated air combat instructor, as well as squadron commander once they were actually ready for combat. From the look on MV's face, that was a long way off.
"...umm... turbulence?"
Smooth sighed. "I was going over the instrument panel of the BS-1 DThunder combat aircraft, specifically the waterline indicator," he began, "and having actually been an aircraft at some point, this entire lesson must seem pretty redundant to you, doesn't it?"
"That was precisely my point," said MV, "you see..."
"Unfortunately the PHP convention has forbidden us to roll out in a Board war with the transforming capabilities that TransFan BoardSpace has given us, EmVee," Smooth explained, "and while it doesn't affect me, I can see how you'd be offended at having to trade in your TransFan badge and two altmodes for dog tags and all this..."
"Damned bloody right!" said a now livid Metal Vendetta. "I don't have to go through all this! I'm Metal Vendetta! I was born to fly!"
"Good," said Smooth, patting MV on the shoulder. "Gentlemen, it looks like Captain Robert Leese Jones has officially volunteered to be the Dthunder's first ever test pilot. Shouldn't be a problem to you, eh?"
"...what?"
"Yes, Computron was hoping that Jetfire would get that privilege," Smooth continued, "but I told him, you've seen their post counts, Metal Vendetta's the only one who earned the tenure for this. Twice the tenure, in fact. A twentyure."
"Huh?"
"That concludes our lecture on the fundamentals of piloting the BS-1," said Smooth. "Get some sleep, folks. Especially you, Robbie. Dismissed."
The other pilots immediately started chatting among themselves as they filed out - all except for Metal Vendetta. He stared blankly into the whiteboard, hoping beyong hope that everything Smooth had scribbled on it would somehow help him. As it was, he could only make out an aircraft outline and the letters BS-1.
"Drat," Metal Vendetta murmured. "And double drat."
Rebis sniggered, but not too loudly.
***
The first ever military regiment of TransFans finally saw its first night.
It was certainly a lot colder out here, as A Company found out - they probably had embroidered duvets or something for the officers, and even Rebis got a bowl of coffee every night, but for the grunts it was cotton blankets, foam pillows and foam mattresses, all equally thin.
Making things all the more unbearable was Tired Tracks, shuddering from a caffeine high even in his sleep, causing the springs to rattle and making everyone sleep with their heads under their pillows. The Tooth Fairy would have a field day with this one, if she even had internet access.
Of course, the military never really sleeps, and someone always has to be awake and around to take the blame if something were to happen. Without that specific purpose in mind, that someone was Major General IronHide, poring over the various nominal rolls to check if anyone had been left unassigned.
"...this would be so much easier if I actually knew how to use Excel," IronHide lamented, and sipped a cup of coffee. "At least we don't have Tired Tracks sneaking in here and making off with the Java like he always does..."
***
It is safe to say that everyone (that is to say, everyone who's been keeping track of Hollywood movies since Top Gun was made) had the same general image of combat pilots - cocky and arrogant, big smiles and bigger egos, gelled-hair sunglasses-wearing towel-snapping-in-the-shower, the whole kit and caboodle.
Unfortunately, Metal Vendetta was finding out for himself that life behind the Hollywood hype was far less glitzy. For one thing, this was bloody Boardspace, and that kind of behaviour was more commonly attributed to something else, emphasis on 'thing'.
A thump on his chair's foldout table panel awoke MV for the fifth time. Having Rebis rub his cold nose in MV's rump hadn't helped.
"...and why is that so, Robbie?" asked Colonel Smooth, the designated air combat instructor, as well as squadron commander once they were actually ready for combat. From the look on MV's face, that was a long way off.
"...umm... turbulence?"
Smooth sighed. "I was going over the instrument panel of the BS-1 DThunder combat aircraft, specifically the waterline indicator," he began, "and having actually been an aircraft at some point, this entire lesson must seem pretty redundant to you, doesn't it?"
"That was precisely my point," said MV, "you see..."
"Unfortunately the PHP convention has forbidden us to roll out in a Board war with the transforming capabilities that TransFan BoardSpace has given us, EmVee," Smooth explained, "and while it doesn't affect me, I can see how you'd be offended at having to trade in your TransFan badge and two altmodes for dog tags and all this..."
"Damned bloody right!" said a now livid Metal Vendetta. "I don't have to go through all this! I'm Metal Vendetta! I was born to fly!"
"Good," said Smooth, patting MV on the shoulder. "Gentlemen, it looks like Captain Robert Leese Jones has officially volunteered to be the Dthunder's first ever test pilot. Shouldn't be a problem to you, eh?"
"...what?"
"Yes, Computron was hoping that Jetfire would get that privilege," Smooth continued, "but I told him, you've seen their post counts, Metal Vendetta's the only one who earned the tenure for this. Twice the tenure, in fact. A twentyure."
"Huh?"
"That concludes our lecture on the fundamentals of piloting the BS-1," said Smooth. "Get some sleep, folks. Especially you, Robbie. Dismissed."
The other pilots immediately started chatting among themselves as they filed out - all except for Metal Vendetta. He stared blankly into the whiteboard, hoping beyong hope that everything Smooth had scribbled on it would somehow help him. As it was, he could only make out an aircraft outline and the letters BS-1.
"Drat," Metal Vendetta murmured. "And double drat."
Rebis sniggered, but not too loudly.
***
The first ever military regiment of TransFans finally saw its first night.
It was certainly a lot colder out here, as A Company found out - they probably had embroidered duvets or something for the officers, and even Rebis got a bowl of coffee every night, but for the grunts it was cotton blankets, foam pillows and foam mattresses, all equally thin.
Making things all the more unbearable was Tired Tracks, shuddering from a caffeine high even in his sleep, causing the springs to rattle and making everyone sleep with their heads under their pillows. The Tooth Fairy would have a field day with this one, if she even had internet access.
Of course, the military never really sleeps, and someone always has to be awake and around to take the blame if something were to happen. Without that specific purpose in mind, that someone was Major General IronHide, poring over the various nominal rolls to check if anyone had been left unassigned.
"...this would be so much easier if I actually knew how to use Excel," IronHide lamented, and sipped a cup of coffee. "At least we don't have Tired Tracks sneaking in here and making off with the Java like he always does..."
The army sucks.. 
-
Tired Tracks
- Got turned into the Spacebridge
- Posts:216
- Joined:Sat May 11, 2002 11:00 pm
- Location:Orono, ME
- Contact:
-
Laser Rod Optimus Prime
- Decepticon Cannon Fodder
- Posts:91
- Joined:Wed Apr 25, 2001 11:00 pm
- Location:Texas
- Contact:
Well, I could have told you if I'd been paying more attention. ^_^;;Tired Tracks wrote:I normally avoid these topics until Laser Rod tells me its picking up pace because I can't stand waiting for the next post, but I'm all up to date anyway!
Grand job Aaron!
Oh well, I'm all caught up too... except I don't seem to know TT's assignment yet.
-
Aaron Hong
- Me king!
- Posts:1269
- Joined:Fri Jan 11, 2002 12:00 am
- ::No pity for fools
- Location:...No let ME fold the map GAAH
Let us stop for a moment, and back out from Boardspace for a while, passing between the RGB cells of your monitor - and back into the real world.
The sun set everywhere at once in Boardspace, but the real world was bugged with a little something called timezones. When it's teatime in Ireland it's Wednesday over here, or so they say. And there was only one TransFan who could be up and ready to report on the Sunday night awards ceremony, by dint of it being Monday morning where he was.
Aaron Hong.
He'd had a week or so to muse over the email Computron sent him, about the regimentalisation of TransFans and what role he'd get, but like a dozen other senior TransFans, he'd been given some time to think it over, and get prepared, and whatever. Unlike said dozen other senior TransFans, however, he didn't get up and jump headlong into it without stopping to think first.
This was due in part to the fact that Aaron had done his time with the military.
In the wake of Malaysia's impending martial law encroaching from north of the border, Singapore's remaining government had to set up its own Volunteer Corps to prove it didn't need Malaysian troops to defend it by marching up and down the roads like they owned them. 'Volunteer' turned out to be just a word, as every Singaporean male youth reaching the age of 18 was dragged forcibly into the service, the government taking two and a half years of their lives that they weren't about to see again soon.
It had been the military that turned his father and five of his army buddies into demon-empowered superheroes in iron armor, leaving him with a geological physiology, and that didn't look good on them either.
Fortunately, soldiers were allowed to breed, and so Aaron had moved on to become the proud father of five national terrors of his own. Four of them were somewhat controllable though - the real problem came from the youngest one, a precocious and hyperactive 6-year-old girl who'd suddenly developed a rather obsessive love for cats, so much that she insisted that everyone around her call her Kitty. And for some obscure reason, she was the only one the school had to send home today, on account of a rather bad cough.
"I'm trying to get a hairball out, I just need more time," Kitty explained.
"Sure you are," said Aaron - who was currently displaying his little-known culinary skills, by making breakfast. Kitty heeded none of his warnings as he tipped out boiling hot soup into two waiting bowls of noodles (to her credit, Kitty picked up the use of chopsticks before any of her elder siblings could.)
"Eeek! Daddy, you burned it!"
"It's soup, you can't burn it," Aaron explained.
"But it's smoking!" Kitty protested.
"Steaming, Kitty," said Aaron. "It just means that the soup's a little too hot to drink now."
"Are you trying to kill me?!" Kitty screamed. "You know I hate it when it's too hot! Start blowing!"
Aaron gave her a look.
"BLOOOOWW MYYY SOOOOUUP!" Kitty ranted, and Aaron gave in, whipping out a handheld fan and blowing the steam off.
"I don't get it," Aaron mumbled, "Mommy says you take after me the most, how come you don't like your food hot?"
"Because she's just being difficult," said Annie, stepping into the kitchen with a frilly apron already tied on. "It's like she's making up for five kids' worth of mischief."
"It's just a rep, you know that," Kitty replied.
"And what have I told you about proper preparation techniques?" said Annie, in tones directed rather forcibly at Aaron. "Wear an apron when you cook!"
"Ah, but you said once never to wear that apron of mine in here again," Aaron pointed out.
"Because your dad used that lead-lined thing for welding!" Annie replied. "Don't you remember, Kitty ran screaming out of the kitchen going 'PSYCHO KILLER!!' when she saw you going for the knife drawer!"
Aaron and Annie had been in enough of these spats to recognise the signs, and know when to let it go. As if following some subliminal choreography, they stopped and inhaled deeply, then exhaled as one.
"You know I can't get scalded," said Aaron. "Organic asbestos skin."
"I know that, it's you clothes I'm worried about getting splattered," said Annie. "You know who does the laundry here?"
"A computerised smelting chamber that Dad jerry-rigged into a washing machine," said Aaron, already putting his arms around Annie. "Your point?"
"My point, akasenshi-sama, is that sometimes I find myself doing all the things you should be doing," said Annie, leaning forward until her forehead touched his chin, "like the worrying."
"Aww, it can't be that bad," said Aaron.
"What about that message from TransFans?" asked Annie. "Aren't you afraid that they might just revoke your membership like that, if you refused the non-commissioned officer position they were offering you?"
"If they could, it'd be Best First sending the message, not Compy," said Aaron. "These are people I've known for a while - Boxface wouldn't make anyone pass his word for him if he didn't already know how it would turn out."
"And how is that...?"
Aaron sighed. "I'll go ahead with it, I guess. Granted it's going to be tough and will take up even more of my time, not to mention the rolling in the mud... but I won't have time for you anymore..."
"Oh, I got that covered," said Annie. "Compy says there's a place for me as well, in the medical corps. It won't be in your department, but Dylan runs that outfit and he'll keep an eye on me. See, it all works out."
"Annie, that's great!" said Aaron, hugging her. "It's not much different from your old job - minus the delivering of babies - but hey, you're probably better qualified for it than Dylan is. Although... I was wondering..."
"Don't worry," said Annie, in lower tones. "I'll keep my nurse's outfit at home."
Aaron remembered that hypnotic smile of Annie's, which made him smile as well - it had been seven years since they were married, and they did have five screaming horrors to watch over now - but sometimes, just sometimes, they'd remember that the honeymoon for them never really ended...
Aaron snapped out of it, as a noise drew his attention.
"Kitty, what's that weird music you're humming?"
"Nothing mummy," said Kitty, jumping off her stool and leaving the kitchen in double quick time. Aaron and Annie stared after her for a few seconds - Annie stopped first, to glare at Aaron.
"...What?"
***
Daylight returned, with much trepidation, to Boardspace.
The regimentalisation of TransFans meant that even the simplest tasks had to be regluated under some situation, and morning was no different. While some things could be monitored subtly, like food preparation and signing documents, there were certain things that needed a forceful, iron hand, ready to shove some order down the throats of the masses, just to get things done.
Unfortunately, some historical bugger thought that waking up the troops at dawn was one of these things.
So it was that at precisely 6 am TransFans time, the blare of an unbearably loud trumpet rocked the fences and walls of Camp Vector Sigma - plaster fell from ceilings, steel shutters rattled, and five vehicles needed to be re-parallel-parked.
"...freaking annoying... OII!" yelled Sheba from the cookhouse window. "Every damned morning I spill a fat-pan or cut a potato the wrong way because of you! KNOCK IT OFF!"
"Easy there, sugar," said Nebbie knowingly. "Back where I grew up, it was steel pans every morning, at half past four. You get used to that after a while, I guarantee."
"...if you're a goddamned masochist, maybe," Sheba muttered, as she twirled her cutting knife back into position. "Any idea if that consignment of maple syrup is in?"
"Nope," Nebbie replied, as she filled a blender and hit the button. "We got more 'n 'nuff to make grits, though. Can have it ready in a snap."
"For breakfast?" asked a very unconvinced Sheba.
"That or instant gumbo..." Nebbie paused. "Hang on, you hear that?"
Sheba didn't pay any attention, her hands using her knife and cutting potatoes with a rhythm burned into their cells - but her eyes did turn towards the windows on their own, indicating that she did hear it.
A low, rather disorganised rumble.
***
Being a recruit meant that you had a lot less time on your hands, to do those things you normally could outside the military. Read your favourite book maybe, watch television, or smaller things like brushing your teeth, making your bed, shining your shoes and wiping your face.
Thus it was that the recruits of A Company were forced to run down stairs and assemble in a block in front of the barracks, without nearly enough time to make ready or get dressed or whatever. Of course the other companies were in the same rush, but Leatherneck, having been given charge of A Company for the day, had something special planned out way ahead.
"Hands shoulder width apart! Straighten your elbows! You call that a push-up position? I want all your hindquarters saluting the sky until every last recruit is in rank and file, you hear me?"
"God crappit, nobody told me they were doing this today," Tired Tracks growled.
"DO YOU HEAR ME, SOLDIERS?!"
"SIR YES SIR!!" yelled A Company in reply.
"It's not like Leatherneck knows us that well, and anyways the other companies aren't having it any better," said Laser Rod. "Look over there, they're sending B Company back up the stairs just because someone took too long to fall in."
"Are they now?" asked Tracks - it was hard to look up, because his head felt really heavy. "So who the hell do we blame...?"
"Recruit Lars Johansson! You took a total of three minutes to scale three flights of stairs, soldier!" yelled Leatherneck at Predabot, whom everyone somehow expected to be the last one down. "When we are at the breakfast table I expect you to explain to me in minute detail just how the hell that was possible, you hear me?!"
"Sir yes sir!" Predabot shrieked, as he found a convenient blank file and fell in. There was an oddly long pause as Leatherneck simply stared at him.
"Well?" he asked Predabot.
"Sir what sir?!"
Aww hell no, thought Tired Tracks.
"DON'T YOU HAVE A SINGLE SHRED OF DECENCY IN YOUR SPINDLY SWEDISH BODY?! YOUR ENTIRE COMPANY IS ON THEIR HANDS AND TOES AND YOU'RE JUST TAKING IN THE SIGHTS, AREN'T YOU SOLDIER?!"
"Sir no sir!!"
"So what you're telling me is that thirty over people stuck in push-up position isn't enough entertainment for you, is it?"
"Sir no sir!!"
It wasn't hard to tell that Predabot was close to tears by now. shaxper decided to exercise some initiative of his own, by reaching up and grabbing Predabot, then pulling him down to his own level.
"Hang in there, kid," said shaxper reassuringly. "You gotta keep your eyes open, when you spot these things coming, you'll be able to ride them out easier... Predabot! Don't crack up on me now!"
"Why the hell is he doing all this?!" Predabot whined.
"We're soldiers now, and this is our job. You follow orders and they can't touch you. That's how it goes." shaxper patted Predabot on the back. "There you go. Just keep still just like everyone else, don't stick out and you won't give them something to pick at."
"Now," said Leatherneck, in a more subdued booming, "you've got C Company taking a run around the field, and B going up and down the stairs - that leaves you lot. Can't let them show us up, right soldiers?"
"SIR NO SIR!"
"Then DOWN!"
"ONE!" shaxper counted out loud, as everyone tried to do one push-up. Apart from severe timing differences, they pulled it off.
"DOWN!"
"Two!" counted shaxper. The timing was closer now.
"DOWN!"
"Three!" It was shaxper and Tired Tracks together this time.
By the time they reached five, everyone was counting out loud, in a show of communal solidarity you'd have to see to believe. Even Sheba and Nebbie from the cookhouse windows could see what they were doing, and couldn't help but feel impressed.
The fact that A Company couldn't count together after thirty killed that effect.
The sun set everywhere at once in Boardspace, but the real world was bugged with a little something called timezones. When it's teatime in Ireland it's Wednesday over here, or so they say. And there was only one TransFan who could be up and ready to report on the Sunday night awards ceremony, by dint of it being Monday morning where he was.
Aaron Hong.
He'd had a week or so to muse over the email Computron sent him, about the regimentalisation of TransFans and what role he'd get, but like a dozen other senior TransFans, he'd been given some time to think it over, and get prepared, and whatever. Unlike said dozen other senior TransFans, however, he didn't get up and jump headlong into it without stopping to think first.
This was due in part to the fact that Aaron had done his time with the military.
In the wake of Malaysia's impending martial law encroaching from north of the border, Singapore's remaining government had to set up its own Volunteer Corps to prove it didn't need Malaysian troops to defend it by marching up and down the roads like they owned them. 'Volunteer' turned out to be just a word, as every Singaporean male youth reaching the age of 18 was dragged forcibly into the service, the government taking two and a half years of their lives that they weren't about to see again soon.
It had been the military that turned his father and five of his army buddies into demon-empowered superheroes in iron armor, leaving him with a geological physiology, and that didn't look good on them either.
Fortunately, soldiers were allowed to breed, and so Aaron had moved on to become the proud father of five national terrors of his own. Four of them were somewhat controllable though - the real problem came from the youngest one, a precocious and hyperactive 6-year-old girl who'd suddenly developed a rather obsessive love for cats, so much that she insisted that everyone around her call her Kitty. And for some obscure reason, she was the only one the school had to send home today, on account of a rather bad cough.
"I'm trying to get a hairball out, I just need more time," Kitty explained.
"Sure you are," said Aaron - who was currently displaying his little-known culinary skills, by making breakfast. Kitty heeded none of his warnings as he tipped out boiling hot soup into two waiting bowls of noodles (to her credit, Kitty picked up the use of chopsticks before any of her elder siblings could.)
"Eeek! Daddy, you burned it!"
"It's soup, you can't burn it," Aaron explained.
"But it's smoking!" Kitty protested.
"Steaming, Kitty," said Aaron. "It just means that the soup's a little too hot to drink now."
"Are you trying to kill me?!" Kitty screamed. "You know I hate it when it's too hot! Start blowing!"
Aaron gave her a look.
"BLOOOOWW MYYY SOOOOUUP!" Kitty ranted, and Aaron gave in, whipping out a handheld fan and blowing the steam off.
"I don't get it," Aaron mumbled, "Mommy says you take after me the most, how come you don't like your food hot?"
"Because she's just being difficult," said Annie, stepping into the kitchen with a frilly apron already tied on. "It's like she's making up for five kids' worth of mischief."
"It's just a rep, you know that," Kitty replied.
"And what have I told you about proper preparation techniques?" said Annie, in tones directed rather forcibly at Aaron. "Wear an apron when you cook!"
"Ah, but you said once never to wear that apron of mine in here again," Aaron pointed out.
"Because your dad used that lead-lined thing for welding!" Annie replied. "Don't you remember, Kitty ran screaming out of the kitchen going 'PSYCHO KILLER!!' when she saw you going for the knife drawer!"
Aaron and Annie had been in enough of these spats to recognise the signs, and know when to let it go. As if following some subliminal choreography, they stopped and inhaled deeply, then exhaled as one.
"You know I can't get scalded," said Aaron. "Organic asbestos skin."
"I know that, it's you clothes I'm worried about getting splattered," said Annie. "You know who does the laundry here?"
"A computerised smelting chamber that Dad jerry-rigged into a washing machine," said Aaron, already putting his arms around Annie. "Your point?"
"My point, akasenshi-sama, is that sometimes I find myself doing all the things you should be doing," said Annie, leaning forward until her forehead touched his chin, "like the worrying."
"Aww, it can't be that bad," said Aaron.
"What about that message from TransFans?" asked Annie. "Aren't you afraid that they might just revoke your membership like that, if you refused the non-commissioned officer position they were offering you?"
"If they could, it'd be Best First sending the message, not Compy," said Aaron. "These are people I've known for a while - Boxface wouldn't make anyone pass his word for him if he didn't already know how it would turn out."
"And how is that...?"
Aaron sighed. "I'll go ahead with it, I guess. Granted it's going to be tough and will take up even more of my time, not to mention the rolling in the mud... but I won't have time for you anymore..."
"Oh, I got that covered," said Annie. "Compy says there's a place for me as well, in the medical corps. It won't be in your department, but Dylan runs that outfit and he'll keep an eye on me. See, it all works out."
"Annie, that's great!" said Aaron, hugging her. "It's not much different from your old job - minus the delivering of babies - but hey, you're probably better qualified for it than Dylan is. Although... I was wondering..."
"Don't worry," said Annie, in lower tones. "I'll keep my nurse's outfit at home."
Aaron remembered that hypnotic smile of Annie's, which made him smile as well - it had been seven years since they were married, and they did have five screaming horrors to watch over now - but sometimes, just sometimes, they'd remember that the honeymoon for them never really ended...
Aaron snapped out of it, as a noise drew his attention.
"Kitty, what's that weird music you're humming?"
"Nothing mummy," said Kitty, jumping off her stool and leaving the kitchen in double quick time. Aaron and Annie stared after her for a few seconds - Annie stopped first, to glare at Aaron.
"...What?"
***
Daylight returned, with much trepidation, to Boardspace.
The regimentalisation of TransFans meant that even the simplest tasks had to be regluated under some situation, and morning was no different. While some things could be monitored subtly, like food preparation and signing documents, there were certain things that needed a forceful, iron hand, ready to shove some order down the throats of the masses, just to get things done.
Unfortunately, some historical bugger thought that waking up the troops at dawn was one of these things.
So it was that at precisely 6 am TransFans time, the blare of an unbearably loud trumpet rocked the fences and walls of Camp Vector Sigma - plaster fell from ceilings, steel shutters rattled, and five vehicles needed to be re-parallel-parked.
"...freaking annoying... OII!" yelled Sheba from the cookhouse window. "Every damned morning I spill a fat-pan or cut a potato the wrong way because of you! KNOCK IT OFF!"
"Easy there, sugar," said Nebbie knowingly. "Back where I grew up, it was steel pans every morning, at half past four. You get used to that after a while, I guarantee."
"...if you're a goddamned masochist, maybe," Sheba muttered, as she twirled her cutting knife back into position. "Any idea if that consignment of maple syrup is in?"
"Nope," Nebbie replied, as she filled a blender and hit the button. "We got more 'n 'nuff to make grits, though. Can have it ready in a snap."
"For breakfast?" asked a very unconvinced Sheba.
"That or instant gumbo..." Nebbie paused. "Hang on, you hear that?"
Sheba didn't pay any attention, her hands using her knife and cutting potatoes with a rhythm burned into their cells - but her eyes did turn towards the windows on their own, indicating that she did hear it.
A low, rather disorganised rumble.
***
Being a recruit meant that you had a lot less time on your hands, to do those things you normally could outside the military. Read your favourite book maybe, watch television, or smaller things like brushing your teeth, making your bed, shining your shoes and wiping your face.
Thus it was that the recruits of A Company were forced to run down stairs and assemble in a block in front of the barracks, without nearly enough time to make ready or get dressed or whatever. Of course the other companies were in the same rush, but Leatherneck, having been given charge of A Company for the day, had something special planned out way ahead.
"Hands shoulder width apart! Straighten your elbows! You call that a push-up position? I want all your hindquarters saluting the sky until every last recruit is in rank and file, you hear me?"
"God crappit, nobody told me they were doing this today," Tired Tracks growled.
"DO YOU HEAR ME, SOLDIERS?!"
"SIR YES SIR!!" yelled A Company in reply.
"It's not like Leatherneck knows us that well, and anyways the other companies aren't having it any better," said Laser Rod. "Look over there, they're sending B Company back up the stairs just because someone took too long to fall in."
"Are they now?" asked Tracks - it was hard to look up, because his head felt really heavy. "So who the hell do we blame...?"
"Recruit Lars Johansson! You took a total of three minutes to scale three flights of stairs, soldier!" yelled Leatherneck at Predabot, whom everyone somehow expected to be the last one down. "When we are at the breakfast table I expect you to explain to me in minute detail just how the hell that was possible, you hear me?!"
"Sir yes sir!" Predabot shrieked, as he found a convenient blank file and fell in. There was an oddly long pause as Leatherneck simply stared at him.
"Well?" he asked Predabot.
"Sir what sir?!"
Aww hell no, thought Tired Tracks.
"DON'T YOU HAVE A SINGLE SHRED OF DECENCY IN YOUR SPINDLY SWEDISH BODY?! YOUR ENTIRE COMPANY IS ON THEIR HANDS AND TOES AND YOU'RE JUST TAKING IN THE SIGHTS, AREN'T YOU SOLDIER?!"
"Sir no sir!!"
"So what you're telling me is that thirty over people stuck in push-up position isn't enough entertainment for you, is it?"
"Sir no sir!!"
It wasn't hard to tell that Predabot was close to tears by now. shaxper decided to exercise some initiative of his own, by reaching up and grabbing Predabot, then pulling him down to his own level.
"Hang in there, kid," said shaxper reassuringly. "You gotta keep your eyes open, when you spot these things coming, you'll be able to ride them out easier... Predabot! Don't crack up on me now!"
"Why the hell is he doing all this?!" Predabot whined.
"We're soldiers now, and this is our job. You follow orders and they can't touch you. That's how it goes." shaxper patted Predabot on the back. "There you go. Just keep still just like everyone else, don't stick out and you won't give them something to pick at."
"Now," said Leatherneck, in a more subdued booming, "you've got C Company taking a run around the field, and B going up and down the stairs - that leaves you lot. Can't let them show us up, right soldiers?"
"SIR NO SIR!"
"Then DOWN!"
"ONE!" shaxper counted out loud, as everyone tried to do one push-up. Apart from severe timing differences, they pulled it off.
"DOWN!"
"Two!" counted shaxper. The timing was closer now.
"DOWN!"
"Three!" It was shaxper and Tired Tracks together this time.
By the time they reached five, everyone was counting out loud, in a show of communal solidarity you'd have to see to believe. Even Sheba and Nebbie from the cookhouse windows could see what they were doing, and couldn't help but feel impressed.
The fact that A Company couldn't count together after thirty killed that effect.
-
Optimus Prime Rib
- Over Pompous Autobot Commander
- Posts:2215
- Joined:Mon Apr 19, 2004 11:00 pm
- Location:College Station, TX
- Contact:
-
Optimus Prime Rib
- Over Pompous Autobot Commander
- Posts:2215
- Joined:Mon Apr 19, 2004 11:00 pm
- Location:College Station, TX
- Contact:
-
Aaron Hong
- Me king!
- Posts:1269
- Joined:Fri Jan 11, 2002 12:00 am
- ::No pity for fools
- Location:...No let ME fold the map GAAH
Sorry it's taken this long for an update - Chinese New Year is around the corner and I've been tied up with a LOT of preparations. For the relative newbies here, I drew this last year and I have no plans on making anything this year, but that remains to be seen. Ideas?
Anyway, on with the show...
***
A Company looked like something completely different by the time they made it to the cookhouse.
Three neat rows had completely disintegrated into an indistinguishable mob before they came within 20 feet of the doorway, and now A Company was weakly jostling into the cookhouse. Sheba noted that all of them had their arms hanging loosely as they jostled, unable even to push at each other - a couple fell flat on the floor and got trampled on by the rest of the sweaty, feverish mob.
It said a lot that Nebbie was the only cookhouse staff that could keep up a smile at this sight - and smell - as A Company somehow managed to line up, with their trays in their teeth, as she started ladling out breakfast with both hands. It was your standard run-of-the-mill muesli cereal, as it turned out, only someone in the brass figured that skimmed milk made it even more healthy.
Laser Rod Optimus didn't know what to say as Tired Tracks buried his face in the muesli and started slurping.
"I think my feeling's returning to my arms, Tracks," said LROP. Tracks stopped for a bit, and tried to lift his hands, and flex his fingers a little.
"Hey, you're right," said Tracks, with a smile - he looked around for his spoon, then realised he never did get one, and went back to slurping the muesli. LROP, fourtunately, had enough strength to raise his hands high enough that he could bury his face in them.
"I really hope Pred's happy now," someone murmured. "At this rate he'll have every damn officer breathing down our necks."
"Yeah, it'll be fun when the whole company has to clean the head at once," said someone else.
"First of all, they already have someone cleaning the head full-time," said shaxper, "and secondly, nobody signs on to a message board expecting to be running laps every blinkin' morning. Predabot's obviously the youngest of us here, it's harder for him to adjust because it simply is."
"Then what do you suggest we do about him?" said Nameless Recruit 1.
"We'll have to try to cover for him, that's all," said Laser Rod Optimus Prime. "That's the whole point of being in the same company. Y'know what, I shouldn't even have to tell you all this. This is what they've been trying to drill into our heads all this time, only they're making the mistake of threatening us with our own wellbeing. The first problem with military outfits anywhere."
The apparently faceless recruits suddenly went voiceless as well.
"Yeah, I was wondering about that," said Tired Tracks, his brown tongue darting out of his mouth to pick muesli bits off his own face. "Where's Predabot?"
***
"...but I don't get it," Predabot whined over his muesli, to a semi-attentive Ishin no Ookami sitting opposite him. "What was all that about special treatment? I counted at least three of us who're really longtime TransFans here, but they're getting chewed out by one of their own, along with the rest of us! Why?!"
"First of all, your drill sergeant Leatherneck's integrity is very much in doubt," said Ishin. "Sure he's got a bit of actual military cedentials in real life, but this wolf's nose doesn't lie. He's got a serious drinking problem."
Predabot stared back at Ishin for a few seconds.
"It's the stench of alcohol in his clothes - if there is such a thing in Boardspace," Ishin explained. "I can taste that stink every time, and now it feels I've been somehow infected by it. It's repulsive, isn't it?"
Predabot hadn't learned to recognise when Ishin no Ookami was on one of his self-propelling tirades, and just stared in awe.
"Now, the Japanese had the right idea," Ishin went on. "After their cowardly defeat at the hands of the US and two of the world's best-known WMDs, they've rebuilt their entire military outfit around the guise of a Self-Defence Force. You'd think the unprovoked and undetected nature of the Pearl Harbor attack would have given them an idea of what Japan was capable of, but no, the truth is that Japan's not only just as strong as it was before, but thanks to a couple of missions alongside the UN, they've gotten their old enemies to lend a hand to their own demise. It's the haiku of poetic justice."
Predabot just nodded along.
"Say, I gotta make a move now, B Company business," said Ishin no Ookami, as he rose to his feet. "Wanna finish my muesli?"
"Oh yeah! Thanks!" said Predabot, who happily dumped Ishin's bowl into his own.
"I'm not that much into fiber myself," said Ishin as he left. "I'm more of protein... calcium... plasma and so on..."
Anyway, on with the show...
***
A Company looked like something completely different by the time they made it to the cookhouse.
Three neat rows had completely disintegrated into an indistinguishable mob before they came within 20 feet of the doorway, and now A Company was weakly jostling into the cookhouse. Sheba noted that all of them had their arms hanging loosely as they jostled, unable even to push at each other - a couple fell flat on the floor and got trampled on by the rest of the sweaty, feverish mob.
It said a lot that Nebbie was the only cookhouse staff that could keep up a smile at this sight - and smell - as A Company somehow managed to line up, with their trays in their teeth, as she started ladling out breakfast with both hands. It was your standard run-of-the-mill muesli cereal, as it turned out, only someone in the brass figured that skimmed milk made it even more healthy.
Laser Rod Optimus didn't know what to say as Tired Tracks buried his face in the muesli and started slurping.
"I think my feeling's returning to my arms, Tracks," said LROP. Tracks stopped for a bit, and tried to lift his hands, and flex his fingers a little.
"Hey, you're right," said Tracks, with a smile - he looked around for his spoon, then realised he never did get one, and went back to slurping the muesli. LROP, fourtunately, had enough strength to raise his hands high enough that he could bury his face in them.
"I really hope Pred's happy now," someone murmured. "At this rate he'll have every damn officer breathing down our necks."
"Yeah, it'll be fun when the whole company has to clean the head at once," said someone else.
"First of all, they already have someone cleaning the head full-time," said shaxper, "and secondly, nobody signs on to a message board expecting to be running laps every blinkin' morning. Predabot's obviously the youngest of us here, it's harder for him to adjust because it simply is."
"Then what do you suggest we do about him?" said Nameless Recruit 1.
"We'll have to try to cover for him, that's all," said Laser Rod Optimus Prime. "That's the whole point of being in the same company. Y'know what, I shouldn't even have to tell you all this. This is what they've been trying to drill into our heads all this time, only they're making the mistake of threatening us with our own wellbeing. The first problem with military outfits anywhere."
The apparently faceless recruits suddenly went voiceless as well.
"Yeah, I was wondering about that," said Tired Tracks, his brown tongue darting out of his mouth to pick muesli bits off his own face. "Where's Predabot?"
***
"...but I don't get it," Predabot whined over his muesli, to a semi-attentive Ishin no Ookami sitting opposite him. "What was all that about special treatment? I counted at least three of us who're really longtime TransFans here, but they're getting chewed out by one of their own, along with the rest of us! Why?!"
"First of all, your drill sergeant Leatherneck's integrity is very much in doubt," said Ishin. "Sure he's got a bit of actual military cedentials in real life, but this wolf's nose doesn't lie. He's got a serious drinking problem."
Predabot stared back at Ishin for a few seconds.
"It's the stench of alcohol in his clothes - if there is such a thing in Boardspace," Ishin explained. "I can taste that stink every time, and now it feels I've been somehow infected by it. It's repulsive, isn't it?"
Predabot hadn't learned to recognise when Ishin no Ookami was on one of his self-propelling tirades, and just stared in awe.
"Now, the Japanese had the right idea," Ishin went on. "After their cowardly defeat at the hands of the US and two of the world's best-known WMDs, they've rebuilt their entire military outfit around the guise of a Self-Defence Force. You'd think the unprovoked and undetected nature of the Pearl Harbor attack would have given them an idea of what Japan was capable of, but no, the truth is that Japan's not only just as strong as it was before, but thanks to a couple of missions alongside the UN, they've gotten their old enemies to lend a hand to their own demise. It's the haiku of poetic justice."
Predabot just nodded along.
"Say, I gotta make a move now, B Company business," said Ishin no Ookami, as he rose to his feet. "Wanna finish my muesli?"
"Oh yeah! Thanks!" said Predabot, who happily dumped Ishin's bowl into his own.
"I'm not that much into fiber myself," said Ishin as he left. "I'm more of protein... calcium... plasma and so on..."
Shaxper is me hero. Hmm..Ishin is a carnivore -
Aaron Hong
- Me king!
- Posts:1269
- Joined:Fri Jan 11, 2002 12:00 am
- ::No pity for fools
- Location:...No let ME fold the map GAAH
Sorry it's taken this long for an update. With Chinese New Year winding down I can finally decide on whether or not to throw in the subplot being hinted at here. Fun stuff for everyone! Be sure to eat till your pants don't fit!
***
The very concept of indigenous lifeforms in Boardspace has always been under debate.
After all, every lifeform that appears on the internet originated in some way from human activity, usually from a desktop PC in the middle of a cluttered desk in some dingy little room. Even viruses had to be written by people.
But then again, the same could be said about the real world. Surely at some point in creation, there was some spark of energy that hit the primordial soup, creating the first single-celled organisms which (in most cases) evolved into today's intelligent (in most cases) life.
Yeah, yeah, life finds a way, blah blah.
***
Rebis had been given the unenviable job of making sure every pilot showed up in time for the first ever test flight of TransFan's very own air superiority vehicle. Apparently none of the brass stopped to think just how an Insolent Dog was expected to dial a telephone with paws, and remind some ten or so senior TransFans of an afternoon appointment by barking.
Currently sitting in a helicopter en route to the TransFans airstrip, which took up the entire east face of the military complex, was that one member of the brass who was least capable of stopping and thinking.
IronHide.
Brigadier General Ironhide, to be exact, a rank that put him just above Smooth and Dylan, as if he'd been assigned as an afterthought. It was no small secret that IronHide was the least capable of all the moderators, but he'd been given a rare chance to dispute that simply by making General at all, and he would bloody well make the most of it.
Thus it was that IronHide was relegated to the Training department, just so the mods had one of their own taking some control over that section. It was also no small secret that Professor Smooth would be the highest ranking officer in the Training department if IronHide wasn't there, a thought that kept Best First awake at night.
"General Hide, sir?"
"...and she's finding a Gateway to... ahem, what?"
"We're about to land," said the chopper pilot, "you have to belt up and remove your headphones. Safety and so on."
"Oh, yes, of course," said IronHide, doing all this while sitting up and readjusting his uniform. It followed the same Desert Storm design that everyone else got, only it had black and red specks. "Can't be too careful when the troops are learning how to fire those RPGs, eh?"
The helicopter's engine made the pause that followed a lot less embarassing.
"Sir, that's foot soldiers," said the chopper pilot. "You're here to observe our combat pilots in action. I thought we all heard that announcement..."
"Shut up, Prowl Pants."
"...very well, General."
***
As mentioned earlier, Rebis had a couple of problems carrying out his administrative duties. In the end, he'd only been able to get through to all but one of the pilots.
As fate had it, that pilot was Metal Vendetta.
So Rebis was forced to take a more personal approach - he took a flying leap out of the office window and ran the whole ten blocks to the officers' dormitory, stopping in the lift lobby, and hit the call button. The next problem came in the form of the numbered buttons - the topmost one being just out of Rebis' canine reach.
Eventually, the elevator stopped five storeys short of Emvee's room, and Rebis had to scale one flight of stairs after another to reach it. He located the front door, worked it with his doggy paws, and stepped in - to find Emvee still asleep.
Nothing that pulling the covers off and licking his face couldn't fix, thought Rebis. And so he did.
Every sliding window rattled from Emvee's screams, but fortunately there was nobody left around to wake.
"God crappit Rebis what the hell do you think you're doing?!"
Rebis barked ot his reply. For reasons that words alone can never explain, Metal Vendetta, and indeed every senior TransFan, was capable of translating it.
"...aw hell," said Emvee. "The test flight's today... C'mon, Rebis, let's ride!"
The look in Rebis' eyes at the moment convinced Metal Vendetta not to vault onto the Insolent Dog's back like he'd planned.
"...okay, we'll run there normally then," said Emvee, swinging his locker doors open.
It took no more than a minute for Emvee to exit his dorm, doing up his flight suit in one hand while lacing his left boot with the other, his flight helmet hanging from its straps in his teeth. Rebis ran ahead of him, stopping at the door to the stairwell, ten feet short of the lift lobby.
"Aren't we taking the lift?" asked Emvee. Rebis barked his reply.
"...What do you mean you left something in there for the bugger who made all the buttons too high? Do we even have wheelchair-bound TransFans?" Emvee mused to himself, as he entered the stairwell...
...at the same time that Impactor Returns appeared in the opposite stairwell, and approached the elevator. He had his toolbag and mop with him, looking as if someone had sent him here for some specific job.
Rebis and Emvee were long gone by the time the elevator doors opened... and Impactor Returns saw just what it was that he'd been called here for.
Courtesy of Rebis.
"You have got to be bloody KIDDING ME!!"
***
The very concept of indigenous lifeforms in Boardspace has always been under debate.
After all, every lifeform that appears on the internet originated in some way from human activity, usually from a desktop PC in the middle of a cluttered desk in some dingy little room. Even viruses had to be written by people.
But then again, the same could be said about the real world. Surely at some point in creation, there was some spark of energy that hit the primordial soup, creating the first single-celled organisms which (in most cases) evolved into today's intelligent (in most cases) life.
Yeah, yeah, life finds a way, blah blah.
***
Rebis had been given the unenviable job of making sure every pilot showed up in time for the first ever test flight of TransFan's very own air superiority vehicle. Apparently none of the brass stopped to think just how an Insolent Dog was expected to dial a telephone with paws, and remind some ten or so senior TransFans of an afternoon appointment by barking.
Currently sitting in a helicopter en route to the TransFans airstrip, which took up the entire east face of the military complex, was that one member of the brass who was least capable of stopping and thinking.
IronHide.
Brigadier General Ironhide, to be exact, a rank that put him just above Smooth and Dylan, as if he'd been assigned as an afterthought. It was no small secret that IronHide was the least capable of all the moderators, but he'd been given a rare chance to dispute that simply by making General at all, and he would bloody well make the most of it.
Thus it was that IronHide was relegated to the Training department, just so the mods had one of their own taking some control over that section. It was also no small secret that Professor Smooth would be the highest ranking officer in the Training department if IronHide wasn't there, a thought that kept Best First awake at night.
"General Hide, sir?"
"...and she's finding a Gateway to... ahem, what?"
"We're about to land," said the chopper pilot, "you have to belt up and remove your headphones. Safety and so on."
"Oh, yes, of course," said IronHide, doing all this while sitting up and readjusting his uniform. It followed the same Desert Storm design that everyone else got, only it had black and red specks. "Can't be too careful when the troops are learning how to fire those RPGs, eh?"
The helicopter's engine made the pause that followed a lot less embarassing.
"Sir, that's foot soldiers," said the chopper pilot. "You're here to observe our combat pilots in action. I thought we all heard that announcement..."
"Shut up, Prowl Pants."
"...very well, General."
***
As mentioned earlier, Rebis had a couple of problems carrying out his administrative duties. In the end, he'd only been able to get through to all but one of the pilots.
As fate had it, that pilot was Metal Vendetta.
So Rebis was forced to take a more personal approach - he took a flying leap out of the office window and ran the whole ten blocks to the officers' dormitory, stopping in the lift lobby, and hit the call button. The next problem came in the form of the numbered buttons - the topmost one being just out of Rebis' canine reach.
Eventually, the elevator stopped five storeys short of Emvee's room, and Rebis had to scale one flight of stairs after another to reach it. He located the front door, worked it with his doggy paws, and stepped in - to find Emvee still asleep.
Nothing that pulling the covers off and licking his face couldn't fix, thought Rebis. And so he did.
Every sliding window rattled from Emvee's screams, but fortunately there was nobody left around to wake.
"God crappit Rebis what the hell do you think you're doing?!"
Rebis barked ot his reply. For reasons that words alone can never explain, Metal Vendetta, and indeed every senior TransFan, was capable of translating it.
"...aw hell," said Emvee. "The test flight's today... C'mon, Rebis, let's ride!"
The look in Rebis' eyes at the moment convinced Metal Vendetta not to vault onto the Insolent Dog's back like he'd planned.
"...okay, we'll run there normally then," said Emvee, swinging his locker doors open.
It took no more than a minute for Emvee to exit his dorm, doing up his flight suit in one hand while lacing his left boot with the other, his flight helmet hanging from its straps in his teeth. Rebis ran ahead of him, stopping at the door to the stairwell, ten feet short of the lift lobby.
"Aren't we taking the lift?" asked Emvee. Rebis barked his reply.
"...What do you mean you left something in there for the bugger who made all the buttons too high? Do we even have wheelchair-bound TransFans?" Emvee mused to himself, as he entered the stairwell...
...at the same time that Impactor Returns appeared in the opposite stairwell, and approached the elevator. He had his toolbag and mop with him, looking as if someone had sent him here for some specific job.
Rebis and Emvee were long gone by the time the elevator doors opened... and Impactor Returns saw just what it was that he'd been called here for.
Courtesy of Rebis.
"You have got to be bloody KIDDING ME!!"
