. . . i’m going to say the Company took away his armor.
Samples:
“Sector A-dash-22 is going to require clearance,” he explains from behind the wheel to the man seated next to him. “I’m drop ship until we get to the entrance. Beyond that would be outside my restrictions.”
It’s a long drive. He is no longer guarded by soldiers at all times, like before. Then again, the Enforcers are guards in and of themselves, and they know what to do with a driver that decides to desert them to leave them stranded – they know what to do with a driver that decides to desert them again. Still, the man in the passenger seat nods and keeps his eyes on the sky, keeps his own counsel, doesn’t waggle his tongue unnecessarily. Some of the Company agents harbor no resentment towards Shiro, but most of them simply do not care.
As one of their top pilots before this entire debacle, he sometimes wonders about the rumors. He wonders if they’d thought he’d died in space. On his worse days, he wishes he did.
But it’s a long drive, and the man next to him stays quiet even if the back of the ship is alive with conversation. In the old days, he’d have rubbed shoulders with them. He’d have looked at their polished helmets and their shiny guns and not have thought of the children they’d murder, the innocent civilians they’d toss into a collected heap to set on fire, to deride, even in death. It’s a long drive, and there’s nothing else to think about. Just that he should not be overcome with the urge to drive the ship and its passengers unsuccessfully through the next asteroid belt. That these members of the Company might not be as bad as those that have come before. That he shouldn’t die here. That he still had the good fight to keep fighting. That killing criminals in the ring was a forgivable grievance, if it meant he could fight another day.
He thinks he hides the real tremors well these days.
“This is it,” he says, and his tone is steady, neutral. There’s a hardened gaze in his passenger’s eyes now, but Shiro doesn’t waver, keeps his focus and his composure. His passenger is carrying a gun, safety unlocked, and although he’s not looking at it, there’s more than one way to disarm a man; if he grabbed for his neck now, he could twist. The helmet’s still undone, not a barrier worth his attention. “I will stay within the building’s perimeter until check-in. Should anything happen below, I will be waiting for your signal.”
But no one dies that day. Or, at least he doesn’t see it.
He flies within their lines of sight for fifteen minutes until the next ship hovers by and picks the tiny armament up for its next destination. Check-in happens about a minute later, and he docks at a separate port when they relay him the coordinates.
Someone boards and slips into the passenger’s seat beside him. Already, he’s listing off the objectives. Already, he’s getting down to business. “Sorry, sir. I’m afraid I’m not authorized to fly along the sky limits you’ve requested in your relay–“
“Oh. No, Shiro, it’s me,” the woman says, removing her Company issued helmet. It’s a familiar voice – and a familiar static in his ear, from his comm switching its broadcast into a private, modded channel.
He turns his head, and the smile comes easy. It’s always come easy, even now, after everything. “That explains the detour,” he comments, plugging the coordinates into his map. “You’re going to make me drive through that same asteroid belt. For the third time in the last twenty-four hours.”
She laughs; because sometimes you have to, even in a time of revolution. “What? Are you not up to it?”
He returns it.
“Do you want to drive?”
Miscellaneous Notes:
tfw you finish your app like a month past the date you planned to . . . sorry.
no subject
Samples:
It’s a long drive. He is no longer guarded by soldiers at all times, like before. Then again, the Enforcers are guards in and of themselves, and they know what to do with a driver that decides to desert them to leave them stranded – they know what to do with a driver that decides to desert them again. Still, the man in the passenger seat nods and keeps his eyes on the sky, keeps his own counsel, doesn’t waggle his tongue unnecessarily. Some of the Company agents harbor no resentment towards Shiro, but most of them simply do not care.
As one of their top pilots before this entire debacle, he sometimes wonders about the rumors. He wonders if they’d thought he’d died in space. On his worse days, he wishes he did.
But it’s a long drive, and the man next to him stays quiet even if the back of the ship is alive with conversation. In the old days, he’d have rubbed shoulders with them. He’d have looked at their polished helmets and their shiny guns and not have thought of the children they’d murder, the innocent civilians they’d toss into a collected heap to set on fire, to deride, even in death. It’s a long drive, and there’s nothing else to think about. Just that he should not be overcome with the urge to drive the ship and its passengers unsuccessfully through the next asteroid belt. That these members of the Company might not be as bad as those that have come before. That he shouldn’t die here. That he still had the good fight to keep fighting. That killing criminals in the ring was a forgivable grievance, if it meant he could fight another day.
He thinks he hides the real tremors well these days.
“This is it,” he says, and his tone is steady, neutral. There’s a hardened gaze in his passenger’s eyes now, but Shiro doesn’t waver, keeps his focus and his composure. His passenger is carrying a gun, safety unlocked, and although he’s not looking at it, there’s more than one way to disarm a man; if he grabbed for his neck now, he could twist. The helmet’s still undone, not a barrier worth his attention. “I will stay within the building’s perimeter until check-in. Should anything happen below, I will be waiting for your signal.”
But no one dies that day. Or, at least he doesn’t see it.
He flies within their lines of sight for fifteen minutes until the next ship hovers by and picks the tiny armament up for its next destination. Check-in happens about a minute later, and he docks at a separate port when they relay him the coordinates.
Someone boards and slips into the passenger’s seat beside him. Already, he’s listing off the objectives. Already, he’s getting down to business. “Sorry, sir. I’m afraid I’m not authorized to fly along the sky limits you’ve requested in your relay–“
“Oh. No, Shiro, it’s me,” the woman says, removing her Company issued helmet. It’s a familiar voice – and a familiar static in his ear, from his comm switching its broadcast into a private, modded channel.
He turns his head, and the smile comes easy. It’s always come easy, even now, after everything. “That explains the detour,” he comments, plugging the coordinates into his map. “You’re going to make me drive through that same asteroid belt. For the third time in the last twenty-four hours.”
She laughs; because sometimes you have to, even in a time of revolution. “What? Are you not up to it?”
He returns it.
“Do you want to drive?”
Miscellaneous Notes:
tfw you finish your app like a month past the date you planned to . . . sorry.