Post by Orimis on Mar 15, 2010 16:39:52 GMT -8
Jake LaVarre sat at a table with the rest of his unit, listening to Smith and Greene bicker about which beer was the best. When their argument got to be too asinine for him to care any longer, he started drumming his fingers against the leg of the table. It was a nervous habit he’d taken to, and he caught himself doing it more and more often lately. You learn not to show any emotion on your face in the military, his brain must have reasoned, so let’s let your nerves out through your fingers.
¾ time, said a small voice in his head.
Claire had tried to teach him music once, but it never really stuck in his head. All that ever stuck was “¾ time is what you hear in a waltz, you know?”
That was all he’d ever learned from his time with Claire. That, and how much it fucking hurts to get your finger caught in the door when your girlfriend is angry.
They stopped seeing each other after that, and did the whole pretend-that-asshole-doesn’t-exist bit for a while, but now they were friends again. Claire had opened up a bar; Jake had promised to bring his buddies in to give her some business.
Sighing, Jake ran a hand through the short blond strands that grew on his head.
Not short enough. Time for a haircut.
“Hey, hey.”
Martinez’s voice was frantic, gleeful in Jake’s ear. Martinez snapped his fingers impatiently.
“Yo, V.”
Jake hated the nickname, but nobody could ever pronounce LaVarre, for whatever reason.
“Yeah, Martinez?” Jake leaned back, turning to look at the other man, who was grinning like a fool.
Eric Martinez was known all through their division for his beefy arms and barrel chest, which was more like two barrels in width than anything else. In his casual clothes, he looked like a bear squeezed into a schoolboy uniform. He enjoyed jeans and polo shirts because they were just his shape. In combat, he was their Heavy: he charged his ass into hostile fire and kicked some ass, and just laughed whenever bullets grazed him.
“Have you heard about the new Manadrive that the geeks upstairs are makin’?”
Also, he loved toys. Give Martinez a new gadget or weapon—especially a new Manadrive—and the guy giggled for hours.
“I haven’t,” Jake admitted, shrugging.
“Shit, man!” Martinez exclaimed. “You gotta see it! It makes such efficient use of crystal energy…”
Yeah, yeah.
Jake just nodded politely while Martinez rambled, but stopped listening. He’d never had the heart to tell his beefy geek friend that he didn’t care how things work, just that they did. And Manadrives were simple enough: All you have to do is put on the combat suit, and the drive somewhere in there will do magic when you want it to. Point at a hostile, think crispy toast, and boom. Fire. Need to clear a path? Think of wind and you get it. Just don’t overuse it, or it’ll have to recharge at the worst moment and your ass is dead. They were necessary in this line of work--the only way mortal soldiers could contend with the powers of the Branded.
It was pretty simple, just how Jake liked it. He learned things in terms of how they could keep his ass off the monster menu.
“We should apply for testing!” Martinez enthused.
Jake nodded as a reflex. He had always been Martinez’s gadget buddy. But—
He started tapping on the table again.
This time was different. Jake glanced away from Martinez’s face, down at Jake’s arm. He itched it as an excuse.
Like a waltz! One, two three, turn, two three.
Jake was grateful for the many long-sleeved shirts he had always bought as a habit. Nobody could see his wrist that way and ask him questions and send him up to the Colonel and put him through all kinds of invasive tests.
One, two, three, breathe, two three…
Jake had heard the stories. People wander out into the woods and bump into a monster of some kind; the monster plays nice and leaves the person with a mark—a pretty black design—and all kinds of crazy power. Jake wasn’t really sure about that last part, but the mark was there, sure enough, and parts of yesterday were a blur. Nor to mention that his usual 200-pond bench-press before breakfast hadn’t felt like enough work; and he was sure he could see better. Had his eyes always been so green?
It sounded like good stuff on paper, but the military had a way of fucking that up spectacularly. They tested the Branded and decided whether or not to keep them. If they kept you, you were made into a major and given training and perks.
If they didn’t keep you, you were sent to a firing squad.
The same went with any civilian Branded: If they couldn’t make any use of you, your ass was hunted down and you, and anyone you came into contact with, got the axe.
Martinez cleared his throat, having realized that he’d lost Jake.
“How do you figure things will go down tomorrow morning?” Martinez asked. “Our mission file said it’d be nasty. The Branded aren’t a cakewalk, and I’ve never been to Seith before. Middle of fucking nowhere.”
That was Jake’s very job: he was a Brand Hunter.
How long could he keep at it now that he was Branded?
¾ time, said a small voice in his head.
Claire had tried to teach him music once, but it never really stuck in his head. All that ever stuck was “¾ time is what you hear in a waltz, you know?”
That was all he’d ever learned from his time with Claire. That, and how much it fucking hurts to get your finger caught in the door when your girlfriend is angry.
They stopped seeing each other after that, and did the whole pretend-that-asshole-doesn’t-exist bit for a while, but now they were friends again. Claire had opened up a bar; Jake had promised to bring his buddies in to give her some business.
Sighing, Jake ran a hand through the short blond strands that grew on his head.
Not short enough. Time for a haircut.
“Hey, hey.”
Martinez’s voice was frantic, gleeful in Jake’s ear. Martinez snapped his fingers impatiently.
“Yo, V.”
Jake hated the nickname, but nobody could ever pronounce LaVarre, for whatever reason.
“Yeah, Martinez?” Jake leaned back, turning to look at the other man, who was grinning like a fool.
Eric Martinez was known all through their division for his beefy arms and barrel chest, which was more like two barrels in width than anything else. In his casual clothes, he looked like a bear squeezed into a schoolboy uniform. He enjoyed jeans and polo shirts because they were just his shape. In combat, he was their Heavy: he charged his ass into hostile fire and kicked some ass, and just laughed whenever bullets grazed him.
“Have you heard about the new Manadrive that the geeks upstairs are makin’?”
Also, he loved toys. Give Martinez a new gadget or weapon—especially a new Manadrive—and the guy giggled for hours.
“I haven’t,” Jake admitted, shrugging.
“Shit, man!” Martinez exclaimed. “You gotta see it! It makes such efficient use of crystal energy…”
Yeah, yeah.
Jake just nodded politely while Martinez rambled, but stopped listening. He’d never had the heart to tell his beefy geek friend that he didn’t care how things work, just that they did. And Manadrives were simple enough: All you have to do is put on the combat suit, and the drive somewhere in there will do magic when you want it to. Point at a hostile, think crispy toast, and boom. Fire. Need to clear a path? Think of wind and you get it. Just don’t overuse it, or it’ll have to recharge at the worst moment and your ass is dead. They were necessary in this line of work--the only way mortal soldiers could contend with the powers of the Branded.
It was pretty simple, just how Jake liked it. He learned things in terms of how they could keep his ass off the monster menu.
“We should apply for testing!” Martinez enthused.
Jake nodded as a reflex. He had always been Martinez’s gadget buddy. But—
He started tapping on the table again.
This time was different. Jake glanced away from Martinez’s face, down at Jake’s arm. He itched it as an excuse.
Like a waltz! One, two three, turn, two three.
Jake was grateful for the many long-sleeved shirts he had always bought as a habit. Nobody could see his wrist that way and ask him questions and send him up to the Colonel and put him through all kinds of invasive tests.
One, two, three, breathe, two three…
Jake had heard the stories. People wander out into the woods and bump into a monster of some kind; the monster plays nice and leaves the person with a mark—a pretty black design—and all kinds of crazy power. Jake wasn’t really sure about that last part, but the mark was there, sure enough, and parts of yesterday were a blur. Nor to mention that his usual 200-pond bench-press before breakfast hadn’t felt like enough work; and he was sure he could see better. Had his eyes always been so green?
It sounded like good stuff on paper, but the military had a way of fucking that up spectacularly. They tested the Branded and decided whether or not to keep them. If they kept you, you were made into a major and given training and perks.
If they didn’t keep you, you were sent to a firing squad.
The same went with any civilian Branded: If they couldn’t make any use of you, your ass was hunted down and you, and anyone you came into contact with, got the axe.
Martinez cleared his throat, having realized that he’d lost Jake.
“How do you figure things will go down tomorrow morning?” Martinez asked. “Our mission file said it’d be nasty. The Branded aren’t a cakewalk, and I’ve never been to Seith before. Middle of fucking nowhere.”
That was Jake’s very job: he was a Brand Hunter.
How long could he keep at it now that he was Branded?