Soldier - A Short Story

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Soldier - A Short Story

Post by Cerani on Fri Oct 30, 2009 10:02 pm

This is something I wrote with another roleplay in mind. Masq knows which one; the nation RP? I've written it in a style I'm not used to, present tense, so it'll probably sound rusty. Plus, I wrote it about 30 minutes ago. Here goes. By the way, the names aren't pronounced as they're spelled.

Cad Tu --> CADE TOO
Naht Rans --> NOT RAINS
Can --> CANE

Make sense?


It is a HaSTaF transport, in a lone subway tunnel. A helmeted figure sits on the barely padded bench within, gray facsimile-leather covering the seat uninteresting and dull, his black, cybernetic armor glistening in the harsh, electric light from the overhead panels. The figure’s head hangs inattentively, as if he sleeps. Across from him are two HaSTaF officials, Assistant Director Cad Tu and Captain Naht Rans. A Research Center tech is taking readings from the figure’s suit, doing her best to ignore the two Security officers.

“They say he’s the best yet.” The Assistant Director says, his soft voice contrasting with the hard, tough features of his face and demeanor. His hawk nose, piercing gray eyes, and bristly facial hair making him appear grizzled.

“That’s because he is.” Comes the Captain’s reply. He has the look of a fresh, young recruit; his eyes are true blue, his face seeming soft and young, and clean shaven. His unlikely companion studies him. The Captain is very young to be of such a high rank. The Assistant Director thinks that if Captain Rans believes this soldier sitting before them is the best, then he must be.

Assistant Director Tu nods. “Right then. Driver, halt!” The transport promptly stops, with no squealing brakes or appearance of ever having moved in the first place. The tech finishes up, then heads to the back, opens the rear door and hops down. The subway tunnel is dry and cold. Shadows cling to the spaces the dim overhead lights don’t reach. The Captain and Assistant Director follow her out, followed by the silent steps of the suited figure, his helmet visor dark and uninviting. He halts stock still, exactly five feet from the Captain, his breathing barely detectable.

“You can leave now, return to the transport.” Asst. Director says to the tech.
She salutes smartly, “Yes sir.”, and climbs back in the transport, closing the rear door and locking the deadlock.

Both officials face the soldier, hands clasped behind their backs, in the style chosen by superior officers.

“You can have the honors, sir.” The Captain says to the Asst. Director. The grizzled man steps forward to face the figure.

“Soldier, identify!”

“Identify. Designation: Psion Can. Rank: oh-one. Mission: Protect the High Council, Serve their citizens, Die for the City-State.” The Psion’s reply is mechanical, without emotion.

“Excellent, Psion Can. Excellent.”

Can does not reply, he has no response. He is a soldier. Soldiers obey. Soldiers protect. Soldiers serve. Soldiers die.

"We must no more ask whether the soul and body are one than ask whether the wax
       and the figure impressed on it are one."
Right Hand of Destruction
Right Hand of Destruction

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