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Down Time
Posted By: E.J. Osborne<devilgrassgrin@yahoo.com>
Date: 5 October 2005, 5:46 pm
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John cannot accept vulnerability. He cannot allow it. His muscles fill with lactic acid. His jaw tightens. The Master Sergeant is no threat, John knows that, but his senses are not as trusting. He can smell the spilled gun oil. An hour from now, John will grip the Master Sergeant's freshly cleaned M90 in his hands, his face a torrent of despair and anger, hidden behind an emotionless mask. He will deal death in retribution for another life that he could not save, for another voice that rang out and was forever silenced, but not now. Now John stands vulnerable, restrained, the bare skin of his face cooled by the recycled air that pours into the cramped room from the hidden vents above. He wants to clench his teeth and scream, but his training, his programming, will not allow it.
"The plating was about the fail." The Master Sergeant raises a fragment of the worn plating and holds it in front of John's stare. "There's viscosity throughout the gel layer." He lets it fall to the table. "Optics totally fried. And let's not even talk about the power supply." The Sergeants face contorts into a grimace, it hardens. John's mind conjures up an image of an antique pipe. He can hear another lost voice, a snippet of a fading memory. "You know how expensive this gear is, son?"
John looks at the Master Sergeant in silence. He doesn't care how much the gear costs. Neither does the UNSC. But John doesn't want to answer the question. Such an answer will only prolong this exercise. They both know it. Besides, the Master Sergeant's tongue lashing may as well be a kitten bath.
John can no longer keep the nervous buzz of his blood and tendons and muscles in check. He grips his new helmet and lifts it over his head. The suit pressurizes. The coupling at the neckline tightens until John can feel his pulse feeding the blood to his brain and now he finds that he wants to answer to the Master Sergeant's question after all.
"Tell that to the Covenant."
The Master Sergeant has been checked and he accepts it. 117 is known throughout the corps— he's a goddamn legend. "Well, I guess it was all obsolete, anyway," he says. He thinks about the suit that he pried away from 117. The thing was practically smoldering, scratches an inch deep, dents that looked like the gouges riddled into the battle-hardened Scorpions. This guy should be dead. "Your new suit's a Mark VI, just came up from Songnim this morning. Try and take it easy till you get used to the upgrades…"
John feels the panic slip away. He is protected now. He is safe. The Master Sergeant's jaw continues to work, spitting out instructions, but John has closed his eyes. He allows his tight mind to wander. He allows himself a moment of down time.
A daydream washes over him, flooding his cortex like a tidal wave. It coils and curls and foams. John tumbles into the darkness, his gloved fingers groping in vain for a handhold.
And then there is light.
The ethereal glow of plasma flames out from his closed fist like divine lightning. He studies its swirls, its edge, its glow. It carves a hollow mist of light in the darkness.
John is different now, he has changed. He watches his rippling reflection in the pool of silver water that laps at the tops of his hooves. It shows him the segmented armor that forms over his grey flesh, his split lip, his obsidian eyes. His figure is ablaze with the light that cascades from the deadly edge of the ceremonial blade.
He screams, pain searing into his chest. The waft of burning flesh boiling over his mind, bringing with it sensations that he is all too familiar with: pain and agony and despair and shame. The emotions cascade and amplify until they form the single noun that drives him, the solitary human spark that has kept him from putting a gun to his temple and shattering his brain: guilt. He falls to his knees. His heart threatens to pound its way free of his chest wall. He feels the hot tears drip from his eyes. The familiar smell of burning flesh fills his nostrils. The faceted tip of the plasma sword flickers with tendrils of grey smoke, rising upward into the shadow like a clutch of venomous cobras.
Something grabs him. For the first time in his life, John is caught off guard. The unseen foe grips at his shoulders and threatens to pull him into the darkness, threatens to swallow him in its jagged mouth. His mind is ready to let go, to let the stabbing fingertips ease him into the night, to let the darkness be the end of everything, to rest. But his instincts are as sharp as the brilliant tip of the plasma blade that he holds in his clenched fist. He turns, prying himself free of the invisible grip. The blade has flashed out before his head can turn and the white hot plasma disappears into the dark.
John looks at his adversary in horror. The face is his own; the face beneath the face. The tengu mask of metal and glass has been removed and now, it is only John. He is revealed. He is vulnerable. The plasma blade has been shoved into his stomach up to the knuckles. His face attempts to work out a thousand emotions as a small droplet of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. The loss is a small penance for the blood that he has spilled. He is a demon. He is a devil. He speaks.
"Cause me to pass from the unreal to the real…" John feels a hand on his shoulder. It is no longer a threat. He is no longer vulnerable. " …from darkness to light…" The reflection's voice begins to break. His mouth works, struggling to complete one final mission before the darkness consumes him. He finishes. "…from death…to immortality."
And with a final exhale, John closes his eyes. He rests. He dreams a beautiful dream about life and love and loss. There are trees that stand unshaken, cities that glint under the stoic rays of the white hot sun, and then, then there is nothing. And it is welcome.
"Stand by. I'm gonna offline the inhibitors."
John opens his eyes. He feels the inlets of tears running down the rounds of his cheeks, wet and cold. His helmet is still in place, hiding his emotions from the Sergeant.
"Move around a little, get a feel for it," the Master Sergeant says, "When you're ready, come and meet me at the zapper."
John watches him turn and walk to the shield test. He doesn't need to 'get a feel for it'. This is his skin. This is who he is. John walks around the room and overturns a can of beans that sit atop a metal workbench.
"Take it easy," the Master Sergeant says. John chuckles inside his helmet. He heads over to the shield test. He remembers what happened after the last test. The thought wipes away his childish smile like a tidal wave wipes away the shore. He looks at the Master Sergeant through the plate of golden glass and steps onto the crimson recharge pad. His down time is over.
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