Re: The BATTLE of the CENTURY! [S!7] - Round 1: The New Frontier
08-27-2012, 05:37 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by XX.
The little airskiff bobbed against the cliffs of the New Frontier, its bow digging steadily into the crumbling earth. Cowering in the shadow of an ancient outcropping the boat was shielded from the chaotic winds of the island’s base that had buffeted it like a toy in the hands of a careless child. Even the short journey from the main ship has proved near fatal. It was a miracle the crew had managed to maintain all hands, Fletcher thought, staring out at the grey swells stretching out to the horizon. An even greater miracle none of them had attempted to push each other off.
The yawning expanse of the hungry sky fell away beneath them, only the flimsy hull standing between the feet of the skeleton mining crew and a plummeting death hundreds of miles below. None of the men seemed to take any notice, heaving bales of supplies over the gunwales and shouting over the choleric rattling of the engines. Fletcher suspected the sound was comforting to them by now. Their whole voyage had been plagued by mechanical failures, the only interruption in the otherwise monotonous months of cabin fever and dwindling supplies. A broken engine might mean something to do for a few hours.
Someone misstepped, stumbling over a discarded crate, and the skiff rocked violently to one side, bringing the precious bundles of supplies dangerously closer to the fog-choked sky. Fletcher grabbed for his hat reflexively- the only thing he’d saved from home- and edged closer to the anchoring ropes. Entertainment or no, he wasn’t in a hurry to learn how to fly. Grabbing a sack of canvas sailcloth he leapt nimbly over the side, skidding on the narrow ledge of rock precariously supporting the skiff’s bow. The tips of his boots peeked out over the ledge and sent a shower of pebbles plummeting down to the clouds.
“Fletcher, you fuckhead! What are you doing?”
“M’gonna move these back,” he called, hoisting an armful of bundles over his head. “They’ll fall.”
“Ah, fuck you anyway, you weren’t any help.”
The crevice they’d been jamming supplies into for an hour was surprisingly warm, enough so that Fletcher left his coat by the entrance, glad for once to not have to worry about windburn. He abandoned the supplies shortly after, just far in so that he could say he’d only put them down for a rest. It was just his luck to have drawn for mining duty, he thought. Scullery duty again would’ve be better than scrabbling around in the dark like a rat for the next few months. Maybe he’d get lucky and they’d find a gas pocket.
Reaching into his boot, he pulled a battered cigarette from between his two pairs of socks and fished around for a match. He found the last one snapped in half but still usable, thank the philosophers, and managed to strike it after a few tense moments. It went out with a hiss just as the cigarette ignited, trailing crumbles of withered tobacco across the rocky floor. Fletcher laughed. “You’re the last one I’ll ever see in this godforsaken place,” he told it, waving in the direction of the skiff. “Better make you last.”
He found himself wandering further and further into the belly of the New Frontier after that, leaving the swearing and shouting of the crew behind. The crevice wasn’t as narrow as he’d thought. His fingers barely brushed the sides with his arms stretched out and it only got wider the deeper he went. Little crystals began to sprout from the rocks as he walked, lighting up the cave with a glow that Fletcher really thought he should tell someone about. He kicked a cluster, releasing puffs of glittering particles into the air that filled his throat with a burning wave of pretty green dust. Eyes watering, he failed to notice for several minutes that the tunnel in front of him curved sharply upward and ended abruptly in a gigantic eye.
Belatedly Fletcher froze. It was really more of a wavy circle than an eye, but it was… moving? Sort of… waving at him. Up and down. Temptingly.
Sexily.
He winced.
His feet shuffled forward in two short jerks without warning him first and he nearly fell, gashing his hand on a particularly spiny crystal. The eye pulled away, looking pleased- of course he wasn’t thinking that, but someone was telling him to think that way, to shuffle ever closer to the hole in the wall where red planks were piling over each other in their eagerness, and to marvel at how the eye rolled back and a shining golden pinup girl took its place.
Her eyes were rubies.
The rubies were all he really saw for the rest of this story, even when he lay dying many years later. Two beautiful pink stones. They would have brought a gemcutter to tears with their perfection, the way they held miniature candy galaxies in between the lights of their facets. His twin suns, guiding him onto the ragged ropes hanging from the ship and onto its ruddy deck. Even with his eyes closed he could see them, see the smiling face of the dragonfly-eyed girl with her sunset gaze. O Captain, My Captain, she would always say smiling to him. You’re my bitch now, you handsome thing. I’ve waited a century for you.
Fletcher Tenday stood on the deck of the Ragazza Ridente, blindly spooling a rotted length of rope around his arm as the ship sailed through the darkness on a halo of golden light. At his feet, a lonely cigarette burned and smoldered, just starting to burn the edges of a forgotten dossier.
The little airskiff bobbed against the cliffs of the New Frontier, its bow digging steadily into the crumbling earth. Cowering in the shadow of an ancient outcropping the boat was shielded from the chaotic winds of the island’s base that had buffeted it like a toy in the hands of a careless child. Even the short journey from the main ship has proved near fatal. It was a miracle the crew had managed to maintain all hands, Fletcher thought, staring out at the grey swells stretching out to the horizon. An even greater miracle none of them had attempted to push each other off.
The yawning expanse of the hungry sky fell away beneath them, only the flimsy hull standing between the feet of the skeleton mining crew and a plummeting death hundreds of miles below. None of the men seemed to take any notice, heaving bales of supplies over the gunwales and shouting over the choleric rattling of the engines. Fletcher suspected the sound was comforting to them by now. Their whole voyage had been plagued by mechanical failures, the only interruption in the otherwise monotonous months of cabin fever and dwindling supplies. A broken engine might mean something to do for a few hours.
Someone misstepped, stumbling over a discarded crate, and the skiff rocked violently to one side, bringing the precious bundles of supplies dangerously closer to the fog-choked sky. Fletcher grabbed for his hat reflexively- the only thing he’d saved from home- and edged closer to the anchoring ropes. Entertainment or no, he wasn’t in a hurry to learn how to fly. Grabbing a sack of canvas sailcloth he leapt nimbly over the side, skidding on the narrow ledge of rock precariously supporting the skiff’s bow. The tips of his boots peeked out over the ledge and sent a shower of pebbles plummeting down to the clouds.
“Fletcher, you fuckhead! What are you doing?”
“M’gonna move these back,” he called, hoisting an armful of bundles over his head. “They’ll fall.”
“Ah, fuck you anyway, you weren’t any help.”
The crevice they’d been jamming supplies into for an hour was surprisingly warm, enough so that Fletcher left his coat by the entrance, glad for once to not have to worry about windburn. He abandoned the supplies shortly after, just far in so that he could say he’d only put them down for a rest. It was just his luck to have drawn for mining duty, he thought. Scullery duty again would’ve be better than scrabbling around in the dark like a rat for the next few months. Maybe he’d get lucky and they’d find a gas pocket.
Reaching into his boot, he pulled a battered cigarette from between his two pairs of socks and fished around for a match. He found the last one snapped in half but still usable, thank the philosophers, and managed to strike it after a few tense moments. It went out with a hiss just as the cigarette ignited, trailing crumbles of withered tobacco across the rocky floor. Fletcher laughed. “You’re the last one I’ll ever see in this godforsaken place,” he told it, waving in the direction of the skiff. “Better make you last.”
He found himself wandering further and further into the belly of the New Frontier after that, leaving the swearing and shouting of the crew behind. The crevice wasn’t as narrow as he’d thought. His fingers barely brushed the sides with his arms stretched out and it only got wider the deeper he went. Little crystals began to sprout from the rocks as he walked, lighting up the cave with a glow that Fletcher really thought he should tell someone about. He kicked a cluster, releasing puffs of glittering particles into the air that filled his throat with a burning wave of pretty green dust. Eyes watering, he failed to notice for several minutes that the tunnel in front of him curved sharply upward and ended abruptly in a gigantic eye.
Belatedly Fletcher froze. It was really more of a wavy circle than an eye, but it was… moving? Sort of… waving at him. Up and down. Temptingly.
Sexily.
He winced.
His feet shuffled forward in two short jerks without warning him first and he nearly fell, gashing his hand on a particularly spiny crystal. The eye pulled away, looking pleased- of course he wasn’t thinking that, but someone was telling him to think that way, to shuffle ever closer to the hole in the wall where red planks were piling over each other in their eagerness, and to marvel at how the eye rolled back and a shining golden pinup girl took its place.
Her eyes were rubies.
The rubies were all he really saw for the rest of this story, even when he lay dying many years later. Two beautiful pink stones. They would have brought a gemcutter to tears with their perfection, the way they held miniature candy galaxies in between the lights of their facets. His twin suns, guiding him onto the ragged ropes hanging from the ship and onto its ruddy deck. Even with his eyes closed he could see them, see the smiling face of the dragonfly-eyed girl with her sunset gaze. O Captain, My Captain, she would always say smiling to him. You’re my bitch now, you handsome thing. I’ve waited a century for you.
Fletcher Tenday stood on the deck of the Ragazza Ridente, blindly spooling a rotted length of rope around his arm as the ship sailed through the darkness on a halo of golden light. At his feet, a lonely cigarette burned and smoldered, just starting to burn the edges of a forgotten dossier.