Re: Grand Battle S3G1! (Round Two: The Great Battlefield)
06-03-2011, 08:14 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Pinary.
What had originally been a straightforward and boring place had, over the course of months, turned into a textbook example of stylistic dissonance. The main observation deck of the Brace Mountain Reconnaissance Outpost, a room which took up half of the bottom floor of the two-story building, had started out with nothing but bland, military-standard trappings. The most colourful things in the room had been the pair of fake plants to either side of the massive window that made up most of one wall of the room, and they just served to emphasize the blandness of the rest of the place.
After nearly five months of occupation by the most astoundingly well-matched group of intelligence analysts, it was barely recognizable. The fake plants were still there, but they were now joined by a number of their more naturally-produced cousins, taken from the mountain outside and stuck in the same pots. For each of the TV shows that, by some amazing coincidence, everyone there could agree were plain awesome, there was at least one poster on the walls, each one a thumbed nose in the face of the thick layer of military discipline slathered on the walls before their arrival. If asked, none of them could even remember how they'd managed to get a couch. Now that they thought of it, they'd reply, that's a good question. Where had the well-worn, saggy-in-the-center, so-far-beyond-regulations-it's-leaving-the-stratosphere sofa come from? (Never mind that a check of the shipping logs would show that every spare inch of space had been packed with fluff, fabric, or wood for the frame, or that Rawlin had spent several summers in high school working at her parents' furniture repair business and could've easily put a couch just like it together.)
All in all, the place reeked of insubordination and individuality. It was exactly the sort of place that would make anyone above a colonel blow a blood vessel.
It was also home, if you asked the five intelligence analysts the Blue Army had stationed there. Ester Rawlin, for example, liked to sprawl on the couch she certainly hadn't made and crunch numbers on enemy troop movements. If she was awake, the odds were good that she was there.
When her walkie-talkie crackled to life, though, she beat the odds by being in the kitchenette instead. (The group had created the kitchenette by altering the structure of the wall between the observation deck and the outpost's small kitchen. Some would say demolished. The analysts would say altered. They would also be demoted.)
"Yeah, what's up?" She, like the others stationed there, was very big on protocol and formality.
"Lieutenant Rawlin?" Her spine stiffined. The voice wasn't one she knew; whoever it was, they didn't belong on their radio frequencies.
She decided to play it cool. "Yeah. What's it to you?"
"Ester, I need you to think. Would you call Mike Walters a friend of yours?"
She blinked. "Yeah, sure."
"Well, I'm not from around here. I don't know the history of this war of yours, and I don't particularly like the methods used. Walters and I have been talking. He's told me about the brainwashing, the conversions, the deaths by friendly fire. He's told me as much as I want to hear, and I'm not about to stand for it."
"I'm Captain Tor Kajan, Brown Army. If you don't listen to what I have to say, I'm going to shoot your friend." Ester whirled, turning to see the source of the voice that had stopped coming from her radio and started coming from the far side of the room. There, the man introducing himself as Kajan held himself behind Walters, one arm wrapped around her friend's throat and the other holding a gun to his throat. A thin wisp of smoke curled up from them, and the captain's eyes blazed with a anger. Both men were clad in brown, a colour that stirred an instinctual distrust in the woman.
"This war is just the status quo for you people," Kajan said. "There's no attempt at peace, no striving for an end, just constant violence, brainwashing, and death. I intend to stop that. Here. Today."
Ester eyed her own gun, holster slung casually over one of the opening lever for one of the windows, too far away for her to reach. "What," she said, half listening and mostly stalling, "you think you can just sit everyone down and get them to play nice?"
"Don't kid yourself. No one's going to just give up, not after so many years of war. No, I'm going to do something a bit more direct. I'm going to slap everyone in the face."
"Oh? And just how are you going to do that?"
"Simple. With an open hand." He took his arm away from Walters' neck, freeing him. The man continued to stand between Tor and Ester. Tor continued, his voice losing some of the anger and became almost pleading. "Ester Rawlins, why are you fighting this war?"
"Because it's the right thing to do," she replied automatically.
"Why? What makes it so right?"
"It just is."
"Oh, please," Tor replied, tone dismissive, "you're brainwashed, just look at you."
"I am not," she said non-committally, glancing again at her gun on the far side of the room.
"Look at yourself," Tor reiterated. "You're seriously considering shooting a total stranger and a good friend. Do you honestly believe either of us deserves that?"
"You wouldn't die," she replied.
"No, you'd just rewire our brains and fundamentally alter our existence. You can't really believe that's right."
Something itched at her mind, but she pushed it down, shaking her head a bit. "Of course it is. You're Brown, you're the enemy."
Walters took a half-step forward, holding out his arms to her. "Come on, Ester," he said, almost pleading, "think about it. You were never even interested in the war! You were going to repair furniture for a living, then the draft came by and suddenly you went all 'for kin and country' on everyone!"
Ester was a patriot.
"Ester, you're an analyst. You're a nerd with a penchant for Scary Door and Galaxy Quest. I know that, deep down, you're not the soldier we've been programmed to be."
Ester was a patriot. She loved her country.
"Ester." Tor stepped forward, holding the gun on her now. "Do you want to be shot? Converted, brainwashed, and rewired into supporting a completely different cause?"
She shook her head.
He lowered his voice. "They why would you want to be brainwashed to support the army you do now?"
Ester was a patriot. Brainwashing was wrong. Her gaze shot back and forth between her gun and Walters. She loved her country. She wanted to work with furniture. She was crying, big rolling tears down her face. She wanted to convert the enemy. She wanted to be herself. She was on the floor, not remembering how she'd gotten there. She wanted to serve with honour. She wanted to spend time with her parents. Something escaped her lips- not words, just a sound of confusion and anguish and fear, a child's whimper in the face of darkness. Ester was a patriot. Ester loved her country. Ester-
The shot echoed through the room, cutting through the girl's torment with the easy way out.
Ester stood, faced Tor, and saluted.
Tor grimaced at her. "Stop that," he said, and she did so obediently. "Now, I'm going to give you some orders. I've told Walters already, so listen up. You're to think for yourself and not be a sentrali drone, alright? You want to head off right now and get back home? Go ahead. I'm not about to lead anyone by dragging their rettal brain around on a leash."
Ester took a deep breath, let it out, then replied, "Sir, if it's alright, I'm going to stay. That was... that was hard, but you're right. This war is wrong, and if there's anything I can do, I want to do it."
"Alright, glad to have you aboard." He took her hand, shook it, and then turned towards the door. "Now, Walters and I locked your three companions upstairs."
Ester squared her shoulders, grabbed her gun, and joined the other two by the door. "They don't deserve their brainwashing any more than any other soldier. Let's go dirty their minds up."
Tor gestured for her to lead the way, and she did so, Walters following. Tor took up the rear.
He was a captain, and that didn't mean leading a bunch of mindless drones. That meant leading a crew, and he wasn't going to accept any loyalty he hadn't earned the old-fashioned way. Walters had been an unfortunate half-accident, but conversation had Tor convinced that he was behind him for the ideas, not just because a bullet had said so. Still, though, he'd been a niggling little worry for the captain. With Rawlin on his side as well, though, now he could be confident. She'd fought her programming, and all he'd done had been to help her along. If she followed her programmed orders, she'd do what she thought was right, and if that was to follow Tor, well... that was loyalty he could accept.
What had originally been a straightforward and boring place had, over the course of months, turned into a textbook example of stylistic dissonance. The main observation deck of the Brace Mountain Reconnaissance Outpost, a room which took up half of the bottom floor of the two-story building, had started out with nothing but bland, military-standard trappings. The most colourful things in the room had been the pair of fake plants to either side of the massive window that made up most of one wall of the room, and they just served to emphasize the blandness of the rest of the place.
After nearly five months of occupation by the most astoundingly well-matched group of intelligence analysts, it was barely recognizable. The fake plants were still there, but they were now joined by a number of their more naturally-produced cousins, taken from the mountain outside and stuck in the same pots. For each of the TV shows that, by some amazing coincidence, everyone there could agree were plain awesome, there was at least one poster on the walls, each one a thumbed nose in the face of the thick layer of military discipline slathered on the walls before their arrival. If asked, none of them could even remember how they'd managed to get a couch. Now that they thought of it, they'd reply, that's a good question. Where had the well-worn, saggy-in-the-center, so-far-beyond-regulations-it's-leaving-the-stratosphere sofa come from? (Never mind that a check of the shipping logs would show that every spare inch of space had been packed with fluff, fabric, or wood for the frame, or that Rawlin had spent several summers in high school working at her parents' furniture repair business and could've easily put a couch just like it together.)
All in all, the place reeked of insubordination and individuality. It was exactly the sort of place that would make anyone above a colonel blow a blood vessel.
It was also home, if you asked the five intelligence analysts the Blue Army had stationed there. Ester Rawlin, for example, liked to sprawl on the couch she certainly hadn't made and crunch numbers on enemy troop movements. If she was awake, the odds were good that she was there.
When her walkie-talkie crackled to life, though, she beat the odds by being in the kitchenette instead. (The group had created the kitchenette by altering the structure of the wall between the observation deck and the outpost's small kitchen. Some would say demolished. The analysts would say altered. They would also be demoted.)
"Yeah, what's up?" She, like the others stationed there, was very big on protocol and formality.
"Lieutenant Rawlin?" Her spine stiffined. The voice wasn't one she knew; whoever it was, they didn't belong on their radio frequencies.
She decided to play it cool. "Yeah. What's it to you?"
"Ester, I need you to think. Would you call Mike Walters a friend of yours?"
She blinked. "Yeah, sure."
"Well, I'm not from around here. I don't know the history of this war of yours, and I don't particularly like the methods used. Walters and I have been talking. He's told me about the brainwashing, the conversions, the deaths by friendly fire. He's told me as much as I want to hear, and I'm not about to stand for it."
"I'm Captain Tor Kajan, Brown Army. If you don't listen to what I have to say, I'm going to shoot your friend." Ester whirled, turning to see the source of the voice that had stopped coming from her radio and started coming from the far side of the room. There, the man introducing himself as Kajan held himself behind Walters, one arm wrapped around her friend's throat and the other holding a gun to his throat. A thin wisp of smoke curled up from them, and the captain's eyes blazed with a anger. Both men were clad in brown, a colour that stirred an instinctual distrust in the woman.
"This war is just the status quo for you people," Kajan said. "There's no attempt at peace, no striving for an end, just constant violence, brainwashing, and death. I intend to stop that. Here. Today."
Ester eyed her own gun, holster slung casually over one of the opening lever for one of the windows, too far away for her to reach. "What," she said, half listening and mostly stalling, "you think you can just sit everyone down and get them to play nice?"
"Don't kid yourself. No one's going to just give up, not after so many years of war. No, I'm going to do something a bit more direct. I'm going to slap everyone in the face."
"Oh? And just how are you going to do that?"
"Simple. With an open hand." He took his arm away from Walters' neck, freeing him. The man continued to stand between Tor and Ester. Tor continued, his voice losing some of the anger and became almost pleading. "Ester Rawlins, why are you fighting this war?"
"Because it's the right thing to do," she replied automatically.
"Why? What makes it so right?"
"It just is."
"Oh, please," Tor replied, tone dismissive, "you're brainwashed, just look at you."
"I am not," she said non-committally, glancing again at her gun on the far side of the room.
"Look at yourself," Tor reiterated. "You're seriously considering shooting a total stranger and a good friend. Do you honestly believe either of us deserves that?"
"You wouldn't die," she replied.
"No, you'd just rewire our brains and fundamentally alter our existence. You can't really believe that's right."
Something itched at her mind, but she pushed it down, shaking her head a bit. "Of course it is. You're Brown, you're the enemy."
Walters took a half-step forward, holding out his arms to her. "Come on, Ester," he said, almost pleading, "think about it. You were never even interested in the war! You were going to repair furniture for a living, then the draft came by and suddenly you went all 'for kin and country' on everyone!"
Ester was a patriot.
"Ester, you're an analyst. You're a nerd with a penchant for Scary Door and Galaxy Quest. I know that, deep down, you're not the soldier we've been programmed to be."
Ester was a patriot. She loved her country.
"Ester." Tor stepped forward, holding the gun on her now. "Do you want to be shot? Converted, brainwashed, and rewired into supporting a completely different cause?"
She shook her head.
He lowered his voice. "They why would you want to be brainwashed to support the army you do now?"
Ester was a patriot. Brainwashing was wrong. Her gaze shot back and forth between her gun and Walters. She loved her country. She wanted to work with furniture. She was crying, big rolling tears down her face. She wanted to convert the enemy. She wanted to be herself. She was on the floor, not remembering how she'd gotten there. She wanted to serve with honour. She wanted to spend time with her parents. Something escaped her lips- not words, just a sound of confusion and anguish and fear, a child's whimper in the face of darkness. Ester was a patriot. Ester loved her country. Ester-
The shot echoed through the room, cutting through the girl's torment with the easy way out.
Ester stood, faced Tor, and saluted.
Tor grimaced at her. "Stop that," he said, and she did so obediently. "Now, I'm going to give you some orders. I've told Walters already, so listen up. You're to think for yourself and not be a sentrali drone, alright? You want to head off right now and get back home? Go ahead. I'm not about to lead anyone by dragging their rettal brain around on a leash."
Ester took a deep breath, let it out, then replied, "Sir, if it's alright, I'm going to stay. That was... that was hard, but you're right. This war is wrong, and if there's anything I can do, I want to do it."
"Alright, glad to have you aboard." He took her hand, shook it, and then turned towards the door. "Now, Walters and I locked your three companions upstairs."
Ester squared her shoulders, grabbed her gun, and joined the other two by the door. "They don't deserve their brainwashing any more than any other soldier. Let's go dirty their minds up."
Tor gestured for her to lead the way, and she did so, Walters following. Tor took up the rear.
He was a captain, and that didn't mean leading a bunch of mindless drones. That meant leading a crew, and he wasn't going to accept any loyalty he hadn't earned the old-fashioned way. Walters had been an unfortunate half-accident, but conversation had Tor convinced that he was behind him for the ideas, not just because a bullet had said so. Still, though, he'd been a niggling little worry for the captain. With Rawlin on his side as well, though, now he could be confident. She'd fought her programming, and all he'd done had been to help her along. If she followed her programmed orders, she'd do what she thought was right, and if that was to follow Tor, well... that was loyalty he could accept.