Re: [IC] Chapter One - Aftermath
Dacovetti's Asics Gel-Kayano running shoes strike the asphalt at a measured clip. Just so. Precisely in tune with the music emanating at high volume through his ear-buds. The early morning Turkey sun is pouring it's fusion heat down on his shoulders, but this morning ritual, this morning jog has taken on more significance. Part meditation, part training, part internal audit. All designed to keep him alive.
I've got a streak and you want to loosen up,
But there's no time to feast your eyes,
You want it all be the world won't give it up
Up to the edge, a star will rise
What is your weapon of choice,
What is your weapon of choice,
Where is the weapon to free us all?
The actions the Airman had taken over the last couple weeks, the weeks since the op in Libya, had been loaded. Heavy and carrying a new urgent weight. Bannon had intervened before Michael had even started removing his body armor and weapons, still on the tarmac.
“Tech Sergeant Dacovetti,” his voice was like tearing paper. “That was some brave shit there. Nice work, but you keep that up, and you are a dead man. I mean it. Dead. Send your wife a flag, some medals, and a nice letter about the terrible training accident you had. Have a beer.” It had been a forgettable lager from some random African brand and it had been delicious. Bracing and alive.
In silent indictment of his decisions, the mental calculus that he had made, the scarred trauma plate from his vest is leaning on his desk, a mute reminder of how inches could have unleashed an entirely different reality. One that Michael isn't ready for.
I won't waste it,
I won't waste it,
I won't waste my love on a nation
Also on his desk, at this moment, is a new laptop. One secured by bio-metric login that contains a heavly encrypted hard-drive. Residing on the hard-drive is the entire video that Michael's GoPro had captured of the raid, the Nazca feed, as well as the recording and measurements Overlord had captured during the operation. What he is looking for yet, Michael isn't sure, but despite his early jokes about becoming a video producer, it seems to be happening. Days have been spent, cutting, editing, and changing parameters, trying to figure out just what the hell was going on. Each viewing another reminder of how easy it would have been to occupy an unfortunate time space coordinate.
Everyone's got their own spent factions
Every bomb will pay its price
I've been digging in the wrong directions
Lets see you threaten the afterlife.
Hours are spent with Seb. Hours with Crewe. Learning. Absorbing. Preparing for the coming conflicts. Each day measured, broken into discrete blocks, maximizing efficiency. Questioning, questing, and looking for answers. His lungs burn and sweat pours from his body.
He visits the Kaptain, recovering from her injuries. Another physical reminder of what could have happened.
He visits Italy to meet his wife for a short break. Sleep in a comfortable bed. Visit Venice. They take Nero Flight out for dinner on Grey Cell, to much fanfare of extravagant meals and bottles of wine that his wife doesn't share. She has her own preparations to make, battles to fight.
That first night together, where they had been looking up at the stars, secure in a Venice gondola like terrible American tourists. She wistful against his arm, commenting on their beauty while he ponders the threats that he now knows are contained among them. Threats that were always theoretical, thought exercises, before now. New models to develop and arguments to be made. The danger is not intimidating, the greater concern is the response he has shown towards it. The casual disregard for risk or maybe just not recognizing it.
Or maybe, hypothetically, he had made the correct call. It was dangerous, however, to mistake luck for skill. Black Swan events lay down that particular path.
The asphalt turns faster under his feet. Lungs ache for the final stretch.
“I love the stars, Michael,” his wife had said. “I want to share them with our baby.”
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:44, Sun 26 Apr 2015.