RoadRash Member
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Mike's post is up. Got it tacked onto the Bill post, for organization's sake.
Thanks y'all! It enjoy seeing the folks, and playing with the critters, but it's nice to be back in my own apartment.
It's also nice to not have to get up to help with the goats at zero-stupid-thirty in the morning haha
It's also nice to not have to get up to help with the goats at zero-stupid-thirty in the morning haha
Post for Bill is up. I'll have one shortly for Mike, just to get him involved a bit. Had to vanish for Fall Break; my mom got her Doctorate (finally), and the family threw her a surprise party. This necessitated a stealth-drive up to Colorado so I could surprise her with my presence, and we have wonky internet up in the heart of the Rockies where the family farm is. But I'm back in the flat-lands now, with steady connection.
Bill
While Jack busied himself chatting with Pauline and cleaning various tools around the shop, Bill continued attacking the more technical task of getting the drilling gear back into some semblance of shape. His large, blunt fingers moved with surprising dexterity as he disassembled a hydraulic pump for one of the manipulation arms, laying out the hardware in the same pattern he’d removed it so reassembly would be easier. Though the pile of nuts, bolts, and washers might look haphazard to the uninitiated, to Bill the layout made perfect sense; each bolt was placed in its approximate place in relation to the lug it came out of, creating a kind of hardware-only blueprint on the work-bench to the right of the pump itself.
The miner briefly wondered if this was something he should talk to Connor about, then dismissed the idea. The kid was responsible for the ship, Bill was the drill chief. If a drill-hand couldn’t take apart his own rig, he didn’t deserve to run it. While he worked, he half-listened to background chatter from the odd custodian and the pretty lady who’d wandered into his shop. After a few minutes of listening he was able to more-or-less grasp the gist of the Canadian’s odd slang, though it was still a bit of a chore. His plain-spoken mention of a moonshine still, however, was far more interesting than any conversation the two were having now.
Time flew by as it always did when he was working, and Bill kept at it for a good while after the Newfie and Pauline had said their goodbyes and departed. The old drill chief turned in a slow circle, surveying the new state of the shop, and nodded with satisfaction. There was still work to be done, and it would probably take him several days to get everything up to his standards, but it was already looking better than he’d found it. His initial task for the day finished, Bill thought back to his brief conversation with Jack and wandered to another gear rack. His eyes ran over the contents of the shelves as he mentally categorized what he’d need for this little side-task. Quickly and efficiently he began gathering extra hoses, fittings, and pipes that he didn't think he’d need. While he worked he hummed a few bars of Sublime’s “Santeria”, the music of his childhood.
Kids these days don’t respect the classics, he thought idly to himself as he made a neat pile of parts next to an unused pump and an old oil reservoir that looked like it would serve as a fermentation chamber.
The image of freshly-brewed moonshine popped into Bill’s head. A little booze would do wonders to keep up morale. The thought was almost enough to make the surly man smile. Almost.
Mike
“Execute!”
As Specialist Sczruba’s voice rang out in the Copernicus’ gymnasium, Mike stepped towards his “meat-dummy”, PFC Decker, as the taller and brawnier Ranger threw out a looping overhand punch. The Marine’s head swayed to the inside as he grasped the oncoming wrist in his left hand, simultaneously pivoting his body and adding his right hand to the grip. He squatted low, pulling Decker forward and onto his back, the strident, piercing voice of his Recon instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Springer, ringing out inside his head.
Bend your knees! Drop your weight...Now explode!
Mike exploded, pulling the soldier up and over his shoulder as he rocketed upwards and slinging him down hard onto the mat. The moment Decker hit the ground, they rolled into the second half of the training exercise; two minutes of full-contact ground fighting. One of the problems of static martial-arts training was the tendency for practitioners to pause after executing a technique. This habit was trained into them by the rigid formality of most martial arts dojos. While this was fine when a man’s only purpose was to earn a new belt or get a shiny trophy, in battle it could get a man killed.
Thus, the second his opponent’s body met the mat, Mike followed him down, driving one gloved fist into the larger man’s jaw. The impact was mitigated somewhat by both his padded sparring helmet and the MMA gloves both men wore, but it was still a ringing blow, thrown full force from a dominant position. Mike struck again, then Decker recovered and answered with a blow of his own, a short and sharp elbow that dislodged the Marine and allowed the Ranger to buck his hips and roll both fighters to one side. After that the melee descended into chaos, with both men trading ferocious punches, elbows, and knees, seeking to either batter their opponent into submission or gain the advantage and lock in a choke.
“TIME!”
Decker halted his fist half an inch from Mike’s face, then instead clapped him on the shoulder and rolled onto his back to catch his breath. Mike did the same, panting, then hauled himself to his feet and began stripping off his gloves, helmet, and other padded sparring gear. He hauled Decker to his feet, while beside them Sullivan and Lopez went through the same post-match routine. The Marine sergeant surveyed his men briefly, pride shining in his eyes, then checked his watch.
“Alright. Good work as always, gents. Lopez, Decker, Sullivan, shower up and change over. Patrol time. Lopez, you’re on Port. Decker, Starboard. Sully, make a tour of the Cryo-bay. I want people to know we’ve got a presence there. I’ll have my radio, so hit me up if you need me.”
The men responded with a series of affirmatives, “Yes Sergeant,” from the soldiers, “Aye Sergeant” from the Marine, then policed up their gear and hustled off. As they left, Mike turned his attention to Sczruba.
“Since you were the odd-man-out today for sparring practice, I want you to work a heavy-bag for twenty minutes, then get a quick three-mile run in. That should make up for it,” he said, stretching out his chest. As the Ranger nodded and turned to his tasks, Mike checked his watch again.
You’ve got plenty of time, Devil, Gunny Springer’s voice bellowed in his head. You cheat your training, you’re only cheatin’ yourself. If you can’t beat your men, you don’t deserve to lead them!
Mike grinned, stretched, then wandered to the pull-up bar. He took a belt down from a peg on the wall, buckled it around his waist, then grabbed a 45-lb plate and hung it from the chains that swung from the rear of the belt so that the weight dangled in front of his thighs. Then, grasping the bar overhead, he began his second set of pullups for the day.
While Jack busied himself chatting with Pauline and cleaning various tools around the shop, Bill continued attacking the more technical task of getting the drilling gear back into some semblance of shape. His large, blunt fingers moved with surprising dexterity as he disassembled a hydraulic pump for one of the manipulation arms, laying out the hardware in the same pattern he’d removed it so reassembly would be easier. Though the pile of nuts, bolts, and washers might look haphazard to the uninitiated, to Bill the layout made perfect sense; each bolt was placed in its approximate place in relation to the lug it came out of, creating a kind of hardware-only blueprint on the work-bench to the right of the pump itself.
The miner briefly wondered if this was something he should talk to Connor about, then dismissed the idea. The kid was responsible for the ship, Bill was the drill chief. If a drill-hand couldn’t take apart his own rig, he didn’t deserve to run it. While he worked, he half-listened to background chatter from the odd custodian and the pretty lady who’d wandered into his shop. After a few minutes of listening he was able to more-or-less grasp the gist of the Canadian’s odd slang, though it was still a bit of a chore. His plain-spoken mention of a moonshine still, however, was far more interesting than any conversation the two were having now.
Time flew by as it always did when he was working, and Bill kept at it for a good while after the Newfie and Pauline had said their goodbyes and departed. The old drill chief turned in a slow circle, surveying the new state of the shop, and nodded with satisfaction. There was still work to be done, and it would probably take him several days to get everything up to his standards, but it was already looking better than he’d found it. His initial task for the day finished, Bill thought back to his brief conversation with Jack and wandered to another gear rack. His eyes ran over the contents of the shelves as he mentally categorized what he’d need for this little side-task. Quickly and efficiently he began gathering extra hoses, fittings, and pipes that he didn't think he’d need. While he worked he hummed a few bars of Sublime’s “Santeria”, the music of his childhood.
Kids these days don’t respect the classics, he thought idly to himself as he made a neat pile of parts next to an unused pump and an old oil reservoir that looked like it would serve as a fermentation chamber.
The image of freshly-brewed moonshine popped into Bill’s head. A little booze would do wonders to keep up morale. The thought was almost enough to make the surly man smile. Almost.
Mike
“Execute!”
As Specialist Sczruba’s voice rang out in the Copernicus’ gymnasium, Mike stepped towards his “meat-dummy”, PFC Decker, as the taller and brawnier Ranger threw out a looping overhand punch. The Marine’s head swayed to the inside as he grasped the oncoming wrist in his left hand, simultaneously pivoting his body and adding his right hand to the grip. He squatted low, pulling Decker forward and onto his back, the strident, piercing voice of his Recon instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Springer, ringing out inside his head.
Bend your knees! Drop your weight...Now explode!
Mike exploded, pulling the soldier up and over his shoulder as he rocketed upwards and slinging him down hard onto the mat. The moment Decker hit the ground, they rolled into the second half of the training exercise; two minutes of full-contact ground fighting. One of the problems of static martial-arts training was the tendency for practitioners to pause after executing a technique. This habit was trained into them by the rigid formality of most martial arts dojos. While this was fine when a man’s only purpose was to earn a new belt or get a shiny trophy, in battle it could get a man killed.
Thus, the second his opponent’s body met the mat, Mike followed him down, driving one gloved fist into the larger man’s jaw. The impact was mitigated somewhat by both his padded sparring helmet and the MMA gloves both men wore, but it was still a ringing blow, thrown full force from a dominant position. Mike struck again, then Decker recovered and answered with a blow of his own, a short and sharp elbow that dislodged the Marine and allowed the Ranger to buck his hips and roll both fighters to one side. After that the melee descended into chaos, with both men trading ferocious punches, elbows, and knees, seeking to either batter their opponent into submission or gain the advantage and lock in a choke.
“TIME!”
Decker halted his fist half an inch from Mike’s face, then instead clapped him on the shoulder and rolled onto his back to catch his breath. Mike did the same, panting, then hauled himself to his feet and began stripping off his gloves, helmet, and other padded sparring gear. He hauled Decker to his feet, while beside them Sullivan and Lopez went through the same post-match routine. The Marine sergeant surveyed his men briefly, pride shining in his eyes, then checked his watch.
“Alright. Good work as always, gents. Lopez, Decker, Sullivan, shower up and change over. Patrol time. Lopez, you’re on Port. Decker, Starboard. Sully, make a tour of the Cryo-bay. I want people to know we’ve got a presence there. I’ll have my radio, so hit me up if you need me.”
The men responded with a series of affirmatives, “Yes Sergeant,” from the soldiers, “Aye Sergeant” from the Marine, then policed up their gear and hustled off. As they left, Mike turned his attention to Sczruba.
“Since you were the odd-man-out today for sparring practice, I want you to work a heavy-bag for twenty minutes, then get a quick three-mile run in. That should make up for it,” he said, stretching out his chest. As the Ranger nodded and turned to his tasks, Mike checked his watch again.
You’ve got plenty of time, Devil, Gunny Springer’s voice bellowed in his head. You cheat your training, you’re only cheatin’ yourself. If you can’t beat your men, you don’t deserve to lead them!
Mike grinned, stretched, then wandered to the pull-up bar. He took a belt down from a peg on the wall, buckled it around his waist, then grabbed a 45-lb plate and hung it from the chains that swung from the rear of the belt so that the weight dangled in front of his thighs. Then, grasping the bar overhead, he began his second set of pullups for the day.
I expect to have another post up in a day or so. Just an update. Managed to get hold of Microsoft Office from the school, and had to battle my way through the homework that I missed (and that somehow piled up with alarming rapidity).
Rest assured, I am alive, and working my way towards getting some writing done. Sorry again for the delays.
Rest assured, I am alive, and working my way towards getting some writing done. Sorry again for the delays.
Haha thanks guys. He's a hoot to play.
Yeah, ours offers it as well. It was how I got Office last time, actually.
I have to get in touch with IT tomorrow, and see if they'll let me do it again / send me the email with the required username and code. It's just...a process. Haha
I have to get in touch with IT tomorrow, and see if they'll let me do it again / send me the email with the required username and code. It's just...a process. Haha
Got a Bill post up. Sorry for stuff happening. I'm working to keep up with schoolwork, Club duties, and getting my new computer set up to be actually useful.
Still haven't gotten hold of any of the Office programs. It's a damned nuisance, buying a new machine and shit.
Still haven't gotten hold of any of the Office programs. It's a damned nuisance, buying a new machine and shit.
Shaking his head in wonder, Bill stomped his way to one of the supply racks as the newcomer babbled. Gritting his teeth and half-ignoring Jack’s rambling, his eyes combed the labels on the shelving unit until he spotted the one marked for “bits”. The space was occupied by hose fittings, and Bill snarled, clearing the entire area of the shelf with a sweep of his massive left arm.
Grumbling, he gripped the precariously-balanced drill bit on his right shoulder and heaved it onto the shelf, then glanced around despondently at the work still to be done. Finally, he turned a baleful eye on Jack, then stomped back towards another piece of filthy machinery.
“I don’ know what you’re talkin’ about,” the drill-hand growled. He gestured vaguely at the mess littering the tables, shelves, and floor of the storage area. “Look, man, I got this shit to deal with. All this talk of sluts an’ pockets an’ hen’s assholes… I ain’t got time for that. Whadaya want? If it ain’t drill gear, I prob’ly don’t have it, an’ if it is drill gear, I ain’t sharin’.”
He turned away, muttering to himself.
“Got few enough pieces of serviceable equipment as it is, without loanin’ shit out. Few sluts might be nice though, not that I have time for them, either.”
Reaching for his rag, he abruptly turned to face Jack. “An’ who the hell are you, anyway? You one of the other crewmen? A driller or somethin’? Did they stick us with two crazies, insteada just the girl with the bomb fetish?”
Grumbling, he gripped the precariously-balanced drill bit on his right shoulder and heaved it onto the shelf, then glanced around despondently at the work still to be done. Finally, he turned a baleful eye on Jack, then stomped back towards another piece of filthy machinery.
“I don’ know what you’re talkin’ about,” the drill-hand growled. He gestured vaguely at the mess littering the tables, shelves, and floor of the storage area. “Look, man, I got this shit to deal with. All this talk of sluts an’ pockets an’ hen’s assholes… I ain’t got time for that. Whadaya want? If it ain’t drill gear, I prob’ly don’t have it, an’ if it is drill gear, I ain’t sharin’.”
He turned away, muttering to himself.
“Got few enough pieces of serviceable equipment as it is, without loanin’ shit out. Few sluts might be nice though, not that I have time for them, either.”
Reaching for his rag, he abruptly turned to face Jack. “An’ who the hell are you, anyway? You one of the other crewmen? A driller or somethin’? Did they stick us with two crazies, insteada just the girl with the bomb fetish?”
Hahaha good times, Justric. Well done. Bill will be responding in a day or so; I'm still doing that "school" thing, and tonight's a night for studying (test tomorrow, y'see), so I'll get to it as soon as I can.
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