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| Syphol Quote | Reply | | -=The First of many stories for the boards=- posted on: 4/4/2001 5:47:55 AM ANXIOUS FOR A FIGHT Five days of hyperspace. Five days of long, boring, endless waiting. Five days of looking out the viewport and seeing the same blue/black mottled mosaic of chaotic sky. Hypnotizing, yes... star after star after star. Passing them by faster than their own light could catch you. Syphol paces the small confines of his spartan quarters, clenching his fists repeatedly. The combat sims have long since lost their appeal, and he's become anxious for the claustrophobic thrill of the cockpit again. Even the occasional space patrol was better than this sitting around. One waypoint after another, completely linear, with only the barest promise that he might switch weapons live. He loved space. He would go outside the ship and breathe vacuum if he could, just to make himself that much closer to it. Let the nothing of dark, endless space soak into his very pores. Long days, these, waiting to revert to realspace. Waiting for a chance to get in that cockpit again. A chance to imagine the soundless screams of vaped Rebels in their hated X-wings and watch as their twitching bodies are ejected into the void. Another sacrifice to the hungry starry vacuum all around him. At this, his lips lift somewhat into a thin smile. His forehead presses against the viewport, every now and again bouncing off the transparisteel holding him inside the massive metal behemoth carrying him. He hated being here. He hated the stale atmosphere of routine. He detested these long jumps from one end of the Emperor's galaxy to the other. Keeping ungrateful citizens safe from themselves. He was brooding on this thought when the comm pinged. "Lieutenant?" He watched the blue/black haze float sideways across his field of vision, far too fast to focus on any one moment of it. "Lieutenant Syphol?" "Yes." A mumble. Don't bother me. "Sir, they're waiting for you in the pilot ready room." He imagined he could feel the cold of space chilling his forehead through the viewport. Such an inviting sensation. If he dipped his finger through the transperisteel he imagined he would tongue his finger to taste it. "Tell Blain to brief them." "But they're waiting, sir." Syphol punches the comm with a vicious stab of his finger. Group tactics. Analysis. Briefing. Leave it to Blain, he likes that kind of control. He likes to babble. COme to think of it, he knows the nuances of control very well. Not my kind of control. Again, that thin smile. His fingertips glide over the cruel clear material separating him from certain death. But then, that's the whole point, isn't it? Each time he blasts through that magnetic shield and feels the gluey slip of space swallow him whole, he always closes his eyes and savors it. After all, Death hovers like the black star-pitted sky all around him. Intangible but everywhere. Yet it never closes in on him. Never betrays him to its unholy wrath. His eyebrows dip maniacally. Such a tease, starry sky. Such a tease. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands on his lap, and watches the galaxy whip by. Soon, now... Soon that chaotic blue rip in space will slow and stretch into millions of screaming stars. Syphol sits as though frozen, watching for the next fight. |
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