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Full Version: Light Errant: Shepard's Prayer (Ficlet)
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I was supposed to edit and post the next part of the Superball story. Instead I wrote this instead, a Light Errant piece.
It's not technically Legendary fic, since I'm most likely sticking this guy in an old friend's SG. That said, a few of you have already met 'im. So.
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Light Errant: Shepard's Prayer
There comes a time in every young man's life...when he must stand up, raise his head high, and be counted. And get a pair of alien weapons stuck to his arms.
Oh, wait. That's just me.
They tell me Dad was a space hero. News to me. I thought he dealt in real estate. But that's what the gauntlets say.
I guess he didn't really lie. Because if these things are telling the truth, he made the proverbial agricultural property purchase. Somewhere out there.
I'll be honest. I'm not sure how to feel about that. Well, no, that's not true. My feelings are mixed. There's shock, of course. I'm still reeling at the idea of my father being a hero. There's anger. He just flew off into the stars, leaving mom and me. What am I supposed to think?
He was my father. If you'd asked me before, I'd have denied it. But...yes. Yes, I mourn him. In the end, despite everything, he was my father.
And I know...he was a hero.
He was a hero.
The gauntlets are intelligent, kinda, but they're not sentient. At least, I don't think so. It's not like they communicate with me in words or anything. I just...know things.
I know he was Light Errant. That's what he called himself. A beacon of brightness. A crusading knight. And a million other trite advertising-agency phrases that don't mean a thing. They're just words.
I know what he did. And I have no idea how he managed it.
How does someone get up day after day, throwing themselves into danger without a second thought? How do you commit that kind of sacrifice?
Would you die to save your own worst enemy?
I have a feeling, maybe more than a feeling...that's what killed him in the end.
And now, and now, the gauntlets are mine. The power is, quite literally, in my hands.
Quite a kick in the head, huh?
I'm not cut out for this. I'm really not. I'm not brave. I'm not kind. I don't have the compassion. I just don't.
I guess it's worth a try.
It's not like I have a choice. Well, I suppose I could forget about everything, put these things down, and walk away. I could do that. I could.
No. No choice at all, really.
There comes a time when you just gotta square your shoulders, put on a costume, and walk out that door. Do your best, far as your moral fibre will take you. And hopefully not get killed in the process.
Ah, well. If I die, it's for a good cause, right? Maybe I can leave my body to science.
Man, I don't wanna know what this is gonna do to my life insurance premiums.
So, I guess I'm a hero now. Whatever that means.
(Oh Dear Lord, please don't let me screw up.)
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The fic title and last line are references to Alan Shepard, of course. Though he used a stronger bit of profanity.
I actually have about 2/3rds of a longer Light Errant story written. I'll probably finish that after the Superball story. Superball gets an update tomorrow, I promise.

-- Acyl