Tales of friends of the Legendary - Learning to fly - Printable Version +- Drunkard's Walk Forums (http://www.accessdenied-rms.net/forums) +-- Forum: General (http://www.accessdenied-rms.net/forums/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: The Legendary (http://www.accessdenied-rms.net/forums/forumdisplay.php?fid=14) +--- Thread: Tales of friends of the Legendary - Learning to fly (/showthread.php?tid=4732) |
Tales of friends of the Legendary - Learning to fly - Rev Dark - 05-14-2008 Not quite Legendary, but IST Paragon is affiliated with the East Coast Legendary on Infinity. For those who haven't read the Thibor stories, Lieutenant Simon Bitterbuck is an Aide to Lieutenant Colonel Hoyle. He is a computer expert with a mutation that allows him to analyze disparate data in a manner that computers cannot. Currently he has accompanied Major Sawchyk to Paragon City, and against his wishes, and better judgment, taken part in field operations. When it came time to choose his travel power, I opted for flight (I built Simon as an Archer/Device blaster); I wanted an excuse for it, and the idea for this story has being floating in my mind since I saw the Learning To Fly video by Pink Floyd. (Simon's grandfather has been mentioned before in the Thibor stories, specifically in regards to the old man owning every issue of Playboy since its inception.) I don't know if that story (incomplete as it is) has ever made it onto the board. Learning to Fly. Simon Bitterbuck hated nature. That wasn't exactly true. Nature had its place, was fun to visit, occasionally provided some excellent food if one was willing to jump through several manner of indignities to get it from kicking and screaming to on a plate with a variety of side dishes. Nature was just better when viewed from behind a pane of weatherproof glass, in a warm room with good ventilation and high speed internet access. The last week had not been the sort of nature that Simon normally enjoyed. It was the sort of nature he abhorred. A week of precious leave spent living in what could, if one was feeling generous, be called a cabin. Simon was not currently inclined to generosity. It was not a cabin, not even a shack, could probably pass in bad light for a hovel, and was about as far from a Northern Canadian Club Med as Simon was from a good coffee shop; several hundred kilometers, minimum. A week of living in his grandfather's 'fishing cabin'. A week of living off the land. A week that would have been far better spent on a beach, in the city, or anywhere else with the possible exceptions of unprotected in the vacuum of space, the Antarctic circle, and Detroit. Perhaps I am just wingeing, Simon mused to himself, and then corrected the thought. He was wingeing. With several good reasons. It was not the coldest he had ever been; he had spent far more time in far less comfortable places. It was not the hungriest. He was eating regularly, perhaps not with the variety he was used to; and he hadn't had to feed Naoko at any time. A small victory, but he clung to it anyway. Someone was trying to kill him; again nothing unique, except that it was his grandfather instead of a malicious, criminal, lunatic. Grandfather wasn't criminal; but two out of three wasn't bad; or unusual. That also was unfair. Grandfather was normally sane, rational, and effortlessly cool; this just wasn't one of those times. He was playing the shaman, and that required him to be nuttier than squirrel droppings. Grandfather Bitterbuck was at the stone fireplace, crouched next to the embers of the fire, singing in a low, monotonous voice. Perhaps he was communicating with the spirits of the land. Simon hoped that the spirits of the land were partial to an off-key, half-remembered, version of Van Morrison's Brown Eyed Girl; or at least more partial to it than he was. Simon was supposed to be communing with the spirits to. On the table in front of him, a long black feather and a bare, white, bird skull were laid out. The rest of the bird, or at least a small portion of it, was currently roiling through Simon's digestive track. It was deeply upset at the indignity of the journey and was letting Simon know with each inch of intestine it traversed. It was the first, and if he had his say, the last turkey vulture he had ever eaten. The bird had been taken with a single arrow that had passed through the tiny, bald, red, head. Unfortunately the bird had, as it crashed towards earth, been caught in the limbs of a tall tree. Simon had been forced to climb up to retrieve it. He had just gotten the filthy thing by the legs when he heard the chainsaw. Grandfather had cut the tree out from under him. Two days previous grandfather had pushed him off a cliff to fall into the lake some 80 feet below. In the bird incident he had made it to the ground, ungracefully, by jumping off the falling tree into an evergreen. The cliff had required nothing more than gravity and a brief, uncomfortable, swim back to land. Grandfather was trying to teach him how to fly. Perhaps the old man's mind had finally been thrown out of gear. He truly believed his grandson could be taught to fly. He said that the soil, the rain, and the wind had told him. Simon wondered why he hadn't received the message, and had even double checked his spam filter to ensure the messages had not been dumped. Nothing from the rain, the soil, or the wind, but a minister from Uganda had wanted his help in laundering funds from the late Idi Amin. Simon picked up the feather. He had already steamed it over the kettle, so it was unlikely that it was bearing any vermin. Remembering his grandfather's instructions, he raised it above the table, held it for a moment and then dropped it. The feather settled back down onto the table. Rinse, lather and then repeat. Simon would have killed, or at the very least maimed for a hot shower. The lake was still very cold, and bathing was an exercise to see if you could get the dirt off before it began to clash with the blue of your skin. With his dark complexion, Simon tended more towards a blotchy purplish. The feather dropped again. A Japanese bath; that would be good. Hot enough to cook you like a lobster, without the indignities of rubber bands on your hands. Like the one they had visited in Osaka. Naoko shyly holding the towel in front of her body as she dropped into the water, only letting it slip away at the last possible moment… Simon dropped the feather again, his mind still caught up in the remembered vision. The feather seemed to hang in the air for the barest second before settling back down to the table. Grandfather's song had changed. The voice rang out in a strange, ululating flow, it was both familiar and strangely alien. It was of the world, but not the world Simon knew. The cabin was melting around him, he could see stars above his head, feel the wind stirring his long braids. His stomache, thankfully, kept him grounded in reality, as it churned around the lumps of turkey vulture and… What had grandfather spiced the bird with? Simon was familiar with the taste and texture of pretty much everything edible in the woods, but the bird had been dotted with bits of something he hadn't recognized. A mushroom? A root sliced to within a pico-meter or transparency. Had he been drugged? He dropped the feather again and watched it fall. It didn't fall. It was like it slid, the currents of air in the room danced around it, it was caught by one and then the next, some forcing it up, most pushing it down. The feather hit the table like a roar of thunder. Definitely drugged. Simon blinked his eyes and pulled off his glasses. He took a half staggering step away from the table, half turned and crashed towards the floor, thankfully blacking out before his nose made contact with the rough wood. He was above the lake. The wind whistling through his hair. Was he falling again? All evidence seemed to be pointing that way. Was the lake getting closer? Yes. Was the lake moving towards him? No. That meant he was heading towards the lake. Check. Simon tried to turn his body in the air, to get his feet under him in preparation for impact. His body rebelled with the same uncomfortable obstinacy of the turkey vulture in his GI tract. The water got closer. The air seemed thick around him. Simon blinked again, wishing his dream self had kept his glasses, things were blurry. The rapidly diminishing space between him and the lake was full of… something. The movement of air? Visible? Not visible, but etched on his awareness. Simon shifted his body imperceptivity. Laying himself onto the upward currents, avoiding the downward ones. He swooped. The lake falling away beneath him. He chose another current, shouldered into it and found himself propelled forward, the lake flashing under him, quickly replaced by trees. He could see the cabin far below him. It would be simple to float down to it. No. Screw that. Simon turned in the air and oriented himself by the stars. The nearest real hotel was only 200 or so kilometers away, as the turkey vulture flies. If he was going to dream, it would be of clean sheets, a hot shower, a meal he didn't have to kill himself and a real cup of coffee. * * * Simon woke up and instantly regretted the necessity of it. His head was pounding; his stomach was knotting itself and the turkey vulture was pounding vigorously on the back door asking to be let out. To stay still would be to invite disaster from multiple directions. Simon rolled off the bed, nearly tripped over the blankets and staggered to the well lit bathroom. He emerged half an hour later, feeling almost human as he rubbed the soft towel over his hair. It was a very nice hotel; not extravagant, but after the recent week, an oasis of luxury. Simon let a rarely used profanity pass his lips. Considered it for a moment, and then gave it some company. He located his boots and looked them over. He certainly hadn't walked 200 kilometers cross country in them. There was a rational explanation for all of this; Simon was an expert at rational explanations; his mind finely attuned to shifting mountains of raw data into a sane, comprehensible form. Unfortunately all the explanations it was throwing at him included the small, but ever important detail that he had flown here. Simon threw open the door to the room. "You forgot these." Grandfather was standing in the hall, extending Simon's glasses to him. Simon considered the options, take the glasses or punch the old man. He took the glasses, grandfather was a dirty fighter, and while Simon could probably beat him down, it would not be easy, and he would end up almost as badly hurt. "Thanks." Simon settled the glasses comfortably. "Do they serve breakfast here?" "No, and the stuff in the vending machines is suspect." The old man shrugged. "There's a place across the street that's pretty good though." "Sold. I'll even buy." Simon headed towards the stairs. "And don't bother pushing me." "Why bother?" Grandfather fell in beside him. "It wouldn't do any good, would it?" "What did you put on that bird?" Simon asked as they stepped outside. The day was bright, the sun warm, and across the road there was a source of eggs, bacon and toast. Things could be much worse. The air was fresh, the sort of fresh you never got in the city. Simon frowned and concentrated. Then he swore again, considering appending several highly unlikely things to his grandfather's lineage, realized they would also end up in his, and then gave up on the idea completely. The air was rife with currents of air; visible and invisible. He could reach out and ride any of them, with no more effort than walking. Perhaps less. "Nothing, I probably could have plucked it more carefully." The old man admitted. "I just needed you thinking about something else to get you ready for your first spirit walk; in my experience, nothing distracts a man like eating a turkey vulture." "The voice of experience?" Simon said with remarkably good cheer. The mental distraction had been something, or rather two delightful somethings, considerably more poetic than a turkey vulture. "Well observation." Grandfather admitted. "Can't say that I'd eat one of the filthy buggers." * * * "It's good to have you back Chief." Naoko was enthusiastic about his return. Simon considered this. Simon's return to the IST Paragon offices had been just before lunch and accompanied by two huge Styrofoam containers carrying Chicken Tikka Masala from Cumin and Goan, an excellent Indian restaurant in the good, or at least passable, part of King's Row. As good as the food was, Naoko had not been quite so mercenary. She had greeted him with a hug, as heady a kiss as the office environment allowed for, and had remained pressed against him long enough to remind him in no uncertain terms, how nice it was to be back. It was only after all of this that she appropriated the bag he was carrying and rooted through it with the furious intensity of an amphetamine crazed weasel to get to lunch. Now with the contents of her container reduced to half their original volume, she was giving him a thorough once over. "I think the woods agree with you." She finally said after careful consideration. "There something slightly different about you." "Maybe." Simon pushed his lunch aside, knowing Naoko would scavenge what he didn't finish. He fired up his workstation, paused for a moment, savoring the coming sensation, and threw himself into the data that had accumulated in his absence. This was something he understood, cool, rational, and for the most part, safe. Naoko spun in her chair, pushed off her desk and rolled over next to him, snagging his leftovers as she did so. "Was it a good trip?" She asked, staring at him as she forked up another mouthful of chicken and rice. "No, but Grandfather sends his love, and a few pounds of venison sausages." Simon noted as Naoko let out a delighted squee. "He promised to bring some more when he returns my jeep." "He's still got your jeep?" Naoko looked puzzled. "How did you get back?" "Oh…" Simon shrugged. "I flew in." - Wiregeek - 05-14-2008 now that's cool. well played, sir, well played. "No can brain today. Want cheezeburger." From NGE: Nobody Dies, by Gregg Landsman http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5579457/1/NGE_Nobody_Dies - ECSNorway - 05-14-2008 Mmm. Venison sausages. "I flew in." -- Sucrose Octanitrate. Proof positive that with sufficient motivation, you can make anything explode. - Sofaspud - 05-15-2008 The grin began to creep onto my face 'round about the introduction of the turkey vulture, and the "pounding vigorously on the back door asking to be let out" line shattered me completely. Bravo! (you think turkey vulture tastes anything like squirrel? 'cause I tell ya... those bits about the vulture were dead-on regarding how the squirrel behaved...) --sofaspud --"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs - Bob Schroeck - 05-15-2008 Ten points, even if the Native Americans speak with the occasional Britishism. Or are they Canadian? I don't recall... but if so, that might explain it to my satisfaction. -- Bob --------- Then the horns kicked in... ...and my shoes began to squeak. Canadiant - Rev Dark - 05-15-2008 Simon and his grandfather are Canadian, specifically Mohawk. Shayne PS. And to paraphrase Pulp Fiction, Turkey Vulture may taste like Pumpkin Pie, but I shall never no, for I have no intention of eating the filthy Oedipal sexual act. They are wonderful birds to watch soar, but up close and personal their charms are limited, and their diet pretty much assures that they are going to have a strong, unpleasant, taste. They also have a defensive mechanism to be wary of. Vomitting. The Vahz Zombies of the avian world. Half digested carrion mixed in with a nice dollop of buzzard juice. Yum. Yum. Usually when you have native stories about flight it is an eagle's feather, or a raven's. I wanted something that was not lame per se, but of a completely different, albeit epic, nature. |