The heroes are the ones the stories are written about. The ones with the songs. The women in long sleeved robes and sorrows that wind through hair dark as night, the men who carry burdens on their shoulders that feel like swords. There are battles. There are songs.
There is singing.
The heroes, those are the ones you like to read about best. And, in the end, did you…
When it came down to it, do you think that was a destiny? Or were you a casualty of some other nameless force? The universe in its madness?
A city torn to pieces and what you remember are the old songs your mother never sang you to get you to sleep.
(She is asleep now. A whole city, asleep.)
-
There are entire lists of reasons why he doesn't allow you to pilot a Jaeger. He doesn't give them to you. He doesn't need to. Here is the man that scooped you out of the dust and told you that everything was all right; here is the man that saved you; here is the man that still saves you. When the nightmares press in on you from all sides and you feel trapped in that alleyway again, choking on dust and ash and your own grief, he is always there, his large arm a weight against your shoulders.
There is a hope. There is tomorrow. There is the weight of his arm on your frame and you remember.
The war gets better; the war gets worse; Stacker remains a constant, and you trust -- you know to guide by him always.
That is another lesson you've learned over time. One that has never been proven wrong.
-
The first time you step into the suit is like nothing else you have ever imagined. (And you have imagined, haven't you? Have dreamt about the moment when you would be able to stare down your own monsters, the shadows that chase you down empty streets and shriek like the spirits mother warned you about. Or did she tease you? Or have you forgotten?
But you remember the street. You remember the light weight of the shoe in your hand, the feel of the stones poking through your thin socks to scratch at your heels, the endless screaming of metal and the monsters.
You were young enough to believe in monsters still, and there they were, writ large, chasing after you because you had done something. Hadn't you? Monsters only ever chased after people that had angered them, or was that spirits - but you found a hideaway and you prayed and you sobbed and you still remember the taste of that street, the smell of wet garbage, the blood pulsing in your throat, your face stinging from tears. You still remember, and you want…) The images flood back, crisp and clean, and you are back; you have a shot; you have your chance -
You curl your fist and you prepare to knock at the beast with all that you have. What have you had before? You were a small, light girl - a child - hiding from something bigger. Now you are big. Now you can strike.
-
They stop you. They say more control, mako; they say the first time is always bad for everyone. Drifting, it turns out, is something that must be done with absolute focus and rigid control. Drifting, it turns out, means allowing yourself to experience the pain and move on, means something other than letting your pain control you.
Raleigh talks about controlling it, and you wonder about the dark things locked away in his heart. In his mind, in his heart. The things you saw in brief flashes across your vision. The things you felt and heard. Oh, fear -- panic, too -- all familiar ghosts.
But it is the way Stacker looks at you. You have never felt such a heaviness hit you in your entire life - the weight of disappointing him, the weight of failing a minor god, the weight of space.
(And you have tried, and you have failed. Stacker, right again. So you will gather up your papers and your notes and you will return to observing other fighters fight. You will show up to the meetings and you will be diligent. The cause is still your cause, even if you can't bloody your knuckles and feel the gravity of a body knocking into the ground.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2013-07-22 03:01 am (UTC)The heroes are the ones the stories are written about. The ones with the songs. The women in long sleeved robes and sorrows that wind through hair dark as night, the men who carry burdens on their shoulders that feel like swords. There are battles. There are songs.
There is singing.
The heroes, those are the ones you like to read about best. And, in the end, did you…
When it came down to it, do you think that was a destiny? Or were you a casualty of some other nameless force? The universe in its madness?
A city torn to pieces and what you remember are the old songs your mother never sang you to get you to sleep.
(She is asleep now. A whole city, asleep.)
-
There are entire lists of reasons why he doesn't allow you to pilot a Jaeger. He doesn't give them to you. He doesn't need to. Here is the man that scooped you out of the dust and told you that everything was all right; here is the man that saved you; here is the man that still saves you. When the nightmares press in on you from all sides and you feel trapped in that alleyway again, choking on dust and ash and your own grief, he is always there, his large arm a weight against your shoulders.
There is a hope. There is tomorrow. There is the weight of his arm on your frame and you remember.
The war gets better; the war gets worse; Stacker remains a constant, and you trust -- you know to guide by him always.
That is another lesson you've learned over time. One that has never been proven wrong.
-
The first time you step into the suit is like nothing else you have ever imagined. (And you have imagined, haven't you? Have dreamt about the moment when you would be able to stare down your own monsters, the shadows that chase you down empty streets and shriek like the spirits mother warned you about. Or did she tease you? Or have you forgotten?
But you remember the street. You remember the light weight of the shoe in your hand, the feel of the stones poking through your thin socks to scratch at your heels, the endless screaming of metal and the monsters.
You were young enough to believe in monsters still, and there they were, writ large, chasing after you because you had done something. Hadn't you? Monsters only ever chased after people that had angered them, or was that spirits - but you found a hideaway and you prayed and you sobbed and you still remember the taste of that street, the smell of wet garbage, the blood pulsing in your throat, your face stinging from tears. You still remember, and you want…) The images flood back, crisp and clean, and you are back; you have a shot; you have your chance -
You curl your fist and you prepare to knock at the beast with all that you have. What have you had before? You were a small, light girl - a child - hiding from something bigger. Now you are big. Now you can strike.
-
They stop you. They say more control, mako; they say the first time is always bad for everyone. Drifting, it turns out, is something that must be done with absolute focus and rigid control. Drifting, it turns out, means allowing yourself to experience the pain and move on, means something other than letting your pain control you.
Raleigh talks about controlling it, and you wonder about the dark things locked away in his heart. In his mind, in his heart. The things you saw in brief flashes across your vision. The things you felt and heard. Oh, fear -- panic, too -- all familiar ghosts.
But it is the way Stacker looks at you. You have never felt such a heaviness hit you in your entire life - the weight of disappointing him, the weight of failing a minor god, the weight of space.
(And you have tried, and you have failed. Stacker, right again. So you will gather up your papers and your notes and you will return to observing other fighters fight. You will show up to the meetings and you will be diligent. The cause is still your cause, even if you can't bloody your knuckles and feel the gravity of a body knocking into the ground.