01-09-2011, 09:06 AM
You’d think they’d put a little more effort into making these places cleaner, Iris thought, as she shuffled through the line of makeshift soldiers. She had been a tenant, however temporary, on this hell hole of a planet for no more than three or four minutes and she already hated it — mostly because of the dust that insisted on clogging up her lungs. She should have expected it, probably; it was, after all, one huge desert, blanketing the entire surface of the world. Nothing like Earth… no, her home had variety. In one place, a desert climate might reign supreme, but you might walk just a score or two of miles and you’d find grasses and trees, growing peacefully away from the aridity of the former.
Somehow, she hadn’t foreseen this: the homesickness she was feeling. Again, it had been maybe four whole minutes, and already, regret seeped into her, and she missed the tufts of grass in the park, or the high-rising silver skyscrapers. Space travel just wasn’t her thing, she guessed; unfortunately, this was what she had signed up to do, and she was going to finish what she’d started, even if that meant death. She hoped that it didn’t mean death, of course, but she had convinced herself, during moments of the flight where she wasn’t sleeping, that her life was a noble sacrifice for the safety of the North Quadrant.
She didn’t think she’d be on the front lines, though. She was a girl, first and foremost, and while she had an utmost respect for women in the workplace — one that must’ve been even more furious deep in her heart, as displayed by her unconscious lunge at Mr. Bombadil’s degrading behavior, back on Earth — she knew that war, in particular, had always been the man’s domain. There were women who could fight, she was sure; cardinal exceptions to the rule, and ones that her gender should be proud of. She was of the opinion that she herself, however, was not one of these; therefore, through what could be attributed to her lack of self-esteem, she had concluded that the generals of this war thought similarly, and would keep her far away from the fighting.
She hoped so, at least. To be completely honest, she had never been one for combat; she’d always been a working girl, in the sense that she could do paperwork quickly, and end up with a quality result. As a secretary, or a speaker, or a student, she was exceptional, but she didn’t think her success would be replicated on the battlefield. It just didn’t seem likely that she of all people — Iris Swanning, the girl from Earth who joined the military because of some false sense of duty triggered by a freak accident — would be any good at this sort of thing.
It might’ve also been fear. Ever since the incident at Mr. Bombadil’s office — an incident which seemed to have only been an hour or so ago, but was probably further in the past than she remembered since she’d napped the majority of that time — she had had a suspicion tugging at the back of her mind that someone was after her; that she was being followed, and that at any moment, her bubble of safety would be breached, and she would find herself unable to run away. She didn’t think anyone would be desperate enough to follow her off Earth, but there was always that worry, in the back of her mind, that she was more important than she realized.
The line continued to move; Iris again stepped forward, closer and closer to the receptionist. Darn, she thought, catching a glimpse of the recruitment secretary, another woman to deal with; and this one’s military, she’s probably even more testy and sarcastic than the bitch from Capsule Corp.
Heaving a heavy, drawn-out sigh, she stepped forward. A couple more soldiers were in line ahead of her, but she was finally close enough to hear what they were talking about up at the desk; she couldn’t catch every word, but occasionally, the woman would take out a device — a scouter, she told one boy who asked — and it would take some sort of reading, and then she would point off in one direction or the other. Eventually, the woman pointed enough that Iris grew curious about what she was pointing at (to be honest, she didn’t know why she hadn’t looked before), so she looked up. Two signs hung over two respective doors — one reading ‘Warriors’ and the other reading ‘Troops.’ Iris wondered what that meant.
Eventually, it was her turn at the desk. She stepped forward and smiled a shy smile, nervously holding back her criticism about the lack of cleanliness in the spaceport’s atmosphere. The receptionist — Betty, it said on her nametag — looked up with a smile, and then asked charmingly, “May I have your name, miss?” For a moment, Iris didn’t register the question. She smiled sweetly in response, but the question had yet to actually reach her mind. All sound cut out, and she couldn’t tell you exactly what was going on until the receptionist broke in again. “…miss? Your name?”
Iris was shaken out of her stupor, quite unsure of what, exactly, had happened. “Huh?” she asked stupidly, looking down and meeting the receptionist’s glance, “Oh, right, my name. Uh, I’m, uh… Swanning comma Iris.”
The receptionist chuckled a bit, and then went down to her paper. Iris didn’t quite understand what was so funny — she’d only repeated what she’d heard the boy before her say. Suddenly, the revelation hit her; the boy before her must’ve been the originator of what was now — and what would cease to be after her — a trend. Which meant that now she looked like an idiot, like she was trying to copy the aforementioned boy’s penchant for being a smartass.
Over the receptionist’s soldier, a man in a suit leaned against a wall, smoking a cigarette. A chill ran up Iris’s spine, and she looked away, breathing heavily, and nervously. After a few seconds, she dared to look back, but when the crowd of people once again parted and gave her view, the man was gone, as if he’d never been there at all. Strange — almost as if he’d just disappeared.
“…ah, here we are. Iris Swanning, you said?” ,” Betty said, looking up at Iris, who returned her glance immediately this time. “It doesn’t have listed whether you’re a warrior or a troop. Do you know which one you are?”
“…I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” Iris answered bluntly and honestly, and Betty once again smiled from the humor bleeding from the poor, sheltered girl’s situation. She nodded curtly and did the scouter trick on Iris, who seemed to be at a dreadfully low reading, because it didn’t take long for the scouter to register her strength level.
“You’re a troop, ma’am,” the secretary smiled, sitting back in her seat and shoving the scouter back into the desk. “Good luck.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Iris asked, confused. She didn’t know what she wanted now; were warriors relegated to the front lines? Did she actually have to fight? Was she going to be one of those throwaway soldiers that the army allowed the aliens to feed on in order to get them into a vulnerable position? “Ma’am, please,” Iris pleaded, but Betty had already moved on.
“Next!”
Somehow, she hadn’t foreseen this: the homesickness she was feeling. Again, it had been maybe four whole minutes, and already, regret seeped into her, and she missed the tufts of grass in the park, or the high-rising silver skyscrapers. Space travel just wasn’t her thing, she guessed; unfortunately, this was what she had signed up to do, and she was going to finish what she’d started, even if that meant death. She hoped that it didn’t mean death, of course, but she had convinced herself, during moments of the flight where she wasn’t sleeping, that her life was a noble sacrifice for the safety of the North Quadrant.
She didn’t think she’d be on the front lines, though. She was a girl, first and foremost, and while she had an utmost respect for women in the workplace — one that must’ve been even more furious deep in her heart, as displayed by her unconscious lunge at Mr. Bombadil’s degrading behavior, back on Earth — she knew that war, in particular, had always been the man’s domain. There were women who could fight, she was sure; cardinal exceptions to the rule, and ones that her gender should be proud of. She was of the opinion that she herself, however, was not one of these; therefore, through what could be attributed to her lack of self-esteem, she had concluded that the generals of this war thought similarly, and would keep her far away from the fighting.
She hoped so, at least. To be completely honest, she had never been one for combat; she’d always been a working girl, in the sense that she could do paperwork quickly, and end up with a quality result. As a secretary, or a speaker, or a student, she was exceptional, but she didn’t think her success would be replicated on the battlefield. It just didn’t seem likely that she of all people — Iris Swanning, the girl from Earth who joined the military because of some false sense of duty triggered by a freak accident — would be any good at this sort of thing.
It might’ve also been fear. Ever since the incident at Mr. Bombadil’s office — an incident which seemed to have only been an hour or so ago, but was probably further in the past than she remembered since she’d napped the majority of that time — she had had a suspicion tugging at the back of her mind that someone was after her; that she was being followed, and that at any moment, her bubble of safety would be breached, and she would find herself unable to run away. She didn’t think anyone would be desperate enough to follow her off Earth, but there was always that worry, in the back of her mind, that she was more important than she realized.
The line continued to move; Iris again stepped forward, closer and closer to the receptionist. Darn, she thought, catching a glimpse of the recruitment secretary, another woman to deal with; and this one’s military, she’s probably even more testy and sarcastic than the bitch from Capsule Corp.
Heaving a heavy, drawn-out sigh, she stepped forward. A couple more soldiers were in line ahead of her, but she was finally close enough to hear what they were talking about up at the desk; she couldn’t catch every word, but occasionally, the woman would take out a device — a scouter, she told one boy who asked — and it would take some sort of reading, and then she would point off in one direction or the other. Eventually, the woman pointed enough that Iris grew curious about what she was pointing at (to be honest, she didn’t know why she hadn’t looked before), so she looked up. Two signs hung over two respective doors — one reading ‘Warriors’ and the other reading ‘Troops.’ Iris wondered what that meant.
Eventually, it was her turn at the desk. She stepped forward and smiled a shy smile, nervously holding back her criticism about the lack of cleanliness in the spaceport’s atmosphere. The receptionist — Betty, it said on her nametag — looked up with a smile, and then asked charmingly, “May I have your name, miss?” For a moment, Iris didn’t register the question. She smiled sweetly in response, but the question had yet to actually reach her mind. All sound cut out, and she couldn’t tell you exactly what was going on until the receptionist broke in again. “…miss? Your name?”
Iris was shaken out of her stupor, quite unsure of what, exactly, had happened. “Huh?” she asked stupidly, looking down and meeting the receptionist’s glance, “Oh, right, my name. Uh, I’m, uh… Swanning comma Iris.”
The receptionist chuckled a bit, and then went down to her paper. Iris didn’t quite understand what was so funny — she’d only repeated what she’d heard the boy before her say. Suddenly, the revelation hit her; the boy before her must’ve been the originator of what was now — and what would cease to be after her — a trend. Which meant that now she looked like an idiot, like she was trying to copy the aforementioned boy’s penchant for being a smartass.
Over the receptionist’s soldier, a man in a suit leaned against a wall, smoking a cigarette. A chill ran up Iris’s spine, and she looked away, breathing heavily, and nervously. After a few seconds, she dared to look back, but when the crowd of people once again parted and gave her view, the man was gone, as if he’d never been there at all. Strange — almost as if he’d just disappeared.
“…ah, here we are. Iris Swanning, you said?” ,” Betty said, looking up at Iris, who returned her glance immediately this time. “It doesn’t have listed whether you’re a warrior or a troop. Do you know which one you are?”
“…I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” Iris answered bluntly and honestly, and Betty once again smiled from the humor bleeding from the poor, sheltered girl’s situation. She nodded curtly and did the scouter trick on Iris, who seemed to be at a dreadfully low reading, because it didn’t take long for the scouter to register her strength level.
“You’re a troop, ma’am,” the secretary smiled, sitting back in her seat and shoving the scouter back into the desk. “Good luck.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Iris asked, confused. She didn’t know what she wanted now; were warriors relegated to the front lines? Did she actually have to fight? Was she going to be one of those throwaway soldiers that the army allowed the aliens to feed on in order to get them into a vulnerable position? “Ma’am, please,” Iris pleaded, but Betty had already moved on.
“Next!”
