03-25-2010, 09:57 AM
“On him, now, don’t let him get away!” Juno’s voice blared through the helmet’s built-in headset. The young street-entertainer-turned-pilot was tempted to glance at the control panel’s dual monitor, if just for a moment, so that he could glimpse at the expression on Juno’s face. He imagined it would be priceless – the young, onyx haired boy with a splitting, open-toothed grin plastered across an aggressive, ‘gung-ho’ expression. And beside him there would be Kazuya, who would probably be sneering as she rolled her eyes.
Trafford chuckled as he tilted forward the control wheel (as it had been called in the numerous flight books that he had read, but in this case it was a simple, albeit large, stick) and sent his craft into a full-on nosedive, giving chase to this Ander character.
Ander, who was apparently another ‘real’ participant within this surreal world, was a good distance ahead of him. His foe’s ship was substantially larger with dual wings on each side that created an ‘X.’ He figured that all he needed was one or two well placed shots to force the oppositional pilot to change his flight path, and effectively cause him to abort his short-term assault on the space station.
Despite his casual demeanor and attitude, Alexander very much enjoyed competition and strategic games or circumstances. That’s how he saw situations such as this one; by firing his lasers towards Ander he would force the insurgent fighter to alter his course, which, theoretically, Trafford could predict and then intercept. It was simple. But unlike most strategic games that were controlled by rules and limitations, like chess, real people tended to do the most outrageous, stupid and unpredictable things.
“Let’s get started,” Ace muttered to himself.
“Huh?” Juno’s voice cracked through his headset. Alex silently cursed himself. He had forgotten about the damned helmet – although he didn’t know how, the thing was enormous.
“Nothing, uh, never mind . . .” Trafford stated clearly and then searched his console for some sort of ‘mute’ switch, all the while keeping his eyes on the enemy ship. He was gaining ground, and he could see another Conglomerate fighter in his peripheral.
“Ah, there it is,” he whispered to himself as he jabbed his finger into a red button, silencing himself for the moment.
“Now, let’s get this shit going!” Alex shouted to himself as he slid his right hand up the control stick and placed his index finger on the trigger.
Moving the ship slightly to the right, the young pilot adjusted his vessel so that Ander was directly in his sights. His fellow participant seemed to know what Alex was planning, as he had begun to shake his fighter left and right in an attempt to make himself a more difficult target – either that or he was simply a poor pilot, it did not make much of a difference either way.
“Woo, get some mother fucker!” Trafford shouted as he pulled the trigger. Boy was he getting into this event. He was not positive, but he thought for a moment that he was actually enjoying himself. And he was sober, how quaint.
Two emerald lasers, one from each cannon, erupted from the front of his fighter and were quickly followed by two more. Ander banked left to avoid the incoming attack, and Alex followed with his finger tight on the trigger. With every shot fired he would force the enemy pilot to continue his maneuver, and thus push him further from his objective.
His teeth were clenched and his eyes were wide, it was the same look that can be seen in every young boy when he first grasps the cool, ebony controller of his new Play Station – except this was so much more. This was his childhood dream, combined with the excitement of a video game (which he had never been allowed to play during his youth) and the adrenaline rush of war, all colliding and melding together as one in the midst of the most beautiful and surreal environment that he had ever laid his eyes on: space.
It was a massive, all-encompassing blanket of darkness that stretched for eternity in every which direction. Stars dotted the jet backdrop as if they were spatters of paint against a colorless canvas. Other than those sprinkled bulbs of light there was only black; for as far as the eyes could see and the mind could imagine. It was not intimidating, as one might envision. Sure, at first the vastness of it all was entirely overwhelming, but after a moment, or perhaps a minute, it became quite comforting.
Half of him wanted to remain there, with his mind in ‘la-la land,’ observing the stars; the other half, however, wanted to pursue Ander. He wished that he could simply radio into Juno and Kazuya, tell them to take over the chase, and then ride off to the outskirts of the battle and simply watch. Perhaps he would smoke a cigarette and pretend he was at the movies. That would be quite grand, he imagined. Regardless, he was in no particular rush to leave space – or the cockpit of his fighter.
He sighed and, contrary to his true desires, continued tailing Ander – hoping that the damned pilot would make an error that he could capitalize on before he himself slipped up. Trafford reached for the red button on his control console and pressed it once again. He’d had his fun, now he might as well get back to business.
“Juno,” Trafford said in order to get the boy’s attention. He paused for a moment as he pulled down on the joystick’s trigger. As emerald lasers once again erupted from his own cannons he watched his opponent re-enter his banking maneuver in order to avoid the incoming fire. Once this occurred, he continued, “Cut him off and force him to come back around, I’ll catch him when he does. And, uh . . . shit, I forgot your name . . .”
“It’s Kazuya, boy,” his other partner stated in a stern, probably frustrated tone that shook Alex’s nerves.
“Yeah, right, you should make sure no other participants move in on the space station thing.”
“Oh, should I?” Kazuya retorted, and he could immediately tell that this was going to be bad. “Who made you our ‘fearless leader’?”
Obviously she did not like taking orders from anyone.
“Uh, right . . .” Trafford muttered and then paused, before continuing, “well then, why don’t you just do whatever it is you want to do?”
Alex chuckled awkwardly. Perhaps he should have left his end of the headset on mute.
Trafford chuckled as he tilted forward the control wheel (as it had been called in the numerous flight books that he had read, but in this case it was a simple, albeit large, stick) and sent his craft into a full-on nosedive, giving chase to this Ander character.
Ander, who was apparently another ‘real’ participant within this surreal world, was a good distance ahead of him. His foe’s ship was substantially larger with dual wings on each side that created an ‘X.’ He figured that all he needed was one or two well placed shots to force the oppositional pilot to change his flight path, and effectively cause him to abort his short-term assault on the space station.
Despite his casual demeanor and attitude, Alexander very much enjoyed competition and strategic games or circumstances. That’s how he saw situations such as this one; by firing his lasers towards Ander he would force the insurgent fighter to alter his course, which, theoretically, Trafford could predict and then intercept. It was simple. But unlike most strategic games that were controlled by rules and limitations, like chess, real people tended to do the most outrageous, stupid and unpredictable things.
“Let’s get started,” Ace muttered to himself.
“Huh?” Juno’s voice cracked through his headset. Alex silently cursed himself. He had forgotten about the damned helmet – although he didn’t know how, the thing was enormous.
“Nothing, uh, never mind . . .” Trafford stated clearly and then searched his console for some sort of ‘mute’ switch, all the while keeping his eyes on the enemy ship. He was gaining ground, and he could see another Conglomerate fighter in his peripheral.
“Ah, there it is,” he whispered to himself as he jabbed his finger into a red button, silencing himself for the moment.
“Now, let’s get this shit going!” Alex shouted to himself as he slid his right hand up the control stick and placed his index finger on the trigger.
Moving the ship slightly to the right, the young pilot adjusted his vessel so that Ander was directly in his sights. His fellow participant seemed to know what Alex was planning, as he had begun to shake his fighter left and right in an attempt to make himself a more difficult target – either that or he was simply a poor pilot, it did not make much of a difference either way.
“Woo, get some mother fucker!” Trafford shouted as he pulled the trigger. Boy was he getting into this event. He was not positive, but he thought for a moment that he was actually enjoying himself. And he was sober, how quaint.
Two emerald lasers, one from each cannon, erupted from the front of his fighter and were quickly followed by two more. Ander banked left to avoid the incoming attack, and Alex followed with his finger tight on the trigger. With every shot fired he would force the enemy pilot to continue his maneuver, and thus push him further from his objective.
His teeth were clenched and his eyes were wide, it was the same look that can be seen in every young boy when he first grasps the cool, ebony controller of his new Play Station – except this was so much more. This was his childhood dream, combined with the excitement of a video game (which he had never been allowed to play during his youth) and the adrenaline rush of war, all colliding and melding together as one in the midst of the most beautiful and surreal environment that he had ever laid his eyes on: space.
It was a massive, all-encompassing blanket of darkness that stretched for eternity in every which direction. Stars dotted the jet backdrop as if they were spatters of paint against a colorless canvas. Other than those sprinkled bulbs of light there was only black; for as far as the eyes could see and the mind could imagine. It was not intimidating, as one might envision. Sure, at first the vastness of it all was entirely overwhelming, but after a moment, or perhaps a minute, it became quite comforting.
Half of him wanted to remain there, with his mind in ‘la-la land,’ observing the stars; the other half, however, wanted to pursue Ander. He wished that he could simply radio into Juno and Kazuya, tell them to take over the chase, and then ride off to the outskirts of the battle and simply watch. Perhaps he would smoke a cigarette and pretend he was at the movies. That would be quite grand, he imagined. Regardless, he was in no particular rush to leave space – or the cockpit of his fighter.
He sighed and, contrary to his true desires, continued tailing Ander – hoping that the damned pilot would make an error that he could capitalize on before he himself slipped up. Trafford reached for the red button on his control console and pressed it once again. He’d had his fun, now he might as well get back to business.
“Juno,” Trafford said in order to get the boy’s attention. He paused for a moment as he pulled down on the joystick’s trigger. As emerald lasers once again erupted from his own cannons he watched his opponent re-enter his banking maneuver in order to avoid the incoming fire. Once this occurred, he continued, “Cut him off and force him to come back around, I’ll catch him when he does. And, uh . . . shit, I forgot your name . . .”
“It’s Kazuya, boy,” his other partner stated in a stern, probably frustrated tone that shook Alex’s nerves.
“Yeah, right, you should make sure no other participants move in on the space station thing.”
“Oh, should I?” Kazuya retorted, and he could immediately tell that this was going to be bad. “Who made you our ‘fearless leader’?”
Obviously she did not like taking orders from anyone.
“Uh, right . . .” Trafford muttered and then paused, before continuing, “well then, why don’t you just do whatever it is you want to do?”
Alex chuckled awkwardly. Perhaps he should have left his end of the headset on mute.
![[Image: alext.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v234/waffuru/alext.jpg)