themeSome soldier or pilot had run up to him in the hangar. Somberly she had told Gus of the casualties. Mjolnir's casualties. People he knew. Others he didn't. That other pilots of his flight had landed here too. He had walked past her without responding then, but wished he could say something now.
As Gus stares at that tiny chip in the paint, like a chink in a great coat of mail, the room around him changes. The table in front of him is a rough cut wood table, with stains and gouges dotting its surface like impact craters on a moon. In front and around him sit the members of Raiden and Mjolnir, drinking and talking. For a fleeting moment in time, he is back at that little bar some week or two ago.
Gus's eyes move slower than molasses, a tumultuous and violent ball of emotions forming rapidly in his stomach in anticipation. His eyes come to focus, a short foot or two away, on Geary, cradling a bottle of some Deltan beer. A smile dances in the corners of his mouth as he looks over towards the conversation on his left. Tears well up in the corners of Gus's eyes and his throat tightens. How cruel, it seemed, not to know. To be oblivious to the future. To be a cog in the endless machine of death, destined from the moment it's born to wear out and break. With a small wave of his hand he sends the thoughts of Geary's final moments away, into oblivion.
Gus continues down the table. Partially concealed by Geary's head sits Ralph, staring absently into his drink. What's worse, to know you are going to die or not to? Here, too, Gus waves away thoughts of his demise, as someone might lazily shoo away a fly.
His gaze moves on. In the background, Yui tenses her arm, dart in hand. Couldn't find her, he was told. Captured, perhaps, or worse. As if saying that made any difference.
In the foreground, Tippy smiles in response to some snide remark from across the table, Yukamo leaning on her shoulder, almost sprawled out. It seemed wrong, for her. Like an error, a glitch in a simulation. Why..? His thoughts end there, waved away.
Both of his hands raise slowly and come to rest on his forehead. He plants both elbows into the table, and the full weight of his throbbing head falls into his palms.
What more could we have done? What could we have done differently? Why didn't we save more? Why didn't we prevent this? Why did we allow all those people to die? Where
were we when we were needed?
All the thoughts Gus previously dismissed come rushing back. They speak to the beat of his pulse pounding dully in his head, like the war drums of some conquering tribe from an era long gone. The voices rise to a crescendo before being pushed away by the sights, sounds and smells of the cafeteria once more.
The outside corners of his palms are slick, to match his cheeks. Gus's head slips closer to the table as he runs his fingers through his hair. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and forces it out slowly between his teeth, wiping his eyes in the process. His eyes refocus on the room in front of him as he straightens back up.
It all changes, now.
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