Ep. 1 - "Emotionally Exhausted and Morally Bankrupt" - Close
Sept 20, 2013 20:20:32 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Sept 20, 2013 20:20:32 GMT -5
Set at the beginning of AR Episode 1!
He was tired.
So tired.
Holy hell.
In his defence, it wasn't as if he had ever flown from Australia to Africa before. He had flown all over the globe, under dozens of pretences - but never to Africa. When he had decided to embark on this epic journey he had little clue about the distance spanning the two continents, the logistics involved in flying such a route. Most of what he knew about Africa he had gleaned from a Meryl Streep movie.
Never been to Africa before.
So, like any intrepid traveller he had taken up his trusty data pad, adopted his most hipster avatar, and gone to a Starbucks to take advantage of some free-ish wifi and do a little research. After flirting with a barista he had picked a corner table and consulted an old friend on the distances involved in flying from the east coast of Australia to Africa:
Google Maps.
It had given him a rather cheeky answer that had involved swimming across the Indian Ocean, and in a fit of temper he had nearly thrown the pad through a plate glass window. God, it was worse than Siri sometimes.
Africa, as it turned out, was enormous. And far away.
But it wasn't as if he could refuel in India. Not after the unpleasantness. The Middle East was a dicey place for an undeclared military jet to be at the moment. So, Africa it was. There had to be fuel somewhere on the continent, good old Jet-A fuel from an international airport that was too busy to check the signature his holo avatar left on the bill, charging the purchase back to the American Air Force.
Lt. Tappman. Ahahaha. He would never get tired of that joke.
The F-16 Falcon chortled to himself. Oh god. He was delirious.
The sun beat down mercilessly on the overheating military jet as it skimmed through the clear and open sky. Beneath its wings was an arid, sandy thornbrush savannah. The mangrove swamps of the coastal planes had given way to rolling grassland dotted by umbrella-like trees nearly an hour ago. Bigger hills stood here and there, green with vegetation.
The Falcon wheezed through his intakes. He was hot. He was so hot. The sun seemed to sear against his plating. The air was thin and warm, which made it difficult to climb to cooler altitudes, particularly when he was already at dangerously low energy levels after flying across the ocean like a putz. At least the scenery was gorgeous. He hoped he would make a gorgeous corpse when he flew nose-first into it.
He wearily dropped another thousand feet. He was flying at little over seven thousand now. Oh look. A herd of gazelles. Doing gazelle things. Good for them.
The Falcon's shadow ran swift and fast over the sandy grasslands. He was slowly descending, running nearly on fumes.
Dear Primus, he thought in exhaustion. I know I haven't exactly rapped with you a lot in the past. But if you get me out of this jam alive - if you send me a sign - I will try not to use your name as a creative swear word in the near future. I promise. Thank you for listening. Amen. Over and out.
He was tired.
So tired.
Holy hell.
In his defence, it wasn't as if he had ever flown from Australia to Africa before. He had flown all over the globe, under dozens of pretences - but never to Africa. When he had decided to embark on this epic journey he had little clue about the distance spanning the two continents, the logistics involved in flying such a route. Most of what he knew about Africa he had gleaned from a Meryl Streep movie.
Never been to Africa before.
So, like any intrepid traveller he had taken up his trusty data pad, adopted his most hipster avatar, and gone to a Starbucks to take advantage of some free-ish wifi and do a little research. After flirting with a barista he had picked a corner table and consulted an old friend on the distances involved in flying from the east coast of Australia to Africa:
Google Maps.
It had given him a rather cheeky answer that had involved swimming across the Indian Ocean, and in a fit of temper he had nearly thrown the pad through a plate glass window. God, it was worse than Siri sometimes.
Africa, as it turned out, was enormous. And far away.
But it wasn't as if he could refuel in India. Not after the unpleasantness. The Middle East was a dicey place for an undeclared military jet to be at the moment. So, Africa it was. There had to be fuel somewhere on the continent, good old Jet-A fuel from an international airport that was too busy to check the signature his holo avatar left on the bill, charging the purchase back to the American Air Force.
Lt. Tappman. Ahahaha. He would never get tired of that joke.
The F-16 Falcon chortled to himself. Oh god. He was delirious.
The sun beat down mercilessly on the overheating military jet as it skimmed through the clear and open sky. Beneath its wings was an arid, sandy thornbrush savannah. The mangrove swamps of the coastal planes had given way to rolling grassland dotted by umbrella-like trees nearly an hour ago. Bigger hills stood here and there, green with vegetation.
The Falcon wheezed through his intakes. He was hot. He was so hot. The sun seemed to sear against his plating. The air was thin and warm, which made it difficult to climb to cooler altitudes, particularly when he was already at dangerously low energy levels after flying across the ocean like a putz. At least the scenery was gorgeous. He hoped he would make a gorgeous corpse when he flew nose-first into it.
He wearily dropped another thousand feet. He was flying at little over seven thousand now. Oh look. A herd of gazelles. Doing gazelle things. Good for them.
The Falcon's shadow ran swift and fast over the sandy grasslands. He was slowly descending, running nearly on fumes.
Dear Primus, he thought in exhaustion. I know I haven't exactly rapped with you a lot in the past. But if you get me out of this jam alive - if you send me a sign - I will try not to use your name as a creative swear word in the near future. I promise. Thank you for listening. Amen. Over and out.