Three of Two

[DoF Archive]

Date: 5/7/1999 4:10 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

They were really going out of their way to make this execution drag on as long as possible. Usually, it was a simple matter of dragging the prisoner out into the hallway, lining up a three-man firing squad, and letting them pull their collective triggers. No muss, no fuss, quick and easy. At least the Confederation did something with a bit of haste. Or rather, they used to. Maybe for him they were making an
exception but after being cramped inside the five by five by six holding cell inside this transport for the past twelve hours, death almost seemed the better alternative.
The other question plaguing his mind besides why he still felt so damn odd (the drugs he'd been given nearly a week ago should have worked through his system by now) and what in the hell was making that smell (he really hoped the sticky wet he was sitting in hadn't been excreted from his own body) was why, if he was going to be killed anyhow, they needed to take him somewhere else to do it. The prison would have done nicely, he thought. Perhaps
this was some sort of daring rescue operation undertaken by some friends of his. More likely, someone was having a little fun at his expense, messing with his head like this.
The dull clang of metal on metal made its way to his ears about the time the transport rattled under the impact of touchdown. Wherever they were, it was definitely off planet. Maybe they wanted to kill him in space to save burial costs; after all, what was one more body floating out there in the vastness of space in the middle of a war? No use in worrying about it though, he'd find out what was going on soon enough.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 6/11/1999 6:03 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

Moments after the landing, he listened to the hull protest as the doors leading to the cargo hold (small as it was) swung open. Let out of his cell by two MP's with rather nasty looking weaponry held in their hands, he obediently followed their instructions and left the ship. Stepping down the metal walkway, he and his escorts soon met the lightly vibrating deck of the vessel the transport had docked within, a
telltale sign that the ship was preparing for a jump. Either that, or they'd taken him onboard one of the ancient but still operable Kashmir class carriers that was doing its best not to rattle itself apart.
Making his way down a maze of corridors, the layout of the vessel along with the momentary dizziness normally associated with a jump told him that this vessel was definitely not a Kashmir class ship. In fact, the design was utterly unfamiliar to him; strange layouts, though, were not the most prominent thing on his mind.
Two decks up and four hallways later, he stood not in front of another holding cell or an airlock but what appeared to be a large conference room. One guard swung the door open while the other made an about-face to maintain a post outside the room. Motioned to go inside, the former Colonel did so, having not one whit of a clue as to what was going on. Five hours later, when he made his way back out into the corridor, he felt only slightly more
enlightened.

-------------------

In combat, everything could change in less than a second. Life, it appeared, was no different. He knew something big was happening as soon as the door clicked shut behind him and the figures of Mikey, Kevin Olton, a woman who looked strangely familiar, and a slew of high-ranking officers greeted his eyes. Before he had a chance to speak, one of them, Rear Admiral Lacan as he was later identified, quietly suggested that Matt take a seat. He
quickly complied.
"Well, Colonel, you gave us quite a time before we could get ahold of you. Impressive, to say the least. Kevin assured us it was impossible for you to leave New Detroit without our stopping you first. A miscalculation, I'm sure."
While the Admiral may have truly been impressed with Matt's abilities to evade capture, he was clearly displeased with Kevin's inability to do his job properly. Stealing a glance at his former squadmate, Matt noted Kevin looked sour, bitter even. And his eyes, focused on Matt, were filled with disdain.
"Regardless," a female, Commodore Spiekermann, continued, "you're here now. And now we can proceed with the operation." Giving him no time to ask, she spoke on. "Colonel, your court martial trial was a formality for the benefit of the public. News of your death by injection has already been released to them. Obviously, we didn't bring you all this way to kill you. In fact, quite the contrary. We've known for a long time now about your
dealings with the Mandarians, we know that you, while believing yourself forced to assist them, made attempts to circumvent their efforts. We know that your accident was no accident and that your…bodily enhancements are a result of Confed. scientists using their knowledge for the Mandarin cause."
At this point, Matt shifted in his chair and spoke quickly enough to make a statement. "Yeah, and then you tried to kill me, or was that another miscalculation?"
"No," she replied, her voice as even as her gaze. "Those attempts were quite real; we hadn't all the facts at the time."
Somehow, that didn't make him feel any better.
"Once we did, we sent in operatives to rescue you. You might remember Lieutenant Miller, she's the one that got you out."
Turning to look at the woman indicated, the one who'd seemed familiar earlier, his memories clicked. Deanna, her name was Deanna, and she'd ensured his escape from the Mandarin compound. He hadn't trusted her than, he'd believed her to be another tool used to play with his mind. Thankfully, he'd been wrong.
She smiled the smile he couldn't seem to muster, saying, "glad to see you made it here alive, sir." Silently, he echoed her sentiment.
"Now then, to the present," the Commodore took control again. "Despite your elusiveness, we've brought you here to offer you a choice. Once before, we asked you to return to the Confederation fold but you didn't trust us. We…I, realize, you've no reason to trust us now save that we have gone to great lengths to bring you here. Your presence and experience, Colonel, is quite valuable to us and to the Confederation as a whole."
His facial expressions spoke the words his mouth did not, and he wondered just what she was leading up to.
"Colonel, I'll be frank. We need you more than you need us, but if you're going to make a break, you'll do it now. Option one: you resign your commission. We return you to this," she glanced down to the folder in front of her, "Rhydin and you live your life away from this war and away from all Confederation controlled planets. As far as the public is concerned, you're dead and you will not be permitted to expose our lie. The reason for that
lie is because we hope you choose against option one. Option two: take an assignment with Colonel Olton's Special Operations Division. Confederation citizens believe you're dead as do the Kilrathi and the Mandarians. We've covered up our knowledge regarding your past. As far as the records are concerned, you're a traitor and you died for it. If you survive the operation, your name and record will be cleared both within the military and the
public domain. Your mission will entail striking at the Mandarian movement as well as securing prisoners of war from Kilrathi prison ships. Why we need you isn't important now, just the fact that we need you is. We're looking at a five-month operation at the least, after which we'd be willing to put you back where you belong, on the flightline. Assuredly a Squadron Commander, perhaps even a Wing Commander if the opportunity is present. It's your
chance to redeem yourself, Colonel. And this chance is one in a lifetime."
That was all he needed to hear. Two years ago, he'd never wanted to sit in the cockpit again, never wanted to fly again, and told the Confederation to go to hell. Now, things were different, things had changed. After what he'd done to his family, he needed something to live for, needed a cause to fight for. After everything he'd been through, after the nights of tormented dreams about the faceless victims he'd killed and after sacrificing the
life he'd built with the mother of his children, only one thought was running through his mind. He wanted back in this war. Damn the rest of it, he wanted back into this war.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 6/13/1999 7:18 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

Exhausting. If he had to pick one word to describe the last two months, it was exactly that. Exhausting. After his agreement to join the Confederation's Special Operations Division, he'd been sent to an outlying Confed. training facility along with Kevin Olton and his top two operations teams. In charge of one section of the SOD, which included 6 marine troop units (12 marines to a unit), 2 mechanized squadrons
(composed of ground assault vehicles and troop transports for assault and boarding sorties) and two support teams (who made sure all the equipment the marines used and carried were fully functional), Kevin had convinced his superiors that he should come along on this mission as a unit leader. He'd allotted twenty-four marines, including Matt, two transports, and a skeleton crew for each from the support teams for use in both training and the actual
mission. Lieutenant Deanna Miller, Olton's second in command, would lead the second marine unit of which Matt was to be a part. The brass had still not informed him why they were so desperate to have him along and he supposed he wouldn't know until the mission was underway.
The last two months had been a crash course in marine tactics and practice sorties. Quickly, he'd learned he was much more suited to flying than grunt work, but he had little choice but to act the part of a marine. He understood the concept of teamwork extremely well but he was out of his element and it showed. The men and women he was working with held little trust for him; some believed him to be the traitor they'd heard of, others simply
felt he had no right to be part of an assault team. He was a liability, a danger to himself and the rest of his team because he didn't know the job well enough. He didn't know what Deanna personally thought, he'd never asked. But the looks given him by the rest, even Kevin, shared their sentiments quite adequately.
Kevin's attitude completely perplexed his former commander. They were friends, at least, they had been. Now, though, Kevin seemed cold and distant, delighting in pointing out Matt's mistakes and errors not in private but in front of the other men. They'd not spoken alone since their reunion and from what Matt gathered, most of the marines thought highly of him both as a leader and as a man. As much as he wanted to sit down and talk with
Kevin, there was little time to do so in between drills and other training activities.
Lying on his bunk (something he was prone to do after a day's work), Matt was kept awake by the activities going on around him. The other marines may have been tired, but their bodies were used to the rigors his was learning to adjust to and consequently they showed much less fatigue. Most were engaged in a rather heated poker game, angry that Kevin seemed to be having an incredible streak of luck in taking the pot the last five hands.
Corporal Jean "Ash" Atkinson was busy providing the barracks with a bit of music on the guitar that seemed to be in her hands whenever her weaponry wasn't while Privates Fred "Aries" Kravitz and Melanie "Charm" Rhodes seemed engrossed in writing letters to their families. Sergeants Nikki "Fluffy" Brightman and Sean "Moses" Caldwell were mulling over tomorrow's mission specs with Deanna and doing what everyone seemed to be really adept at, completely
avoiding him. The one bright spot? Tomorrow couldn't be much worse.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 6/14/1999 11:56 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

Word of the day? Confusion. All around him, confusion. The marines that were left shouted for help over the roar of laser fire as they fired blasts of their own. Some were using the bodies of their fallen comrades as shields while others hid behind bulkheads or anything else they could find. How something that was going so smoothly turned into a disaster of this magnitude remained a mystery. Matt was surprised
they'd made it this far as easily as they had; they'd managed to board the prison ship, disable its engines, and secure three decks before an assault team finally met up with them. The Kilrathi were never ones to give up easily and they sure as hell were putting up a strong fight now. The receiver in his ear chirped and he heard Sergeant Brightman give the order to fall back. Sweaty palms gripping as best they could the plasma rifle in his hands,
Matt forced himself from the ground and onto his feet. Backwards he crept, laying down the firing pattern taught to him during training. Someone was behind him; a quick look told him it was Private Kravitz who was loading another power cell into his own weapon. The enemy was advancing and Matt hastened his backward journey as his rifle jerked with each round expelled.
Seconds later he was down, not from a wound but from tripping over an obstacle. Rolling to his left and into a cubbyhole created earlier from their explosive charges as they'd penetrated this deck, he spared a precious moment to see what had sent him sprawling. It was Kravitz; he'd taken two, maybe three rounds to the stomach and a few more to his left leg, it was too dark and too hazy to see exactly how many separate wounds the man had. The
only problem? Kravitz was still alive.
The receiver chirped again; Corporal Atkinson this time ordering the retreat to whomever was left. Her voice meant Brightman was dead too, along with the others. Rounds streaked past him and into the durasteel blast door blocking further travel down the corridor. From the sound of it, the door was probably less than four feet away, leaving him with two options. He could move forward and into the enemy's hands, or he could climb down a deck
through the tube they'd used to crawl up to this one. Simple enough, but he wasn't about to leave Kravitz, not while the marine still breathed.
The wounded marine was dazed, he'd be no help in his own rescue effort. Snaking along the floor on his belly, Matt prayed the gunfire stayed as high as it was, high enough to hit a standing person about chest level. With all the smoke still around from their earlier use of the charges, maybe he'd not be noticed so low. Suddenly, his view was blocked and he heard a clang as something knocked into him and the floor at about the same time. He
heard the rushing of air from lungs and a grunt as a hand grabbed the back of his collar and yanked him back into the cubbyhole.
"Colonel, dammit! We've got to get outta here! Move!"
The hand that held him belonged to a marine from Olton's unit, Private Pamela "Skeet" Dennett, someone he wasn't all that familiar with. He felt himself being pulled as she descended through the tube; she was surprisingly strong and it took two attempts to wrench free of her grasp.
He heard her curse and clamber back up through the hole. Multiple epithets were hurled at him and then many more at the general world as she realized why he'd pulled away.
Having resumed his belly-crawl, Matt yelled, "He's still alive, help me!"
The reply he got wasn't what he expected from a marine, especially from a marine from a unit as tight as Olton's were.
"Leave him! We have to get ourselves out! He's as good as dead, Colonel. Let's go!"
He didn't listen, he had a hand on Kravitz and was dragging him to safety. The receiver was silent now, which probably meant the entire complement of both squads save himself, Kravitz, and Dennett were captured or dead.
"Come on kid," he urged a very dazed Kravitz, "help me out here, we're almost there."
He wished Dennett would shoot at the enemy or help him pull Kravitz along or do anything but retreat down the tube and back to the transports like she was doing. Kravitz wasn't a light man to begin with and the pounds of gear he wore didn't make Matt's job any easier. He managed to turn the marine and dragged him by the arms closer to the tube. A few feet and they'd be home free. The gunfire had ceased and Matt could hear the clanking of
boots on the deck as whoever had been shooting at them now ran toward the blast door.
A cackle in his ear as the receiver keyed in, Matt thought he heard Kravitz, voice weak, tell him to go, to leave him be. At the same moment, he heard three loud cracks and felt an electrical jolt as precisely that many rounds impacted the marine. Whoever had ambushed them must have seen the movement. Letting go of Kravitz, Matt had exactly one half-second to disappear. Half second, three feet, no chance. Two more loud cracks, identical to
the ones he'd been hearing for the past half-hour, the same ones he'd heard seconds ago before Kravitz went limp, echoed through the corridor. Before the world went completely black and silent, he had time to wonder just why all this had to happen to him.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 7/2/1999 10:21 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


Kevin Olton was beyond angry. His men had held out for nearly forty minutes but absolutely botched the mission. Special Ops marines playing the part of the Kilrathi had, on the other hand, done their jobs perfectly. They'd not only halted his assault, but they'd captured or killed twenty-four of what was supposed to be Confed's top-notch marines.
"Well people. Anyone mind explaining to me just what in the hell that was? You're all dead, every last one of you, except her!"
Olton stabbed an accusing finger at Private Dennett who was wavering between trying to look invisible and defending her actions. "She was the only one of you jarheads to make it out alive and she left two men to die in order to do it."
If Olton approved of her actions, he wasn't making it obvious.
"But you know what? It didn't help her because you," that finger now turned its wrath on the transport pilot, Senior Spacehand Wieland, "undocked too damn early and got shot outta space before she reached the ship."
"You and you," Olton now pointed to Private Churchland and Corporal Goebel, "you both blew your assignments. There's no excuse for that!"
The fact they'd both been "killed" by the electric stunguns less than thirty seconds after combat ensued hadn't helped them get their jobs done.
"And you," Olton now turned to face the man he'd taken orders from in what seemed a previous life, "do you enjoy screwing everything up? Since you seem to be either hard of hearing or senile, Colonel, I'll repeat the standing orders for you. Get the job done. Your little attempt to save Kravitz's life was admirable, but stupid. It cost you his life, which was forfeit anyhow, but you got killed in the process!"
If he expected Matt to cringe or make excuses, he was disappointed. Pausing to take a breath, Olton's head swiveled as he addressed everyone, "You marines are better than this. I refuse to believe you're this incompetent or negligent. Whether there's all of you, ten of you, or one of you, you're not to deviate from your orders until the mission is complete. If that means leaving someone behind to die, then so be it. If they're near dead,
they're no good to the mission and neither are you if you get killed or delayed in trying to save them. Because none of you seems to know that yet, we get to do it all over again."
Kevin's voice somehow drowned out the collective groan that rose up from each member of his crew. "You've got twenty minutes to review what went wrong last time and fix the problems. You get it wrong this time and we do it again. We do it until you get it right, understand? Hop to it, people."
Twenty-one minutes later, they boarded the Kilrathi prison ship. Twenty-nine minutes after that, they engaged the enemy in combat. Another hour and they were all dead again, but they'd managed to breach another deck before it happened. All in all, it promised to be one long day.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 7/2/1999 10:23 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

He was a civilian again. Or maybe, he was just a civilian. Perhaps he'd always been this way; he couldn't seem to remember any other lifestyle. Whatever he should have been, he was presently a passenger onboard the CCSF Venture, a vessel dedicated to ferrying thousands of people at a time on pleasure cruises through various planetary systems. Planet to planet the ship traveled and those on board could disembark
to see the sights if they so wished or could spend their entire vacation (that was the word for it, vacation. He was on vacation. From what, he didn't know.) within the confines of the ship. There was plenty to do either way: sightseeing, gambling, sleeping, eating, going to see the extravagant shows put on by hired entertainers, the list seemed infinite. One could actually relax while traveling on a ship like this.
That's what he was doing, relaxing. Everyone around him was dressed to the nines; men wore dark suits or tuxedos and women walked by clad in cocktail dresses varying from floor length to shorter than modesty called for. Him? He was dressed in all black. He felt strange, like he should be dressed differently, in a uniform of some sort. But he wasn't, and he tried to dismiss the feeling. His shoes were not shiny like so many others but
reflected the light from above just the same. His long black coat lay unbuttoned as he sat, his right leg crossed over his left, ankle resting on his knee. Each button on his shirt was shut tightly, even the one that enclosed the round collar around his neck. His drink rested on the table in front of him as he glanced about the small lounge. The lighting soft, but not overtly romantic, provided a comfortable atmosphere, the kind that caused one
to think perhaps a little too much...to dwell on life's decisions, those gone wrong as well as those looming ahead.
In front of him a waitress delivered two glass cups of what looked like coffee to an elderly couple. Clinking them together in what he guessed must be a toast, both sipped before resuming their conversation. The faint smell of cigarette smoke reached his nostrils as a man sitting two tables behind flicked ashes into the small tray provided for him. Apparently the "No Smoking in this Section" placard didn't sit on the man's table. Shifting in
his chair, his left hand ran over the smooth marble topped table next to him on which sat the lamp providing the ambience for his group of chairs and couch designed more for a group of people than a single man. Smiling faintly, he watched the middle-aged pianist's fingers fly across the keys as the sounds of classical jazz music filled the lounge. Working away at the Peleusian instrument (believed by many to be the most finely produced implement in
the entire Confederation's music industry) the pianist's music matched the atmosphere surrounding him. Comforting yet thought provoking, it was a perfect addition to the scene.
Leaning forward to take hold of his glass, he noticed a flash of light reflected from it. Turning around in his chair, he followed the line of people to its end where a photographer snapped pictures of those entering the lounge. Couples, families, friends, each were captured in their finest dress and told they could find and purchase their photos later, once they were developed and displayed on another deck. Such photographs were a way to
freeze a moment, to bring back memories of times well spent, times worth remembering. Perhaps he too would get his picture taken, if only for posterity. Right now, though, he just wanted to sit and watch as he had been doing.
His thoughts drifted and twisted, mixing together like waves on the ocean. The future remained a mystery to him; he wished he could predict it or see into it but that was impossible. Perhaps the ability to do so would be more a curse than a blessing, leaving him no mystery, nothing to look forward to because he'd already know everything. The past, though there were things to regret and things to smile about, remained the past. The events
stored there were unchangeable and inflexible. Permanent. The present was a mix of each, confusing yet somehow exhilarating. A powerful thing, the present. He didn't fully appreciate that yet. He lived in a constant state of transition; the present was the link between what was to come and what had been. An exciting but terrifying state of existence. He wondered the same thing millions had wondered across infinite planets and billions of
years: had he made the right decisions in his life, up to this point? What would things be like if he'd done something, even one seemingly small and insignificant thing, differently? Even as he wondered he knew he'd never know. That was the funny thing about life, you only got one shot at it. Had to make it count the first time through. He didn't know whether that knowledge should make him smile or cry.
His eyes turned from the room and focused on the view provided to him by the window. The infinite vastness of space greeted him. Nobody walked the deck, leaving him an unobstructed view of, well, everything. Peaceful it seemed, organized in its chaotic way; stars and novas and nebulae and countless other wonders of space were visible separately and collectively. Though always different, space seemed to remain the same. Like time, it was
permanent but ever changing; that seemed to be the running theme of the night. One of them, anyway. Swallowing the last remnants of his drink, the contents colder than at first because of the melting ice, he noted the lounge was beginning to empty as people moved on to do other things. Soon, his shoes were sliding across the soft carpet as he made his way to his cabin. Perhaps he'd sit up and take in the view from his stateroom; maybe he'd watch
something on the vidscreen. He might sleep or look up information on the planetary tour he was taking tomorrow; he didn't know much about the Locanda system or its planets and it might be nice to get some background before he visited there. He might do any number of things; the future was a mystery that would remain unsolved until it became the past. But whatever he did, while it lasted, made for a wonderful dream.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 7/2/1999 10:25 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo



Training was over; they'd simply run out of time. That's what the brass was telling them anyway. Secretive as ever, they seemed to be running on one tight schedule which meant everyone else was, too. The TCS Jerdon, a light corvette used mainly for fast insertions into Kilrathi occupied territory, would serve as the home for Olton's marines and support crews for the next few hours. The Pak Ma'hran system was
their goal; far from the safety of Confed-controlled Vega Sector, the system was only a few jumps from Kilrah itself. If they were intercepted or caught that far inside Kilrathi space, there would be no rescue operation. There would be no military record kept of their mission or their goals. They were totally on their own once the Jerdon dropped them at Alcor. From there, they had a few choices concerning which route to take into Pak Ma'hran,
none of which was safe. Olton was concerned, and rightly so, that their journey through Kilrathi territory was too risky. There was only one way in and out of Pak Ma'hran and that was through K'hrissak, a densely patrolled sector that had been the staging point for more than one Kilrathi strike fleet. One mistake and Kilrathi patrols would find them in no time. Everything would have to go perfectly and so far, they'd been anything but. Only
twice during training had they accomplished every mission goal, and one of those times it was more by luck then intent.
Most of the marines had stowed their gear and the transport pilots were making sure the modified Drayman transports were flight-ready. Enhanced engines and added weaponry meant the marines had more speed and protection than normal but still no chance against a Kilrathi fighter squadron or corvette. Their added presence on the flight deck meant things were getting crowded; light corvettes were small by nature and their fighter complement was
usually nonexistent. Special Ops corvettes, though, had been specially designed and held eight active fighters with two more stored for backup. The pilots on the Jerdon, however, were luckier than most and were outfitted with Confed's newest and still experimental light fighter, the X-P-64 Ferret. Boasting a 470kps capable engine (with another engine in the works that would increase the speed to 500kps), the fighter's shield strength was double
that of the Hornet light fighters Matt was used to flying. With more powerful weaponry (two Mass Driver cannons instead of lasers) and better armor and speed than the aging Hornets, the Ferrets looked to be the new standard in light fighters. It could easily outclass the Kilrathi equivalent and probably hold its own against the enemy's medium-class fighters. The only drawback of the design was a lack of hardpoints on the hull. No missiles meant
that pilots were forced to rely on guns only and most assuredly would have to make their kills quickly or face the missiles Kilrathi pilots would be launching during dogfights. Despite the weakness, Matt wanted to get his hands on one of those ships. He'd been tempted to speak with the pilots in order to see what they thought of them; it had been a long long time since he'd talked shop with anyone. But there'd been no time and he was more worried
about staying alive on the ground than joyriding through space.
Once their transports were free of the Jerdon, they'd be told specific details about their mission. He hoped he'd then know why Confed. wanted him along so badly, why his presence seemed so vital to the completion of the mission. He regretted having never gotten a chance to talk to Mikey after their brief meeting in his home months before. He'd forgiven his friend for tricking him but he didn't know if Mikey knew it. Maybe they could talk if
he...no, when he got back. He couldn't afford to think negatively about this mission even though there wasn't much to be positive about. Morale wasn't low, but it wasn't high either. Those marines not expecting to get killed still seemed to doubt their ability to accomplish their goals, goals that hadn't yet been revealed. Botched training missions were only a part of it, simply not knowing why they were going to Pak Ma'hran (at least they'd been
told that much) or what they were expected to do there made them uneasy. Knowledge was sometimes a soldier's best friend and knowledge was something kept from everyone but Kevin and possibly Deanna, neither of whom were dropping any sort of clues. But whether they were performing a rescue, a capture, or an assassination onboard whatever ship they were looking for, everyone knew they'd all best be on their toes or there was a good chance none of
them would be coming back.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 7/7/1999 6:04 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

During training, they'd practiced boarding prison ships, transports, various capital ships, and assaulting planetary bases. Now, they were finding out why. Their mission was twofold; their primary goal was rescuing two persons from a Kilrathi prison transport that was leaving Pak Ma'hran for a slave planet in the T'ql'H'hass system. They were to intercept the ship in Pak Ma'hran and rescue the prisoners. That was
the easy part. Confed. Intel had also learned the prison vessel was part of a larger Kilrathi convoy, a convoy that held a prototype Kilrathi capship. Sources led Confed. officials to believe the new ship held a new breed of jump drive, one that would eliminate the dangers involved in a double-jump. Most of the marines didn't understand the significance of such technology so Matt explained.
Since the invention of the original jump drive by Dr. Shari Akwende, galactic space travel became much easier than in the past. Distances between far away sectors could be covered in insignificant amounts of time allowing for faster and easier expansion for those races holding the technology. Concentrated antigraviton particles were the means through which ships passed through "jump points," usually one sector at a time. Jump engines took time
to power up and initialize, sometimes too long in a situation where immediate escape was necessary. In these sorts of emergencies, captains of jump-capable vessels sometimes attempted a double jump: crossing through two jump points in a single try. More often than not, such attempts resulted in the loss of their ship whether through destruction or simply winding up in an unexplored far-gone region of space.
Jumping was usually handled by computers; once navigators entered coordinates the computer would plot a safe course through a given jump point. The same occurred during a double jump but became the first of a two step process. As soon as the ship completed the first jump, it immediately jumped again with only a split second for the computer to calculate the course to its final destination. Kilrathi and Confederation scientists both agreed that
double jumping ships never really left jumpspace while making the attempt but jumped within a jump, allowing them to travel anywhere and bypass the sector to sector jump points. However, only a fraction of a degree spelled the difference between a safe journey and a ship winding up in the middle of a star or asteroid field. The lack of time allotted to computers for the multiple complex complications needed to plot a safe course made the
double-jump an extremely risky effort. However, if the Kilrathi had found a way around the problem, they could jump into Confed. controlled space from anywhere in their own territory. Needless to say, this sort of thing worried Confederation leaders. The marines' other mission, therefore, was to board and capture or destroy this vessel. Olton would be allowed to decide which option to exercise once they were prepared to make their assault.
Now they understood why the second transport was along. There would be no time to make two separate boarding operations, they'd have to board both ships at once, meaning the support they were all used to was now cut in half. Olton's team was designated to board the prototype; Deanna's squad would take the prison ship and then join Olton once their targets were secure. Her team would move to the other transport once they were inside Pak
Ma'hran. Until then, they'd all remain where they were.
It was a group of very unhappy marines that jumped out of Alcor on the first leg of their journey. They were all silent, mulling over the details they'd just learned. The only movement came once they'd left Confed. territory, when Kevin Olton pulled his former commander aside and proceeded to have a talk.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 7/8/1999 8:12 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

The creaking and rattling of the hull was a bit too loud for Matt's comfort as the transport jumped from Alcor. Following Kevin into the forward compartment which would later be used for final briefing sessions with Sergeants Brightman and Caldwell, Matt made a not so valiant effort to stifle a yawn…it had been a long time since he'd slept with any comfort or regularity. There was little room to sit so both men
stood, Matt leaning against the doorframe and Kevin pacing back and forth in front of him.
"All right Colo…"
That was as far as Kevin got before Matt interrupted.
"Kevin, what the hell's the matter with you?"
Olton stopped pacing and turned to face Matt with something more than unkindness registering in his eyes.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about whatever this anger is you seem to have for me. It's been fairly obvious from the get-go that you didn't want me along on this little trip and neither you nor anyone else has yet told me why it's so damn important I be here."
Matt folded both arms over his chest, gesturing with his hands.
"You and me…we were family. We are family. What's got you so pissed off at me that you won't even acknowledge that?"
Only silence (and the occasional clunk as the marines in the next room moved from their seats) filled the room for a time before Kevin's thoughts turned to speech.
"For a long time after you got hurt, I wondered what the hell had happened. None of us believed what they were saying, none of us could. Matt Simon a traitor? It was ludicrous. Then the Othello got wasted, Hamblin died along with the rest and Michelle got shot up so bad she's still in the infirmary more often than not. They transferred us to planetary defense duties around Earth and transferred most everyone out soon after."
Kevin's tone, which seemed nearly civil, turned dark and brooding once more.
"And you. Then we find out you're alive on some planet. And you never tried to contact us. Never tried to clear your own damn name, I thought you'd at least try and do that. For years we listened to you go on and on about teamwork, about all of us being a family. Some family, you hung us out to dry. I understand you weren't exactly able to waltz into Confed. territory and say hi, but your being alive and silent to us was worse than you
being dead. You did betray us, and I'm not forgiving you for that."
Matt was at a loss for words; the expression on his face told Kevin that much and he gave Matt no chance to recover.
"These marines, they don't like you simply because you're not one of them. Your willingness to stay behind and rescue Kravitz made them respect you, though. Personally, I was surprised you stayed behind with him. I figured you'd become real good at walking away and disappearing. But I warn you, don't do it again. Like I said, we're here to do a job, and the wounded and dying aren't going to help us much. I want all my men out in one piece,
but I'll leave them behind and they know it. I expect you to do the same. Watch yourself, Colonel. I'll have no qualms leaving you behind, too."
Kevin went on, leaving Matt no room to interject.
"You wanted to know why you're here? Get ready. We brought along two transports for another reason than splitting us into two groups. Remember those new fighters you saw on the Jerdon? Their small size means easy storage, and there's two of 'em sitting inside. There's no way these two Draymans are getting into boarding distance without encountering a Kilrathi fighter escort or flak from whatever's guarding that new ship of theirs.
The brass wanted a pilot. They wanted you."
"Me?" Matt had found his voice again. "Come on Kevin, they coulda picked anyone for this. No way they had you tracking me from sector to sector just for this."
"Guess again, Colonel. That's exactly what they did. Guess you're just lucky like that. Now, once we're near the convoy, Deanna's squad will move to the other transport after you and your wingman launch the Ferrets. You'll bring us in, get rid of the escort fighters, and try to knock down the turrets that'll be popping flak off at us. Once both transports are boarded, you'll dock with the prison ship and join your team. Finish your mission,
and you come join us on the prototype. Confed. thinks it's at least as large as a cruiser, so there may be a flight deck for you to set down on. If not, just dock next to the Draymans."
"You said two fighters. Who's my wingman?" Matt thought better of pointing out he'd never logged a minute inside these new fighters, much less knew how they handled or what quirks they had.
"You'll meet him on the other 'sport. In the meantime, I suggest you familiarize yourself with the Ferret."
Kevin tossed him a datapad that Matt took back with him into the compartment where the marines sat (and now where some were sleeping). He'd meant what he said, he really did feel as if his friend had betrayed him. Despite that, he still felt badly that he couldn't really reveal why Matt was along. It didn't really matter at this juncture anyhow. He'd find out soon enough.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 7/12/1999 1:52 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

Matt's smile was genuine, warm, and quite large when he met up with his wingman.
"Major Michael W. Tarkington at your service, sir," his longtime friend proclaimed with a grin and salute.
"Mikey! What're you doing here?"
"Well, despite the fact Confed. brass doesn't love me, they figured you might need someone to watch your back. Someone you could trust. They picked me. Now look, I know I shoulda told you what the deal was when you showed up on my doorstep but nobody wanted to risk you runni…"
"Don't worry about it, Mikey. It's understandable; I wouldn't have expected less."
The two men were still grinning.
"All right then. Here, Let me introduce you to the pretty little things we're gonna be flying."
For the next two hours, Mikey and Matt made sure the ships were space-worthy and ran over new systems that Matt wasn't familiar with. He wished there was time for a simulator flight but there wasn't. His first ride inside a Ferret would be where it counted. A small part of him was even looking forward to it.

------------------------

Captain Laura Peel, deep in the heart of Kilrathi territory, Pak Ma'hran to be exact, felt that for once things were going her way. Commanding the Crossroads, a merchant vessel used to support the Mandarin movement, she'd been in her share of danger. Militia patrols, Confederation scans, pirate attacks, she'd guided her ship and her crew and her shipments out of harm's way every time. Still, she was glad to be departing this system.
The Kilrathi made her nervous. She didn't fully trust them but her love for the Confederation was far less than for the cats and she, like her cohorts, had thrown their lot in with the Empire of Kilrah. She could only hope they won the war; if Confed. ever got hold of her, she could look forward to little else but an execution. This far inside Kilrathi space, she didn't have to worry about the Confederation. But she did have to worry about the
turrets bristling on that new experimental capship of theirs. The Kilrathi were known to "accidentally" shoot down Mandarin ships just to remind movement leaders who was in charge. She had no way of knowing they were inoperative.
Setting a course for the jump point to K'hrissak, Captain Peel felt a great deal more relaxed. She left behind one prison vessel, the prototype, one light corvette and a Ralari class destroyer escort. She'd also gotten that damn shipment out of her cargo hold. Whatever this new drive of theirs was, it was quite volatile. They'd kept it inside a stasis field but it had failed twice and she'd had to cut her engines and stop before
anything knocked the drive over and detonated whatever particles were inside. She could do without that kind of stress. But with that behind her and the worry now in the hands of Kilrathi and captured Confederation scientists taken from a successful raid on the McAuliffe research station, she could relax and get back to running safe contraband, like guns and biological weapons.
Seconds away from stepping off the bridge and into her personal quarters, her communications and tactical officers signaled for her attention at the same time. The Ralari had changed course and was now in pursuit of the Crossroads. Its captain had hailed them, claiming he was under orders to escort them to the jump-point. The rest of the convoy would catch up to the destroyer in two hours, after the experimental jump drive had
been installed.
Peel told her communications officer to respond and acknowledge. Then she ordered all turrets at the ready just in case the Kilrathi were going to try something. Things had just returned to worse from bad. Maybe they'd would improve once she was back in the Gemini sector; out here in Kilrathi space, even for Kilrathi allies, life was anything but simple.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 8/27/1999 1:35 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

So he really wasn't losing his mind. Ok, so maybe agreeing to this mission qualified him for a spot in the funny farm, but at least his memory wasn't shot to hell. He could have sworn that the Ferret was already a mainline ship in the Space Force and couldn't understand the experimental designation on these until Mikey pointed out the odd-looking components within.
Six months before, Confed. had raided a Kilrathi shipyard, capturing and destroying mainly fighters along with one or two corvettes. R&D, realizing that the Kilrathi had the edge in some areas over their Confederation counterparts, had adapted and merged the two technologies. These Ferrets were the result; sporting a new power plant as well as targeting software written with translated Kilrathi code, the ships had been ferried to Special Ops.
for combat testing. As a result, Mikey and Matt were reaping the benefits of that assignment.

"So the cat scientists got an edge on our boys in some things after all, hm? Bet the brass loved to find that out."
Matt's gloved hand nudged the throttle forward just slightly, increasing his velocity from 100 to 110kps. Though a low jump in speed, the results were immediate and he pulled further past Mikey in the echelon formation.
"Yeah, well…so long as it all works, I don't care where it comes from. Last thing we need is any of it to fail now."
Only needing his eyes, and not his instruments, to realize Matt was pulling away from him, Mikey reached up and tapped his cockpit glass, pointing a finger at his friend who sat in his own vessel not fifty meters away.
"Where do ya think you're goin'?"
Grinning under his helmet, Matt spoke, pulling the throttle back to his original speed.
"Just wondering if you'd notice. I see you haven't lost your touch."
"You got that right, buddy boy."
Keying up his Nav-Map, Mikey watched the VDU as it signaled proximity to their Initial Point of attack. From here, they'd go as far as they could without being detected. With luck, they'd reach the convoy before any patrols spotted them. Their computers only guessing where the convoy would be, extrapolating its data from the last known position, they were only slightly better off than searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.
"Matt, I'm reading we're about a hundred-thousand kicks from where this convoy is supposed to be. Computer says we're at the IP, too. About time to go silent, isn't it?"
"Probably. Contact Kev's 'sport, see if he's got any last minute instructions for us. When we find the cats, I'll watch your back. You go get 'em."
"Just like old times, eh Mikey?
"Just like old times."
They were almost right.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 9/4/1999 2:54 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

Among countless planets and countless races, it has many names. The void, the rift, outer space, heaven, hell--whatever it is, no label provides an adequate description. It isn't always beautiful, often the blackness seems to go on forever and ever with no colors, no bright lights, no anything to break the monotony. Sometimes the absence becomes overwhelming. Other times, it fills with splendor; the beauty of
stars, the brilliance of novas and nebulae, or the simple but beautiful dances of twin suns around their planets turn a blank black canvas into a universe of infinite possibilities. But no matter its appearance, space is almost always a tease. In the vast expanses of nothingness, the promise of light, the movement of a comet across the dark sky, or the sight of a star's twinkle always seems just a few more kilometers away. And when space breaks
that promise one too many times, insanity usually follows. With the situation reversed, with planetary systems and galaxies and clouds of red and purple and orange gasses all around like strategically placed plants in a palace garden, tantalizing the eye with splendor and leaving it begging for more--when serenity takes over where insanity might instead reign, that's when space usually kills you. Just as the ancient Greeks wrote of the Siren's
song, space has its own hymn, its own voice, its own lure. Like the jagged rocks jutting from the unnamed island of the Sirens, poised ready to destroy those who dare come near, space too lies in wait to steal life away from those held captive by its very nature. With millennia after millennia of practice, it is an expert at the trade.
Here in Pak Ma'hran, space outdoes itself. Two white dwarf stars, not long ago still worshipped as gods, are now mere trinkets, hardly noticed in the presence of a blue supergiant, their sister, who refuses to give up her newly found domination of the sky. A brilliant swirl of reds and purples make up the Khar Mehr nebula (humans would later call it Haunted Eye not only because of its shape but Kilrathi legends of plague and death said to
stream from its gasses when Sivar's fury arose) which looms not far from a rogue asteroid belt created from the disintegration of a moon long ago. Promising refuge for wanderers are three planets, each at the mercy of volcanic activity as they have been for three thousand years. Empty promises they make, for each is as lifeless as the other two, but promises nonetheless. The sight of an effulgent quasar, once believed to house the four goddesses
of fertility by a race long since extinct, gives way to a breathtaking view of another galaxy whose spiraling arm dangles so close to our own that one might reach out and catch it if only his arm was long enough. A moon, dark and lifeless, brethren to the thousand pieces forever mangled into the asteroid formation, slips silently across the sky. Unhindered by the gravitational pull of the planet it used to call home, it slowly travels to its death,
not to be made final for another million years when a freak transpiration of physical laws will send it crashing down into a planet just beginning to bear life, quashing in an instant the existence of a species fate and destiny decided would never evolve.
Today is a special day for Pak Ma'hran, a day unlike any other in its history. A day when the illustrious and immense are forever changed by the insignificant and infinitesimal. Today, Pak Ma'hran becomes graced with more beauty and splendor than ever intended. The dazzling blues and whites given off by electrical discharges illuminate the blackness for an instant and disappear just as quickly. Orange, red, and yellow hues driven forth by
flame, each its own separate holocaust, scatter randomly throughout the dark. If applied to a child's game of connect-the-dots, the only pattern built would be one of destruction intermixed with a spark of magnificence only found when flesh and metal and atomic particles fuse together before blowing out in a final splendid fireball marking the end of one journey and the beginning of another. The display brief, Serenity returns to reclaim her
dominance over the sector without realizing she now plays the role as puppet under her new master, Chaos. For soon after her return, a bright light, more intense than anyone imagines, blankets the whole. The whiteness is pure, perhaps holy to some, magnificent in sight and horrendous in consequence. Total and unbroken, it leaves no nebula, no bloated or shrunken star, no galactic arm unobscured for a time that passes for a millisecond, a century,
and forever all at once. From this moment forward, nothing is ever the same. And in this moment, as throughout time, beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 5/19/1998 1:04 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


Staff Sergeant Hamblin was not a happy man. These fighters should have been ready to go twenty minutes ago and yet they still sat here, unmoving. The sturdy but malleable metallic wires had been removed from them all and they had passed their preflight prep check, but for reasons he couldn't fathom, they had yet to be removed to the launch bays. He and his crew had been down here working ever since arriving on this God-forsaken station. He hated space stations. Big, bulky, easy targets were how he saw them, and how he figured the enemy probably saw them too. But station or no, he wasn't about to miss out on the chance to come to this tournament and see if he couldn't wrangle some tricks of the trade from some other crew chiefs while guiding his own crew to victory. Spitting a few shells into the container strapped to his waist, Hamblin looked around. Where were those dammed haulers? Muttering, he popped a few more seeds into his mouth. The briefing for the pilots had begun almost half an hour ago and would probably be done fairly soon. Some of the fighters had already been cleared out of the hangar, but his group and those of a few other squads. still remained and this annoyed him to no end. His piercing wide-set eyes watched the mouth of the bay like a hawk tracking its prey and when the big vehicles finally appeared three minutes later, Hamblin had a few choice words to say to the crews manning them. He actually heard them before he saw them, the deep throaty rumble of their low gear high torque engines thrumming throughout the hangar bay. Slow but powerful, these were the tools that guided ships from hangar bay to launch bay and from landing bay back to hangar bay on carriers and space stations alike. These were painted a deep green with the station's logo embossed upon the right front fender panel and Hamblin snorted when he saw them. These were the new models, the HT-98 series that carried more powerful drives and maintained a faster rate of speed than the outdated HT-70's the crews on the Othello had been stuck with for too long now. Threemen, usually Spacehands of one sort or the other were assigned to each, one to drive and the other two to establish and maintain the link with whatever load they were to carry. Hamblin remembered the duty; it wasn't the most exciting thing in the world, that much he knew. But he'd be dammed if the apathy of these station crews were going to negatively affect the members of his squadron in any way, shape, or form. Personally supervising the linkups between the fighters and their transports, Hamblin made sure there were no more unnecessary delays. Though he'd never have the thrill of piloting one of the ships himself, he was certain the adrenaline rush he felt each time one of his birds launched was the same as the pilot inside experienced. He was confident in his crew and had faith in the men and women that flew what he worked so hard to take care of. They'd come here to win, they'd come here to place their names alongside the best in the business, and they'd come here to do it in style. Marching alongside one of the loud behemoths, Hamblin resisted the temptation to empty out the seed shells in his mouth onto the floor of the station and spit them all into the container on his belt. He figured he'd better be nice to this place; after all, he and the rest of the squadron were about to become real big names around here.

[DoF Archive]

Date: 5/22/1998 7:15 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

The preflight briefing had concluded ten minutes ago and all competing pilots were preparing to suit up and take their first hop of the Tournament. Under the direction of Colonel Kingman and Major Lhamo, the briefing had gone quickly and smoothly and everyone was certain of just what this first taste of competition would entail. Contrary to expectation, this hop would not be a simple `fly in formation' skirt around the station. Apparently, those types of missions were reserved for the following day. This Tournament was going to open with more of a flourish as each squadron was assigned a particular "dummy" ship toattack and another to defend. With the onrush of Drayman transports that bombarded the station with men and equipment earlier in the day, Kingman decided to hold a portion of them at the station to use in this exercise. Though this and most of the missions were capable of being flown in simulators, Kingman wanted the pilots in real ships defending and attacking real targets, at least for the moment. Live weaponry was of course prohibited and onboard computers would judge if the weapons, were they real, hit or missed their targets. The area around Morgabi Station had been split into four quadrants and each squadron asssigned one of those four. The rationale for this, Kingman explained, was to lower the risk of inflight collisions and to make it easier to keep track of squadrons and individual pilots. The Drayman ‘sports were already resting comfortably at their appointed stations surrounding Morgabi, awaiting their fighter escorts when the briefing began. Once all pilots reported to their stations, Kingman would send the signal and the Gunnery, Combat, and Munitions Tournament of 2654 would be underway. Kingman had already explained the rating system that the tournament was judged under and for this mission, each squadron would be alotted a certain number of points depending on weapons accuracy, successful defense of assigned target, successful attack of assigned target, and survival rate. As always, competition for GCMT Pilot of the Year began as soon as the go signal was given, and the better the individual performed in each mission, the greater their chances of receiving the honor. Now, everyone was suiting up and preparing for flight and each locker room filled with loud voices overflowing in excitement and nervousness. Stationwide, the chronometer read2054; time to get this show on the road.

[DoF Archive]

Date: 5/23/1998 5:14 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


Captain Michael "Torrent" Tarkington was a veteran of war in every sense of the term. Fifteen years ago he had taken part in and survived what later became known as the McAuliffe Ambush. That operation, though successful, still remained one of the most bloody and costly battles of the war for both Terran and Kilrathi. Although only a rookie Second Lieutenant at the time, Mikey's performance in the attack astounded his superiors astwelve enemy fighters and a destroyer fell to his guns before he was forced to eject. Though he received the Silver Star for his accomplishments, the battle left the then twenty-two year old man forever changed. Before that day, Mikey looked forward to the fight; after, all he could think about was how many more would die before the ship's chronometer reset for a new day. He became bitter, and though he performed well in the cockpit, Mikey'ssuperiors felt his attitude outside of it less than exemplary. Refusing to give him his own command or even promote him beyond the rank of Captain, they hoped he would change his ways. But the man he was had been created on the thirty-third day of the year 2639, and that could never change. Mikey had every right to resent his new squadron leader, one green as they come Captain Matthew Algiers Simon, when he took over Armstrong's position. As second in command, the spot was rightfully his, but Confed. had placed a man with no command experience in charge instead. But it was hard not to like the guy and it wasn't as if he tried to come off like he knew it all. Simon may have been green, but he had what it took to lead a group ofpeople and he wasn't afraid to ask for help when he needed it. And as such, he often looked to Mikey for advice and assistance. Now, all these months later, he had elevated his team to a level that allowed them to compete with Confed's finest. Not bad for a first command, Tarkington mused. Now they were all here in this locker room, suiting up and preparing for the first mission of the GCMT. Standing next to his assigned locker, he put his foot up on the bench, bending over to tie the laces of his flight boot. As he rose, his light hazel eyes skirted over those surrounding him; Michelle, Thalia, Matt, Kevin and the rest dressed exactly as he was, probably feeling much like he was. Except Matt...the news of the literalobliteration of his former squadron and friends just hours old, hung fresh in all their minds. Like everyone else, Mikey worried about his friend, not only about his mental well being but his ability to face the task at hand. None of them would ever admit their doubt but they all shared in it and none of them wanted to add to the pain their friend, their leader must be feeling. Mikey was older, more experienced, and when push came to shoveprobably better fit to command, especially considering the circumstances. They all knew it. Softly clearing his throat, the thirty-seven year old Captain stood the tallest five-foot-eight he could muster and stepped towards his commander. He felt everyone's eyes upon him, felt their thoughts, knew the question that rose to the forefront of their minds. Would he really challenge Matt's fitness to command, here, now? Sensing the approach of his right hand man, Captain Simon glanced up and tightened the last buckle on his flightsuit. His eyes, filled with haunted innocence, widened ever so slightly and his lips parted but closed before any sound escaped, waiting for Mikey to say what he had come to say. Tarkington could feel the silence, the sound of his own heart a thunderous roar he was sure could be heard stationwide. Swallowing hard, Tarkington forced his eyes to meet those of his young friend. Friendship, family, trust, faith, all of it hung between the two men in abalance so delicate that one motion, one word could tilt it irreversibly. An eternity of infinite slowness lasting two seconds passed before Mikey finally said what he walked over to say. Raising his hand and holding it before him, four words passed through his lips and resounded throughout the entire room, "Let's do this thing." Quirking a small smile, Matt Simon grasped the hand before him and shook it. The slight nod of his head spoke for him and as he let go of Mikey's hand, he turned to look at the rest of the group. Oddly enough, to him, they all appeared relieved at something; what that something was, he couldn't say. The smile still present on his face, Matt waved his arm and motioned towards the door. "Let's move people," he said, "let's get itdone."