The door to the darkened briefing room slid open with a soft hiss, allowing a solitary, silent figure to enter. One hand reached out to switch on the lights and the flourescents mounted within the ceiling flickered to life. The room was completely vacant, not surprisingly, and all the chairs sat in their nice, orderly rows, awaiting the next time when one or both of the platoons would crowd in to receive their orders.
Bradley strode forward, the door shutting behind him with a second hiss, his steps crisp and steady, if a little heavy-footed. In his left hand he carried a clipboard tucked up between his arm and his hip, but that remained there only until he'd arrived at the wall to the left of the entrance. Lifting the clipboard and releasing the papers thereon from its grasp, he set them down on the nearest chair before fishing out a handful of small, but strong magnets he'd taken from the storeroom. One by one he placed the sheets of paper on the steel alloy wall, held in place with two magnets each, top and bottom, and aligned very neatly in a row.
On each sheet was a highly detailed sketch, each an image of one of the fallen from Cygnis Minor. Most were headshots, taken from JT's own memory of them, mental snapshots from the mission. PFC Stafford, sitting calmly in the APC on the trip down to the planet, simply waiting for the ride to end. PFC England, looking through the scope of his sniper rifle as they dispersed onto the planet's harsh surface. The nervous smile of Bert Willums, the civilian analyst, as he desperately tried to put up a brave front while speaking to the Marines. Next was Private Stokes, a face which showed the pain of his injuries but the determination to carry on with the mission. Last came Private Crawford, the only of the five shown from the waist up, her smartgun held in firing position as she screamed out her fury in the first firefight with the walking dead.
Stepping back from the miniature gallery, JT let his gaze wander over the images one more time, then snapped into a rigid salute in a personal show of respect for the fallen. He held it only for a moment before spinning on his heel in an about face and leaning over to collect the clipboard. Taking it in his right hand this time, he moved back towards the door, pausing only long enough for it to open and to turn out the lights before exiting the room and making his way back to the barracks for some shut-eye. Now he could sleep peacefully, his nightmares already faced.
Bradley strode forward, the door shutting behind him with a second hiss, his steps crisp and steady, if a little heavy-footed. In his left hand he carried a clipboard tucked up between his arm and his hip, but that remained there only until he'd arrived at the wall to the left of the entrance. Lifting the clipboard and releasing the papers thereon from its grasp, he set them down on the nearest chair before fishing out a handful of small, but strong magnets he'd taken from the storeroom. One by one he placed the sheets of paper on the steel alloy wall, held in place with two magnets each, top and bottom, and aligned very neatly in a row.
On each sheet was a highly detailed sketch, each an image of one of the fallen from Cygnis Minor. Most were headshots, taken from JT's own memory of them, mental snapshots from the mission. PFC Stafford, sitting calmly in the APC on the trip down to the planet, simply waiting for the ride to end. PFC England, looking through the scope of his sniper rifle as they dispersed onto the planet's harsh surface. The nervous smile of Bert Willums, the civilian analyst, as he desperately tried to put up a brave front while speaking to the Marines. Next was Private Stokes, a face which showed the pain of his injuries but the determination to carry on with the mission. Last came Private Crawford, the only of the five shown from the waist up, her smartgun held in firing position as she screamed out her fury in the first firefight with the walking dead.
Stepping back from the miniature gallery, JT let his gaze wander over the images one more time, then snapped into a rigid salute in a personal show of respect for the fallen. He held it only for a moment before spinning on his heel in an about face and leaning over to collect the clipboard. Taking it in his right hand this time, he moved back towards the door, pausing only long enough for it to open and to turn out the lights before exiting the room and making his way back to the barracks for some shut-eye. Now he could sleep peacefully, his nightmares already faced.
______________________________
"It may sound absurd, but don't be naive, even heroes have the right to bleed...
I may be disturbed, but won't you concede, even heroes have the right to dream..."
Five for Fighting, Superman
"It may sound absurd, but don't be naive, even heroes have the right to bleed...
I may be disturbed, but won't you concede, even heroes have the right to dream..."
Five for Fighting, Superman
