Well, this is certainly something completely new for me. In more than one way. First it is the fact that it is set in first-person, something which I despise. I embarked upon this for no real reason, other than an experiment, and it sort of evolved into something else. The second is that it is set around a Fighter Squadron.
When I have previously attempted to do something such as this, I have never
got past a few paragraphs, so it is interesting that this has grown into a (Currently) three page piece. Please, do post honest comments, though be a bit kind, seeing as it is my first try
The name, may seem odd. However, I will be going into this at a later date and thus it will make more sense
The first thing one would notice upon entering The Grox and Hide
was the powerful stench of tabac. It was not a pleasant one, but rather a nauseating mixture of piss and blood (Well, that is what I would call it.) that burned nostrils and watered eyes. The second was the silence. Though from the outside there was a general staccato of laughter, cursing and general banter, when the doors flung open, the occupants quieted considerably. The third and final thing was the overpowering aroma of well prepared food mixed with the sweetened alcohol which so many within nursed back.
I stood in the opened doorway for several moments, the ice-cold rain of Jenera tapping monotonously upon the wooden floor beneath me and against my dripping flying jacket. Nearly all of those within were similarly attired. Unbuckled cream, double-breasted jackets were worn loosely upon most of the figures, fitted with gold epaulettes and crimson frogging. This was my Squadron. This was the 1223rd Fighter Squadron; the Red’s as we were known to the footsloggers.
We had only acquired this name recently however. Originally when we had came to Jenera, the colouration of our Thunderbolts had been matte orange. Our odiferous enemies however, the foul Ork, had a nice little saying which we had come across. That was that “Red Un’s Go Faster!”. It had been the suggestion of that bastard Mejik that we changed our schemes to insight fear on the Orks, and hopefully, to prove that they weren’t the bumbling idiots as they truly appeared as.
It had at least one desired effect. Apparently, the sight of fifty or so Thunderbolts (Although in fact, on the actual day, we had only numbered 20. Interesting how the dumb bastards miscounted, no?) dabbed in crimson, scared the living days out of the frakkers. Though it wasn’t exactly that easy. The Orks longed for war, that was the only damned thing they did want, actually. Unlike myself, they were not female loving, greedy pigs. Well, I wasn’t rightfully sure about them being pigs. What they were was warriors. For some reason, this unnerved the Guard.
I certainly couldn’t understand why…
‘Ah! Jamuka! Come’on boy, close the bloody door!’ Came the voice of my Lieutenant, Balthazar Alenderson suddenly. He was sitting in a dingy alcove a few metres away with several others, his mustard-pigmented mustache moist with alcohol.
I abided to him naturally, turning around and squinting as the rain touched my bare face, tapping annoying against my shoulder-strapped beret. Without awaiting for any further order I closed the two halves together, turning the knob as they met and smiling as the locking mechanisms clanked together. I couldn’t help but to admire the gothic inscriptions upon the oaken surface, and only the fact that I needed a good drink stopped me from caressing the surface.
With a snort of narcotic air, I turned and marched briskly towards the bar. Men were slouched lazily against it, surrounded by veils of smoke or simply catching up on their sleep. We Reds didn’t get much of that, after all. I myself had barely slept for three or so hours in the previous night, having spent most of it with a girl wrapped in one arm and a bottle of wine in the other. That wasn’t the bad thing though. The bad thing was the fact I hadn’t the bloody idea who she was…
Upon nearing the bar, I reached into a hip pouch and brought out three dirt-crusted Thrones, flipping them over in my fingers. The Barmaid filtered towards me, her corset and laced dress making her curves prominent and focusing away attention from her petite face. A pity, really. She couldn’t have been older than twenty summers, which was again, a pity. Her father, the rancorous, bear-like fellow who went by the name of Blummer, would never let me back in the bar if I attempted anything with her. Yet she was so alluring..
‘Good evening Jam.’ She smiled as she drew near, already bringing a pristine glass from beneath the bar.
‘Good? Don’t make me laugh, Ana. This bloody world hasn’t hear the meaning of good!’ I added a grin to the end of this, winking at her inappropriately. She blushed and filled the cup and we exchanged currency for alcohol, both of us barely obscuring our caring smiles.
One day, she will be mine…
The conversation ended there. Ana was a fine girl and would one day make a even better wife to some Jeneran lawyer or farmstead. While I did get the odd indecent thought about her, I couldn’t do any such thing. Ana was one of the few I actually cared about in that way and since I had arrived, then but a recruit to war, she had set us up with rooms in a local inn and had brought us fresh Plounderer eggs and Grox meat in the mornings. She was one of the more gentler hearted people I knew, whether male or female, and I couldn’t help but to think that I would ruin that in someway or form.
Here in Rheimes I had managed to grow a reputation in the past few months as a sexual deviant. While I was not an particularly handsome fellow, nor a well built one, I did know how to treat a girl right. At least, that is what the other Reds told me. To me I was the best looking one, with a body which the Gods would cry for. Then again, that was probably my inherited bigheadedness. The old bastard swore that he was the best looking man on Heliosa, and the richest and strongest. In reality, he was a bumbling idiot and nothing more.
I did not bother to say any partings and simply turned away; moving towards the alcove where Alenderson and my wing mates indulged in drink and tabac. Catcalls heralded my arrival and was followed my a sporadic laughter from every one of the seven men, including the intimidating Alenderson. My wet boots slapped against the wood as I continued closer, gripping a chair from a emptied table nearby and dragging it along. It made a God-Emperor horrible screech, the legs contradicting my pull as they attempted to stay in one place.
With a exertion of air from between clenched teeth, I spun it around to face the others and lowered myself into the seat. Alenderson leaned forwards and his pristine teeth clacked together as he grinned manically, his nose twitching above his mustache in an annoying fashion. I never would understand why the old frak kept it. He would complain every now and then of how it would cause him to leave go of his controls in his ‘Bolt to itch his face, and had promised to rid of it on several occasions. I am sure that every time he had said that though, it simply grew more wild.
Perhaps he has fleas? I mused in my head, running it through my thoughts repeatedly.
‘So, Jam..’ He began, still grinning at me. His voice reminded me of crashing glaciers, prominent and frakking scary.
‘What?’ I asked in a almost child-like manner, knowing the Lieutenant was quick to anger but at the same time a father figure to all within the Reds.
‘Oh nothing, it would appear you have been procrastinating however.’ He mumbled, lifting his glass and taking a swig of the alcoholic beverage within.
Not being a well educated fellow, I opened my mouth and simply groaned ‘Ah…’
‘…He means you’re late!’ Interrupted Hans, the sandy haired joker of No.2 Flight. His face would have been considered handsome if it was not for the lack of front teeth and a broken nose, the gift of a particularly nasty Mordian officer who Hans had got into a tussle with.
‘Frak off Hans.’ I replied in a joking manner, taking the first mouthful of cool alcohol. It caused my taste buds to clench and I almost coughed it up before I grew accustom to the bitter taste.
The Flight all chuckled quietly. We argued amongst one another often. Tensions were actually low, but the fact that they were forced to spend nearly the entire 33 hour Jeneran day together, was annoying. I usually wandered off in the nights however, those damned beds in the Guard-standard barracks (We had been moved from the inn several weeks previously due to problems, I knew nothing, of course…) were more uncomfortable than what I imagined sleeping in a Grox pen would be.
‘5th Flight were frakked today.’ Groaned Thos, the logical member of No.2 and the only one with over 30 confirmed kills.
‘Where?’ I asked, my still-recovering form from the previous night causing my reactions to be slightly slower than they should have been.
‘Nilles. Apparently there is some Orkish ace on the prowl. We might actually have something which will give us a fight, children.’ His voice was low and somber, and the twinkle of tears in his eyes were clearly visible. Thos had been close with many of No.5, and so it was acceptable.
‘God-Emperor’s black bollocks..’ I cursed discerningly, taking a moment of silence for the downed Reds. ‘Too the 5th.’ I added in remorse, raising my glass into the air. It clattered violently as the others slammed their own home, mirroring my words. And then, the drinking began.