Post by Crowley on Apr 14, 2008 14:07:10 GMT -5
"Alright, so you want know how ist like?"
In a quiet bar in little moscow in Shangri-La, it's a loud night, with many groups of russian refugees singing folk songs and drinking, eating their zakuskis and staying warm and sheltered from the rainfall outside. Where you are situated you're seated, perhaps with others at a table with five very old looking recoms, looking to be near senior citizenship. All of them drinking vodka and eating their zakuskis from a communal lazy susan at the middle of the table. The woman speaks with her single blue eye with it's red pupil smiles.
"Do you? Odd question simply walk up and ask 'How is being Hunter'?" Her comrades smile and watch. She tilts her head, lopped ears with long white frills make her look something of a very well worn and skinny teddybear.
"Very well, I tell you. I do believe it has been near 40 years since I first become Hunter. And in good time, as opsec now lifted so I can tell story to you!" The others around the table chuckle. She rises up, filling a ring of shotglasses with vodka and speaking "We say toast in English for you tonight comrade!" And she raises her glass, the others following suit, leaving one left for you at the table. Do you raise it?
"For the evening of stories, truth and horribly filthy lies told by Fifth Hunter Squadron!" To which are shouts accompanying with cries of 'Da!' ring around the table. All shots downed, she sits and grabs a small pickle from the lazy susan, plucking it into her mouth.
"Hunter is less combative so much as symbol. Is why Confederates for most part cast us aside. That symbol is fear, comrade. A person will try to place face, 'head' or otherwise human, uh, features on things. Hunter, is none of that. No face, or head, or eyes to be seen. Is an unknown alien looking thing covered in red eyes and no mouth, just gun that flies. Is why refugees call Hunter 'Poschkа Letahea', or 'Flying Gun'. Reason why fly in groups of five is so nothink can hide." She says. One of her comrades, a old and withering looking siberian husky rises, pouring into shotglasses once more and raising his glass, others following suit.
"Mothers and Fathers of Flying Guns! Makers and pilots, we salute!" And down his shot. Again, others follow. The woman continues,
"My name is Cicero. Is what others call me. You call me too? Good. And now, I continue. Hunter is not with cockpit. Is simple as that." The others around her shrug and shake their heads in agreement and she continues.
"Hunter is with, ah, forget english word. We call 'Ootroba', which is like container fill with Perfluorocarbon liquid you breathe. Is connected to tubes that take care of all functions and needs, so pilot only need think of job. We use cybernetic interface that uses a 2d scanner to build virtual environment we navigate. Scans share with other hunters in multiple points and you get highly detailed virtual realtim reconstruction of world you see. And thus, nothink sneak up. Is...old technology. Pilots consider inconvenient and inhumane. We prefer, because we no worry so much about physical flying as it like watching yourself fly around, like in dream. Pose is, ah, lying down. So no cockpit, and less of identifiable shape. So to be Hunter pilot is like out of body experience. As where you are is warm and comfortable, is like dreaming and floating above the world and seeing everything. Ist why Hunter packs so effective in groups." Another person at the table speaks,
"Hunters still exist, new ones. It's the Mk II grenadier that was the forefather of the modern street hovercraft for civilians and police." More people nod, and Cicero nods herself.
"Da, ist truth. Hunters really everywhere, but Mk II is last hunter that actually hunts. Never needed upgrade, since it did job so well, even though technology is near 80 years old."
"Almost as old as you, dinamiskta!" One of the people in her group as old as she barks out, the rest erupting in laughter. She leans back, grinning and jabs the man with her bottle, smiling and yelling,
"Vzbeshivshayas' sobaka; beshenaya sobaka!" And the others laugh. The man hit with a bottle stands, pouring out more shots,
"Alright, alright. This is my turn for toasting." He raises his shotglass, others following suit,
"For Cicero. If not for foul women us foul men would be in jail for harassment!" To several cheers of others around them. The shots are downed, and the man sits. Cicero, smiling now, continues.
"When you fly, you have to in a way nudge yourself around." She reaches up into the tousled fur of her long ears, removing a chained earring from within and setting it on the table. Placing her finger on the bent hook, she begins dragging it around,
"Just like this. Imaging like table is city you are seeing, and earring is your Hunter. You have to reach out and nudge it, and it will follow in chain motion like so. This is why so maneuverable in tight places. If caught, you simply change view angle and rise up and over and enter at another point, or other pilot intercept on other side." She says, watching the shiny metal. She picks it up, reaching to her ear and replacing it.
"Do you understand now? Is not like grabbing Khui and wriggling around and pushing button. Is more elegant. People do not like because is very invasive and claustrophobic. They say it inhumane to pilots. I say to them, kooshite govno ee oomeeite!" And more harsh laughter follows. She leans back, smiling and fishing a clove cigarette out of her front pocket.
"Any questions, comrade?"
In a quiet bar in little moscow in Shangri-La, it's a loud night, with many groups of russian refugees singing folk songs and drinking, eating their zakuskis and staying warm and sheltered from the rainfall outside. Where you are situated you're seated, perhaps with others at a table with five very old looking recoms, looking to be near senior citizenship. All of them drinking vodka and eating their zakuskis from a communal lazy susan at the middle of the table. The woman speaks with her single blue eye with it's red pupil smiles.
"Do you? Odd question simply walk up and ask 'How is being Hunter'?" Her comrades smile and watch. She tilts her head, lopped ears with long white frills make her look something of a very well worn and skinny teddybear.
"Very well, I tell you. I do believe it has been near 40 years since I first become Hunter. And in good time, as opsec now lifted so I can tell story to you!" The others around the table chuckle. She rises up, filling a ring of shotglasses with vodka and speaking "We say toast in English for you tonight comrade!" And she raises her glass, the others following suit, leaving one left for you at the table. Do you raise it?
"For the evening of stories, truth and horribly filthy lies told by Fifth Hunter Squadron!" To which are shouts accompanying with cries of 'Da!' ring around the table. All shots downed, she sits and grabs a small pickle from the lazy susan, plucking it into her mouth.
"Hunter is less combative so much as symbol. Is why Confederates for most part cast us aside. That symbol is fear, comrade. A person will try to place face, 'head' or otherwise human, uh, features on things. Hunter, is none of that. No face, or head, or eyes to be seen. Is an unknown alien looking thing covered in red eyes and no mouth, just gun that flies. Is why refugees call Hunter 'Poschkа Letahea', or 'Flying Gun'. Reason why fly in groups of five is so nothink can hide." She says. One of her comrades, a old and withering looking siberian husky rises, pouring into shotglasses once more and raising his glass, others following suit.
"Mothers and Fathers of Flying Guns! Makers and pilots, we salute!" And down his shot. Again, others follow. The woman continues,
"My name is Cicero. Is what others call me. You call me too? Good. And now, I continue. Hunter is not with cockpit. Is simple as that." The others around her shrug and shake their heads in agreement and she continues.
"Hunter is with, ah, forget english word. We call 'Ootroba', which is like container fill with Perfluorocarbon liquid you breathe. Is connected to tubes that take care of all functions and needs, so pilot only need think of job. We use cybernetic interface that uses a 2d scanner to build virtual environment we navigate. Scans share with other hunters in multiple points and you get highly detailed virtual realtim reconstruction of world you see. And thus, nothink sneak up. Is...old technology. Pilots consider inconvenient and inhumane. We prefer, because we no worry so much about physical flying as it like watching yourself fly around, like in dream. Pose is, ah, lying down. So no cockpit, and less of identifiable shape. So to be Hunter pilot is like out of body experience. As where you are is warm and comfortable, is like dreaming and floating above the world and seeing everything. Ist why Hunter packs so effective in groups." Another person at the table speaks,
"Hunters still exist, new ones. It's the Mk II grenadier that was the forefather of the modern street hovercraft for civilians and police." More people nod, and Cicero nods herself.
"Da, ist truth. Hunters really everywhere, but Mk II is last hunter that actually hunts. Never needed upgrade, since it did job so well, even though technology is near 80 years old."
"Almost as old as you, dinamiskta!" One of the people in her group as old as she barks out, the rest erupting in laughter. She leans back, grinning and jabs the man with her bottle, smiling and yelling,
"Vzbeshivshayas' sobaka; beshenaya sobaka!" And the others laugh. The man hit with a bottle stands, pouring out more shots,
"Alright, alright. This is my turn for toasting." He raises his shotglass, others following suit,
"For Cicero. If not for foul women us foul men would be in jail for harassment!" To several cheers of others around them. The shots are downed, and the man sits. Cicero, smiling now, continues.
"When you fly, you have to in a way nudge yourself around." She reaches up into the tousled fur of her long ears, removing a chained earring from within and setting it on the table. Placing her finger on the bent hook, she begins dragging it around,
"Just like this. Imaging like table is city you are seeing, and earring is your Hunter. You have to reach out and nudge it, and it will follow in chain motion like so. This is why so maneuverable in tight places. If caught, you simply change view angle and rise up and over and enter at another point, or other pilot intercept on other side." She says, watching the shiny metal. She picks it up, reaching to her ear and replacing it.
"Do you understand now? Is not like grabbing Khui and wriggling around and pushing button. Is more elegant. People do not like because is very invasive and claustrophobic. They say it inhumane to pilots. I say to them, kooshite govno ee oomeeite!" And more harsh laughter follows. She leans back, smiling and fishing a clove cigarette out of her front pocket.
"Any questions, comrade?"