Panzer Wolf
08-17-2005, 06:12 PM
Alright, first of all this is nowhere even near a completed first chapter. I just wanted to put it up and see what the general response to it would be- so, comments of any sort are appreciated.
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I- All That You Have is Your Soul
Fred O’Donnell ran or at least walked very fast everywhere. He had to, as it was part of his medical treatment. Since getting out of the camp and out of the hospital and out of the sanitarium he was constantly in and out of clinics. These clinics would look him over and the doctor would usually say something like “well, your problem now is…” and they’d give him a new bottle of pills and he’d be whisked out. This happened at least four times every three months, so much so he could have worked it into his schedule of various places to be running back and forth from. He had to run because one of those pills made his adrenaline glands pump out more than they had to and if he didn’t keep constantly active the stuff would end up pooling somewhere in his blood and become toxic. It was a long story and he didn’t like to dwell on it more than he absolutely had to.
Today he was running from the covered parking garage on 21st and Stoker to the Cornerian High Command building smack in the middle of 20th. Rain poured down from the skies and splattered against the sidewalk which from the air looked like massive concrete picture frames showcasing the rectangle buildings that were zoned too close together so that the sun was always blocked out even at high noon. Dark spots on his black trench coat and black dress cap appeared as the drops shattered against the fabric which made O’Donnell decide it was better that he was running anyway. His bosses didn’t approve of his uniform being mussed or stained in any form more than necessary. He cut in front of the mid-morning commuters and just barely avoided throwing himself in front of a taxi when crossing the street. He responded to the annoyed horn honking was by giving the driver his middle finger and running off.
To those that have never seen it, the Cornerian High Command (CHC) building is more exciting to be talked about than actually seen. It is a 35-floor glass and steel construction that was designed by a forever obscure architect whose favorite shape was the three-dimensional rectangle. Unlike the Cornerian Defense Academy, which lies in the quiet suburb of Rosewood, the CHC is located in the heart of Corneria City proper. Also, unlike the Academy and those who work at it whose role is to train and facilitate the educational needs of the planet’s servicemen and women, the CHC operates solely as the nerve center and administration center and general logistic center of the entire Cornerian military. A child would enter the Academy and come out of it either as a Sergeant or a junior officer both with a bright shining future. A senior officer would enter the CHC and come out of it tired and ready to retire or at least change their job.
Fred reached the building at exactly 10:15 AM and proceeded to the receptionist’s desk. The lobby was spacious and took up at least two floors. Freshly painted white columns stood in the corners of the vast room and the square they formed framed the painted crest on the marble floor. The crest was in the shape of an ancient shield with something written underneath it in Latin, which Fred never bothered to find out the meaning of, nor would he generally even care to.
“Good morning, Mr. O’Donnell.”
“Good morning Tracy. Which elevators aren’t working today?”
“12 and 4 Express, but I don’t think you use either of those.”
“No, thank God. So… are we on tonight?”
Tracy Neuman, the beautiful young Siamese who the guys up at the top had replaced whazername the overweight Welsh Corgi with, looked up from her emery board and with a smooth twisting of the wrist made her well kept feline claws into a threatening weapon. “No, Fred.”
O’Donnell rolled his eyes. “Come on, what are you doing tonight anyway?”
“Going to the movies.”
“By yourself?”
“With my boyfriend.”
Fred was on his elevator sooner than he had expected to be. He was by himself and with his thoughts and with the dark cloud hanging somewhere over his lungs for half of the way when the Roland Jennings from the 14th floor got on. He was a civilian employee with the High Command’s dentistry office and had been a pain in O’Donnell’s ass since he started working. He was a big ermine, big for his species, anyway, and was always chewing on his thumb when he was talking for some reason.
“I read something in the latest Expose Magazine you might be interested in,” he said.
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear about this,” is what Fred wanted to say, but instead politely asked “What was that?”
“Apparently they’re asking for volunteers to give testimony about the Akumadora camp.”
“So?”
“Weren’t you in Akumadora?”
Fred exhaled sharply and glanced at his shoes. “No, I was at Houldag-15.”
“I thought that was a part of Akum-”
“They’re on opposite sides of the planet.”
Jennings snorted and shook his head. The conversation not going the way he wanted- where he wanted it to go was something Fred could only guess at- the ermine rolled shoved his left hand into his pocket and began furiously digging around for something. “Did you get your forms in?”
“What forms?”
“Your 20-ought… something? 20-1-52 I think?”
“No,” said Fred as he began wishing more and more that the elevator would hurry up why was the elevator taking so damn long just to go up fifteen floors? “ I don’t think I have to fill out that form, anyway.”
“Why not?” The classic Roland Jennings misplaced indignation was beginning to pop out.
“That’s for those working in the medical administration field. I just work in small unit administration.”
At this Roland chewed thoughtfully on his thumb while he leaned against the back wall of the elevator and looked away from the wolf. He didn’t even have the decency to say something like “oh,” or “I see.” The bell rung on the 30th floor and Fred stepped out.
O’Donnell didn’t look over his shoulder or make any snide remarks as he walked the fifteen feet from the elevator door to his office door, but inside he felt a little hurt. It wasn’t as if he wanted people to know he had been in the camps it just got told about somehow. Probably some punk from human resources let it slip and it was probably on some joker’s web site. If he were a sex offender or a war criminal then he would understand why everyone talked about him but neither of those were the case. He was just a former POW and it made no sense to him. He unlocked the door to his office and stepped in.
The office was of the size that any decent-doing white-collar worker could hope for, except it wasn’t as nicely furnished. There was a big blue-gray metal desk with two drawers on the side and one that was supposed to be above his knees but had been permanently removed to be used as an “out” tray. The chair rolled around on four of its original five legs. A bookcase holding numerous volumes of “Mercenary Codes” dominated the south side of room. The rest of the office was obscured with stacks of various colored papers and pamphlets and various printed materials. On the door, etched into the window above the knob, was a sign that read:
MAJ. FREDERICK O’DONNELL CAF/CISD
OFFICIAL STAR FOX LIASON OFFICER
To the general public, all that was known about Fred O’Donnell was that he had something to do with collecting and forwarding fan-letters written by easily attracted young girls and attention seeking boys looking for a reply from the one and only Fox McCloud or one of his teammates. There had been a blurb printed in Corneria City Times that they personally wrote all their replies. O’Donnell knew that he would be given a sack of letters early on Monday mornings. By Tuesday afternoon the sack would be sent to a company located somewhere on the planet that would type up a form reply and mail it to the sender of the original letter along with a “signed” photo of the crew. A thought occasionally crossed the wolf’s mind as he went through his days that StarFox never actually looked at single fan letter. Then again, it was possible to say that they never got a chance to look at any of those letters and cards and as long as the kids got something nice in reply it all usually worked out and nobody would be hurt.
What most people didn’t know, however, was that O’Donnell’s primary role was being the guy who spoke up for them at High Command. They actually had no say at all in what they were ordered to do because none of them held a rank above Captain and as long as they were mercenaries they would never hold a rank above Captain. The most junior rank be saying anything that would be noticed was a Major. So, when something that involved speaking with the Joint Chiefs of Staff would blow in the team would call up Fred and tell him what they wanted to say and he would say it. Of course he would have to throw in flowery terms and references to various other reports so as to make it official. That was Fred’s specialty- “bureaucratic fire drills,” he liked to call it. Without him, the Starfox team wouldn’t get paid. They would not be eligible for awards; they would not be allowed to remain as a mercenary team. Without Frederick O’Donnell, Starfox could not exist.
“But of course,” he reminded himself as he lit his first cigarette of the day, “without the Starfox team I wouldn’t exist.” It was a fact that shoved a red-hot billiard ball into his throat every time he thought about it. The prison camp had done a complete number on his mind and body. When he entered he was Squadron Leader Frederick O’Donnell, 91st Bomber Wing, Cornerian Air Force. He was well built a mind like no others- the men upstairs would always give him the dangerous missions as he was the only one who could pull them off. Where Fox McCloud was the ace of fighter jets, Fred O’Donnell was the lord and master of heavy bombers. On eight engines he was a god. When he left the camp he could barely tie his shoes. He wouldn’t go to the bathroom by himself for fear of being struck. His masters had destroyed his reflexes. They made him fear his own last name. In the end, they basically murdered him.
After his release from the hospital and the sanitarium Frederick tried to apply for his old job. “If you would just let me train again, I’ll be just as good as I was- even better in fact!” was what he had said to the application board.
“Your record speaks for speaks for itself,” was all the old badger said in reply. “But that being said we know of what happened during your rehabilitation. We can’t allow for you to hold such responsibility anymore. I’m sorry, Fred.” There was an awkward pause and a mumbling of something. Three weeks later, clipped of his wings, he began riding this desk.
Flicking the ashes into a nearby coffee mug, O’Donnell pulled open one of the desk drawers and looked into it. For whatever reason unbeknownst to him there was a mirror lying on the bottom. This annoyed him slightly, so he pulled it out and propped it up on his desk. The reflection merely confirmed what he had already gotten used to. His lupine fur used to be platinum and silver, but was now dark and as grey as the clouds outside. Above his mouth on the left side of his snout there was a patch of black skin that stuck out beneath the fuzz on his muzzle. Large dark rings underscored his eyes and the fur between his ears was a constant mess. He didn’t want to see himself anymore so he turned the mirror around.
The office was always somewhat gloomy, he thought, looking about it, with its aged off-white paint and grey carpeting, but the rain starting to hit the plate-glass window only made it seem worse. Apparently, when it was built, the High Command building granted a sweeping view of the city below. A few of the older workers and officers said that if you stood in front of a window on the south side and outstretched your arms you could almost imagine you were embracing the entire metropolitan area. Of course, this was before the economy boom two decades before the war. Now the only thing Fred could see if he looked out was the J.D. Field building outside.
----
More later...yeah.
---------------
I- All That You Have is Your Soul
Fred O’Donnell ran or at least walked very fast everywhere. He had to, as it was part of his medical treatment. Since getting out of the camp and out of the hospital and out of the sanitarium he was constantly in and out of clinics. These clinics would look him over and the doctor would usually say something like “well, your problem now is…” and they’d give him a new bottle of pills and he’d be whisked out. This happened at least four times every three months, so much so he could have worked it into his schedule of various places to be running back and forth from. He had to run because one of those pills made his adrenaline glands pump out more than they had to and if he didn’t keep constantly active the stuff would end up pooling somewhere in his blood and become toxic. It was a long story and he didn’t like to dwell on it more than he absolutely had to.
Today he was running from the covered parking garage on 21st and Stoker to the Cornerian High Command building smack in the middle of 20th. Rain poured down from the skies and splattered against the sidewalk which from the air looked like massive concrete picture frames showcasing the rectangle buildings that were zoned too close together so that the sun was always blocked out even at high noon. Dark spots on his black trench coat and black dress cap appeared as the drops shattered against the fabric which made O’Donnell decide it was better that he was running anyway. His bosses didn’t approve of his uniform being mussed or stained in any form more than necessary. He cut in front of the mid-morning commuters and just barely avoided throwing himself in front of a taxi when crossing the street. He responded to the annoyed horn honking was by giving the driver his middle finger and running off.
To those that have never seen it, the Cornerian High Command (CHC) building is more exciting to be talked about than actually seen. It is a 35-floor glass and steel construction that was designed by a forever obscure architect whose favorite shape was the three-dimensional rectangle. Unlike the Cornerian Defense Academy, which lies in the quiet suburb of Rosewood, the CHC is located in the heart of Corneria City proper. Also, unlike the Academy and those who work at it whose role is to train and facilitate the educational needs of the planet’s servicemen and women, the CHC operates solely as the nerve center and administration center and general logistic center of the entire Cornerian military. A child would enter the Academy and come out of it either as a Sergeant or a junior officer both with a bright shining future. A senior officer would enter the CHC and come out of it tired and ready to retire or at least change their job.
Fred reached the building at exactly 10:15 AM and proceeded to the receptionist’s desk. The lobby was spacious and took up at least two floors. Freshly painted white columns stood in the corners of the vast room and the square they formed framed the painted crest on the marble floor. The crest was in the shape of an ancient shield with something written underneath it in Latin, which Fred never bothered to find out the meaning of, nor would he generally even care to.
“Good morning, Mr. O’Donnell.”
“Good morning Tracy. Which elevators aren’t working today?”
“12 and 4 Express, but I don’t think you use either of those.”
“No, thank God. So… are we on tonight?”
Tracy Neuman, the beautiful young Siamese who the guys up at the top had replaced whazername the overweight Welsh Corgi with, looked up from her emery board and with a smooth twisting of the wrist made her well kept feline claws into a threatening weapon. “No, Fred.”
O’Donnell rolled his eyes. “Come on, what are you doing tonight anyway?”
“Going to the movies.”
“By yourself?”
“With my boyfriend.”
Fred was on his elevator sooner than he had expected to be. He was by himself and with his thoughts and with the dark cloud hanging somewhere over his lungs for half of the way when the Roland Jennings from the 14th floor got on. He was a civilian employee with the High Command’s dentistry office and had been a pain in O’Donnell’s ass since he started working. He was a big ermine, big for his species, anyway, and was always chewing on his thumb when he was talking for some reason.
“I read something in the latest Expose Magazine you might be interested in,” he said.
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear about this,” is what Fred wanted to say, but instead politely asked “What was that?”
“Apparently they’re asking for volunteers to give testimony about the Akumadora camp.”
“So?”
“Weren’t you in Akumadora?”
Fred exhaled sharply and glanced at his shoes. “No, I was at Houldag-15.”
“I thought that was a part of Akum-”
“They’re on opposite sides of the planet.”
Jennings snorted and shook his head. The conversation not going the way he wanted- where he wanted it to go was something Fred could only guess at- the ermine rolled shoved his left hand into his pocket and began furiously digging around for something. “Did you get your forms in?”
“What forms?”
“Your 20-ought… something? 20-1-52 I think?”
“No,” said Fred as he began wishing more and more that the elevator would hurry up why was the elevator taking so damn long just to go up fifteen floors? “ I don’t think I have to fill out that form, anyway.”
“Why not?” The classic Roland Jennings misplaced indignation was beginning to pop out.
“That’s for those working in the medical administration field. I just work in small unit administration.”
At this Roland chewed thoughtfully on his thumb while he leaned against the back wall of the elevator and looked away from the wolf. He didn’t even have the decency to say something like “oh,” or “I see.” The bell rung on the 30th floor and Fred stepped out.
O’Donnell didn’t look over his shoulder or make any snide remarks as he walked the fifteen feet from the elevator door to his office door, but inside he felt a little hurt. It wasn’t as if he wanted people to know he had been in the camps it just got told about somehow. Probably some punk from human resources let it slip and it was probably on some joker’s web site. If he were a sex offender or a war criminal then he would understand why everyone talked about him but neither of those were the case. He was just a former POW and it made no sense to him. He unlocked the door to his office and stepped in.
The office was of the size that any decent-doing white-collar worker could hope for, except it wasn’t as nicely furnished. There was a big blue-gray metal desk with two drawers on the side and one that was supposed to be above his knees but had been permanently removed to be used as an “out” tray. The chair rolled around on four of its original five legs. A bookcase holding numerous volumes of “Mercenary Codes” dominated the south side of room. The rest of the office was obscured with stacks of various colored papers and pamphlets and various printed materials. On the door, etched into the window above the knob, was a sign that read:
MAJ. FREDERICK O’DONNELL CAF/CISD
OFFICIAL STAR FOX LIASON OFFICER
To the general public, all that was known about Fred O’Donnell was that he had something to do with collecting and forwarding fan-letters written by easily attracted young girls and attention seeking boys looking for a reply from the one and only Fox McCloud or one of his teammates. There had been a blurb printed in Corneria City Times that they personally wrote all their replies. O’Donnell knew that he would be given a sack of letters early on Monday mornings. By Tuesday afternoon the sack would be sent to a company located somewhere on the planet that would type up a form reply and mail it to the sender of the original letter along with a “signed” photo of the crew. A thought occasionally crossed the wolf’s mind as he went through his days that StarFox never actually looked at single fan letter. Then again, it was possible to say that they never got a chance to look at any of those letters and cards and as long as the kids got something nice in reply it all usually worked out and nobody would be hurt.
What most people didn’t know, however, was that O’Donnell’s primary role was being the guy who spoke up for them at High Command. They actually had no say at all in what they were ordered to do because none of them held a rank above Captain and as long as they were mercenaries they would never hold a rank above Captain. The most junior rank be saying anything that would be noticed was a Major. So, when something that involved speaking with the Joint Chiefs of Staff would blow in the team would call up Fred and tell him what they wanted to say and he would say it. Of course he would have to throw in flowery terms and references to various other reports so as to make it official. That was Fred’s specialty- “bureaucratic fire drills,” he liked to call it. Without him, the Starfox team wouldn’t get paid. They would not be eligible for awards; they would not be allowed to remain as a mercenary team. Without Frederick O’Donnell, Starfox could not exist.
“But of course,” he reminded himself as he lit his first cigarette of the day, “without the Starfox team I wouldn’t exist.” It was a fact that shoved a red-hot billiard ball into his throat every time he thought about it. The prison camp had done a complete number on his mind and body. When he entered he was Squadron Leader Frederick O’Donnell, 91st Bomber Wing, Cornerian Air Force. He was well built a mind like no others- the men upstairs would always give him the dangerous missions as he was the only one who could pull them off. Where Fox McCloud was the ace of fighter jets, Fred O’Donnell was the lord and master of heavy bombers. On eight engines he was a god. When he left the camp he could barely tie his shoes. He wouldn’t go to the bathroom by himself for fear of being struck. His masters had destroyed his reflexes. They made him fear his own last name. In the end, they basically murdered him.
After his release from the hospital and the sanitarium Frederick tried to apply for his old job. “If you would just let me train again, I’ll be just as good as I was- even better in fact!” was what he had said to the application board.
“Your record speaks for speaks for itself,” was all the old badger said in reply. “But that being said we know of what happened during your rehabilitation. We can’t allow for you to hold such responsibility anymore. I’m sorry, Fred.” There was an awkward pause and a mumbling of something. Three weeks later, clipped of his wings, he began riding this desk.
Flicking the ashes into a nearby coffee mug, O’Donnell pulled open one of the desk drawers and looked into it. For whatever reason unbeknownst to him there was a mirror lying on the bottom. This annoyed him slightly, so he pulled it out and propped it up on his desk. The reflection merely confirmed what he had already gotten used to. His lupine fur used to be platinum and silver, but was now dark and as grey as the clouds outside. Above his mouth on the left side of his snout there was a patch of black skin that stuck out beneath the fuzz on his muzzle. Large dark rings underscored his eyes and the fur between his ears was a constant mess. He didn’t want to see himself anymore so he turned the mirror around.
The office was always somewhat gloomy, he thought, looking about it, with its aged off-white paint and grey carpeting, but the rain starting to hit the plate-glass window only made it seem worse. Apparently, when it was built, the High Command building granted a sweeping view of the city below. A few of the older workers and officers said that if you stood in front of a window on the south side and outstretched your arms you could almost imagine you were embracing the entire metropolitan area. Of course, this was before the economy boom two decades before the war. Now the only thing Fred could see if he looked out was the J.D. Field building outside.
----
More later...yeah.