Feb 18 06:22:26 108 PA - A Brief Reaquainting and Short Introductions
From Chronicles
Feb 18 06:22:26 108 PA.
TRADEWINDS COFFEE SHOP
Mid-February in Missouri, only a few minutes after midnight, is not the most crowded hour at the Tradewinds Coffee Shop. In fact, when Gabriel and Terrance come in from the elements - little snow and wind, but crisp still cold - there are only eight other people inside, five of them openly writing screenplays on their laptops, because apparently that's the only way that *real* authors write. Before moving to the counter, the older man walks over to the east side and deposits his duffel in a chair at a table near a window. "This okay?" he asks, though he doesn't actually wait around for an answer before heading back to the ordering station.
Terrance nods his assent to your question and sits across from you, settling gently into the seat. The wood groans under him, as if he were a much larger man. "It's fine Gabe.. Mind if I call you Gabe? So anyway.. Yeah I left the military because they killed me unsuccessfully. I was gonna go back, but... I can't I'm not human anymore. Not entirely.." He tells you quietly. "The Coalition doesn't like anything not entirely human." He adds, hoping you know of the CS and their stance on unnatural life.
Unfortunately, the teenage girl, a very pleasant blue-skinned, four-armed D-Bee who is seemingly always behind the counter, continues to completely miss the concept of black coffee. When Gabriel returns to the table to find Terrance seated, he's not carrying a mug of coffee, he's carrying a whole tray with a grand total of five mugs and two brownies. After interrupting Terrance in a genuinely complaining, yet also laughing tone, he points to four of the mugs. "Mocha, caramel and cream, mint somehow, and a triple espresso. Girl never gets black coffee right. Not sure what's so hard about it. Just pour in coffee... then charge me for it. She tries to make it better by giving free pastries, though. Nice girl, just not so bright." He pokes a finger at the wrong mugs. "Feel free to help yourself." As he settles back into his chair, blowing across the top of what is obviously much-too-hot coffee, he says, "Okay. Yeah, I figured Coalition. I also figured cyborg, or... y'know whatever you're called. Not to sound rude. I thought they were into tech, though. Why'd they toss out a perfectly good armored combat chassis?" He blows across his coffee again.
Terrance shakes his head. "They're into.. as you put it.. Tech they can control. They are all for robots and powered armor, and cyborgs that look like robots and powered armor. Technology they can turn on and off at the flick of a switch. I'm not. I'm not your average Super Sampson walking around bristling with weaponry.." He says, motioning down at himself. Truthfully, he looks like your average everyday human. Just a bit on the heavy side. "They wouldn't be able to control me, so they'd kill me. They tried once. What's that old saying? Fool me once shame on you.. fool me twice shame on me?"
"Huh," is the brilliant commentary that Gabriel returns with. He's still blowing across the top of his beverage. "Always too fucking hot," Gabriel complains quietly. "I didn't know that. In fact, I thought I'd heard of you guys - no offense - being made on purpose. Obviously I was wrong. Guess the endoskeleton comes in handy though. Not that I'd rather have it than flesh and blood." He shrugs sadly, obviously not being able to commiserate, but trying to sympathize. He intersperses with, "Most people call me Gabriel. Parents thought it was a good name, y'know." He quotes something. Probably the Bible, if it still exists: "And he said to me of the Angels: ‘This first is Michael, the merciful and long-suffering: and the second, who is set over all the diseases and all the wounds of the children of men, is Raphael: and the third, who is set over the repentance unto hope of those who inherit eternal life, is named Phanuel. The fourth, who is set over all the powers, is Gabriel. Anyway, why'd you join. You said family? I think?" He again motions to the table. "Please, really. The coffee's free."
Terrance shakes his head. "I don't eat.. sorry. I don't mean to offend, but the only thing left of me that's organic is my brain and about three inches of spinal cord. Not the bone mind you, just the nerve clusters. I have a small nutrient pack installed.. somewhere.. It gives me a small but steady stream of nutrients. I've been 'eating' since I met you. Anyway.. I joined for family. All my siblings, brothers and my sister alike, are all musclebound meatheads. All front line, every one of them. I was born at the opposite end of the gene pool. Where they got size and physical power, I got brains and the aptitude to use it. Military is kind of a family tradition. I keep at it cuz I'm good at it." He tells you with a shrug, eyeing the steaming coffee.
"My father was conscripted against his will in World War One, first by the Germans, then by the Russians, then by the Germans again, and so on. Whole Eastern Front just kept going back and forth like that. Fortunately, Mom and Dad got out of Poland and made it to Ellis Island before the end of the war, when Europe really turned to shit." Gabriel gazes into his mug and makes a complaining face. Still too hot, apparently. He gives a bit of his own autobiography to explain how he got into the military. "I was born on Armistice Day, damn near the exact minute it was signed. Got married when I was sixteen - don't judge, that's how things were then - and then Hitler started grabbing the Saarland, the Sudetenland, Czechoslovakia. I saw what was coming, so I joined the Marines - only because their recruiting center was the closest. Figured the best way to keep my family safe was to stop the problem as far away as possible." He sighs sadly. "Unfortunately, they died of the flu while I was in the South Pacific, so I guess God kind of fucked me over anyway. Still, there was redemption, later."
Terrance has no clue who or what you talking about, but he recognizes the languages you mention and the news of your parents death. "Hey.. you're not from around here.. How can I judge? If you're down with me being 98% synthetic, then I have no problems about your love life." He teases. "So this guy was your superior officer? That god guy?" He asks, genuinely unaware of any greater meaning to the word.
Gabriel nods sagely. "God is *everyone's* superior officer. The Supreme Being. The Higher Power. Whatever you choose to call Him. He's the one that everyone eventually answers to, and he's the one who gives out the orders to begin with." He's not speaking the Gospel to convert, it's clear from his tone that this is simple, strong faith. "In '59, when we were - teleported? I don't know what word to use. Got here. The Montana and everyone on it were under my control, save for the Fleet Admiral in charge of the experiment. Essentially, my only superior officer was President Dwight D. Eisenhower. Natasha was my second, and she was a wonderful wife. Murdered here after the... experiment?" The older man seems to be genuinely confused - still - as to how to term his displacement.
Terrance nods. "Oh... OK.. That's unfortunate. But our world is something of a catchall for all time and dimensionally displaced objects, people and entities. Lotsa things end up here." He tells you, really all he can say about a subject he knows very little about, other than the standard CS propaganda crap. He knows a bit more than the regular CS citizen because he can read and write, but not much. "So you have any upgrades?" He asks a bit bluntly, referring to augmentations.
The older man sets his coffee down, never having sufficiently cooled it enough to drink from. "Cyber stuff? No, no enhancements. Not really sure that I'd ever really feel normal getting metal implants. No offense." Gabriel's wrist is vibrating almost imperceptibly. "Sorry, Terrance, remember those jobs I was talking about? Bricklaying, grunt work? I'm being called in. You take care, I'll see you around. You're a good guy to chat with." He offers an odd salute, the kind that a military man may give to another military man - of completely different countries and branches. Then he's rather rudely out the door, grabbing his duffel along the way.
