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Jul. 15th, 2014 01:37 pmShephard has responsibilities at the Greenbrier. He's not whining about them, you understand. It's a post-Combine world, everyone has them. Except the kids, but it's hard to think what kind of responsibilities you could give somebody under the age of three.
Thing is, he's- oh, he doesn't know any more. Something like twenty-five years lived, at this point. He doesn't count the time that sheepfucker in the suit knocked him out as part of his age, and he's not sure if Milliways counts or not. Point is, he's still a long way shy of thirty. At his age he's supposed to be married, with two or three kids and two, maybe- maybe- three stripes on his sleeve. What he is, is commander of the second largest military force known in what remains of the United States- after Ms. Vance's militia, anyway- and captain of a goddamned nuclear icebreaker- one with a complex about Arctic waters, no less. No wife, not just yet, but he'll be talking to Eleanor about that soon enough, and no kids, but they'll be part of that discussion too. And when he's not training up his would-be Marines or working with the people who actually know what the fuck to do to run his ship, he's bringing home the next best thing to bacon. Literally. Gutted and skinned and tied down to a travois, most of the time, because bullsquid are too heavy to sling over his shoulders.
And as much as he loves hunting, it's one thing when you do it for yourself and another altogether when you do it because if you don't there's a real good chance someone's going to go hungry.
And as much as he loves that batshit crazy ship of his, he's still learning and he still gets the feeling she deserves better than a captain whose naval experience to date could be logged on the back of his hand in felt-tipped pen.
And as devoted as he is to seeing the Corps reborn and his people protected, he's still one man, and a young one at that, with a quarter of a million ghosts watching over his shoulder.
It's a lot to handle. He's pretty sure he can do it, but that doesn't mean it's not still a lot. It's just that every now and again he needs to get away from it, to do something just because he can, not because people need him to. Fortunately, he knows exactly the place to do it.
It's been a long time since he went after catfish in the Milliways lake. Time to see what he can grab by the gills from the inside, yeah?
Thing is, he's- oh, he doesn't know any more. Something like twenty-five years lived, at this point. He doesn't count the time that sheepfucker in the suit knocked him out as part of his age, and he's not sure if Milliways counts or not. Point is, he's still a long way shy of thirty. At his age he's supposed to be married, with two or three kids and two, maybe- maybe- three stripes on his sleeve. What he is, is commander of the second largest military force known in what remains of the United States- after Ms. Vance's militia, anyway- and captain of a goddamned nuclear icebreaker- one with a complex about Arctic waters, no less. No wife, not just yet, but he'll be talking to Eleanor about that soon enough, and no kids, but they'll be part of that discussion too. And when he's not training up his would-be Marines or working with the people who actually know what the fuck to do to run his ship, he's bringing home the next best thing to bacon. Literally. Gutted and skinned and tied down to a travois, most of the time, because bullsquid are too heavy to sling over his shoulders.
And as much as he loves hunting, it's one thing when you do it for yourself and another altogether when you do it because if you don't there's a real good chance someone's going to go hungry.
And as much as he loves that batshit crazy ship of his, he's still learning and he still gets the feeling she deserves better than a captain whose naval experience to date could be logged on the back of his hand in felt-tipped pen.
And as devoted as he is to seeing the Corps reborn and his people protected, he's still one man, and a young one at that, with a quarter of a million ghosts watching over his shoulder.
It's a lot to handle. He's pretty sure he can do it, but that doesn't mean it's not still a lot. It's just that every now and again he needs to get away from it, to do something just because he can, not because people need him to. Fortunately, he knows exactly the place to do it.
It's been a long time since he went after catfish in the Milliways lake. Time to see what he can grab by the gills from the inside, yeah?
