Disclaimer:
1.) None are mine. Too bad, so sad.
2.) This is my first GIJoe fic in a long, long time.
3.) I am very, very sorry.
Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brown Papered Packages Tied up with Strings . . .
One squeaking wheel announced the arrival of the mail cart.
The mail clerk had his rounds. Although he was only one step above a civilian, he walked through hallways and into the personal spaces of high-ranking officers. Only on rare occasions was he never welcome.
He pushed the metal cart methodically through the base, pausing briefly at doors to deliver. Although he was always polite, the offices and their occupants never held his interest like the lounge did.
Mail was delivered shortly after lunch, when most of the base had a brief reprise from various activities. Men sprawl in front of the television, catching up on the latest sporting events. Others picked up impromptu poker games. Several, although a minority, sat by themselves and read.
But the telltale squeak gave everyone pause. A collective breath was held as the mail clerk passed out his bundles. Everyone hoped to receive a little touch of the outside.
The clerk enjoyed his work. He liked seeing faces light up when he called their names. And although he would never serve in the capacity these men did, or even know them personally, he thought he had a unique insight to them.
Of course, letters from home were common. Anything on delicate paper, with a faint floral scent, was from a sweetheart. The men who took those letters inevitably made their way to a quiet corner of the room to read them. Packages from home were a rare prize, often flaunted and elicited envious remarks from friends.
Second in abundance were bills. They were handed out indifferently by the mail clerk's hand, and they were met with groans.
Finally, magazines. A wide variety came through the mailroom, reflecting a wide variety of personal interests. Hunting and weapons magazines were popular, as were car periodicals. Some of the men subscribed to video game magazines; others to journals devoted to movies. There were even a few who received cooking magazines.
And of course the compulsory men's magazines, discreet in their brown paper wrappings.
The mail clerk handed those out, businesslike, as well. During his years on the job he had seen most everything. He came to know which men had a subscription; they acted cool and indifferent when he called their names but they all snatched the grocery-bag brown casings quickly from his grasp.
But today something was . . . odd.
He delivered the letters, and the bills, and the varied magazines, including the wrapped ones. Deliberately he left a smaller, brown wrapped parcel at the bottom of the cart.
It was smaller than a magazine, like a DVD. That wasn't common, but not completely unheard of. The package was just trying just as hard to be inconspicuous as the magazines, though. The return address was obscure. The mailing address was plainly typed. It was the name that stalled the clerk's hand.
Wayne Sneeden.
The Sergeant had received letters before, none too regularly, and holiday cards. But as long as he could remember, the clerk had never passed this sort of package to him before.
Maybe it was a joke, played by his teammates.
Maybe it wasn't!
He couldn't delay this much longer. With a silent prayer, he called out the Sergeant's name more calmly than he felt. He was a professional, after all.
Beach Head looked up at the summons and narrowed his eyes. He set aside the book he'd been reading and made his way to the mail cart. The hard expression in his eyes didn't fade.
The chatter around the room hushed.
"What is it, Private?"
"Package for you, sir." He didn't stutter, and he was proud. Carefully he held it out.
The sharp eyes left his face for a moment and glanced at the offering. In an unrushed movement, Beach Head took the parcel.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, Private?"
"No. No sir. Thank you. Have a nice day."
Beach Head's eyes narrowed menacingly again. The mail clerk backed away and took the opportunity to leave, thankfully.
Ignoring the silence surrounding him, Beach Head calmly made his way back to his seat. His training kicked in; as much as he desperately wanted to, he barely even glanced at the brown-papered package in his hand.
What he saw had been good enough for now. Opening it would have to be saved for later, alone in his barrack.
His fingers itched right now.
Gritting his teeth, he determinedly took up his book again. The words ran together on the page; his attention was continuously drawn back to the package.
The company had done a good job, he admitted to himself. For the money it cost, and the time it took to arrange, he was pleased with the result. It had only taken one extra day to arrive, but that was forgivable. No one would recognize the return label. The mailing address was typed, not hand written. It would be difficult to trace. No one could easily guess the contents.
His fingers still itched to open it.
All of the painstaking effort would be for nothing! his brain chastised. I must wait. I must wait. No one can know . . . no one. My entire reputation would be ruined. How could I explain it? I couldn't! I wouldn't be able to hold my head up if anyone knew!
With a strangled sigh, Beach Head forced himself to concentrate on his book. There would be time enough later to enjoy it. Later. Yes. Later.
Beside him, the unopened Monsters, Inc., waited patiently.
1.) None are mine. Too bad, so sad.
2.) This is my first GIJoe fic in a long, long time.
3.) I am very, very sorry.
Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brown Papered Packages Tied up with Strings . . .
One squeaking wheel announced the arrival of the mail cart.
The mail clerk had his rounds. Although he was only one step above a civilian, he walked through hallways and into the personal spaces of high-ranking officers. Only on rare occasions was he never welcome.
He pushed the metal cart methodically through the base, pausing briefly at doors to deliver. Although he was always polite, the offices and their occupants never held his interest like the lounge did.
Mail was delivered shortly after lunch, when most of the base had a brief reprise from various activities. Men sprawl in front of the television, catching up on the latest sporting events. Others picked up impromptu poker games. Several, although a minority, sat by themselves and read.
But the telltale squeak gave everyone pause. A collective breath was held as the mail clerk passed out his bundles. Everyone hoped to receive a little touch of the outside.
The clerk enjoyed his work. He liked seeing faces light up when he called their names. And although he would never serve in the capacity these men did, or even know them personally, he thought he had a unique insight to them.
Of course, letters from home were common. Anything on delicate paper, with a faint floral scent, was from a sweetheart. The men who took those letters inevitably made their way to a quiet corner of the room to read them. Packages from home were a rare prize, often flaunted and elicited envious remarks from friends.
Second in abundance were bills. They were handed out indifferently by the mail clerk's hand, and they were met with groans.
Finally, magazines. A wide variety came through the mailroom, reflecting a wide variety of personal interests. Hunting and weapons magazines were popular, as were car periodicals. Some of the men subscribed to video game magazines; others to journals devoted to movies. There were even a few who received cooking magazines.
And of course the compulsory men's magazines, discreet in their brown paper wrappings.
The mail clerk handed those out, businesslike, as well. During his years on the job he had seen most everything. He came to know which men had a subscription; they acted cool and indifferent when he called their names but they all snatched the grocery-bag brown casings quickly from his grasp.
But today something was . . . odd.
He delivered the letters, and the bills, and the varied magazines, including the wrapped ones. Deliberately he left a smaller, brown wrapped parcel at the bottom of the cart.
It was smaller than a magazine, like a DVD. That wasn't common, but not completely unheard of. The package was just trying just as hard to be inconspicuous as the magazines, though. The return address was obscure. The mailing address was plainly typed. It was the name that stalled the clerk's hand.
Wayne Sneeden.
The Sergeant had received letters before, none too regularly, and holiday cards. But as long as he could remember, the clerk had never passed this sort of package to him before.
Maybe it was a joke, played by his teammates.
Maybe it wasn't!
He couldn't delay this much longer. With a silent prayer, he called out the Sergeant's name more calmly than he felt. He was a professional, after all.
Beach Head looked up at the summons and narrowed his eyes. He set aside the book he'd been reading and made his way to the mail cart. The hard expression in his eyes didn't fade.
The chatter around the room hushed.
"What is it, Private?"
"Package for you, sir." He didn't stutter, and he was proud. Carefully he held it out.
The sharp eyes left his face for a moment and glanced at the offering. In an unrushed movement, Beach Head took the parcel.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, Private?"
"No. No sir. Thank you. Have a nice day."
Beach Head's eyes narrowed menacingly again. The mail clerk backed away and took the opportunity to leave, thankfully.
Ignoring the silence surrounding him, Beach Head calmly made his way back to his seat. His training kicked in; as much as he desperately wanted to, he barely even glanced at the brown-papered package in his hand.
What he saw had been good enough for now. Opening it would have to be saved for later, alone in his barrack.
His fingers itched right now.
Gritting his teeth, he determinedly took up his book again. The words ran together on the page; his attention was continuously drawn back to the package.
The company had done a good job, he admitted to himself. For the money it cost, and the time it took to arrange, he was pleased with the result. It had only taken one extra day to arrive, but that was forgivable. No one would recognize the return label. The mailing address was typed, not hand written. It would be difficult to trace. No one could easily guess the contents.
His fingers still itched to open it.
All of the painstaking effort would be for nothing! his brain chastised. I must wait. I must wait. No one can know . . . no one. My entire reputation would be ruined. How could I explain it? I couldn't! I wouldn't be able to hold my head up if anyone knew!
With a strangled sigh, Beach Head forced himself to concentrate on his book. There would be time enough later to enjoy it. Later. Yes. Later.
Beside him, the unopened Monsters, Inc., waited patiently.