This was inspired, oddly enough, by a random comment Lone Wolf made in a
nightly chat. What if the Zeong and Nether, the two most berated suits of
their respective series, were to meet? What would their conversation be?
How would they react?
While I originally tried to make this a all out humor piece, I found it drifting more and more into the serious realm, a move I hardly noticed or moved to stop. Through writing this, I have purged and idea from my soul that I needed out.
In the end, I'm not very satisfied with the ending, but overall I think it is fitting. As always, all critiques are welcome. ------------------------------- A Meeting of the Minds
Smoke drifted lazily from the entrance, opaquely filtering out the kaleidoscope of flickering neon light, the hazy wall highlighted with names like Corona, Budweiser, and Heineken. The strains of Mr. Roboto soar upward, carrying with it a message of contented drunken stupor and the luminescent advertising. It is a place of alcohol Nirvana, where ruminations give way to a twenty dollar drum and a night that you wish you could forget, but can't remember.
In other words, the perfect setup for a beer commercial.
Not like I was looking for anything different. I wanted the women, impossibly glistening; music that provides that perfect audio atmosphere; a couple of good buddies to josh and lay your troubles so they'll buy you a round out of sympathy; the beer that seemed to flow from an endless spring, frothy and cool; the all-out fantasy that had for years inspired mobiles suits to polish their armor plating and prime their beam cannons whenever that commercial-perfect woman walked by, watching as they drank that miracle beer.
Instead my luck had run dry as I slowly weaved my way through the weaving press of bodies, choosing a ubiquitous seat off in a darker section of the building that I hoped would help hide the sails emblazoned across my chest. To my right slouches an older model suit, unfocused mono-eye staring enviously at the couples dancing on the floor. Nimbly, I dodge an antenna and lean in to take an olfactory reading of his drink.
It stinks of burning cat and motor oil, and something inside me shudders with displeasure. "I'll have whatever he's having."
"Right away, monsieur." The bartender seems out of place with his thin superstructure, tiny v-fin resting above his heat vents, and tricolor shoulder armor. His mixing of the vile-looking concoction is punctuated by a crash and a string of heavily accented and violent French and I, ever wary, turn to find the source.
A white mobile suit, bedecked in blue shoulder cape and bicorne like a conqueror of yore, stands with saber drawn and ignited, resting lightly at the neck joint of grey and blue older model whose his spiked head decoration is none too incongruous; they appear out of their element surrounded by all these military model suits, calling for a duel of honor. Both are standing, their gazes burning with a furor that can only be achieved by drink. The bartender shrugs with a turn of his head and mutters something in French, then sets his completed masterpiece in front of me.
The suit next to me waves a dismissive hand at the scene and turns his gaze on me, inspecting me carefully "Most people stay away from the 30 Bunch Gasser."
I snort softly, my gesture detaching a puff of foam to float in his direction. "I like a strong drink. You come here often?" I look to get information on this joint, trusting he can give me accurate information on my competition.
"Yeah. Used to be the beam-bash champion until Mr. Fancy Reflector Units showed up." He gestures ruefully at a huge hulk of magenta metal that sits confidently beside the I-field cage, his gaze focusing intently upon the mayflies trapped inside. One by one, he rapidly vaporizes them with nothing more than a flash of beam and a puff of smoke. "What brings a new model like yourself here?"
I shrug and take a sip of my drink. It rapidly flows down my throat, scaring all the way. I hide the pain as gracefully as possible, knowing the high that comes after. "Oh, the usual."
The suit's voice pattern registers a hint of a smile. "Hmm?"
"I was in need of a little harmless fun, so I decided to go play a round or two of miniature golf. Maybe blow of a little cash in the arcade afterwards. I'm about halfway through the course, about to set up a perfect hook and bounce shot over a waterfall, when a fall comes rolling between my legs. I ignore it, of course; it's just a simple shot," Here I pause to take another sip of my gasser to fortify myself. "Then behind me I hear someone yell, 'I told you I could get past the windmill.' I about knocked those GMs a new upgrade that night."
The mobile suit next to me chuckles, obviously not impressed. "I was hiking once, out in the Appalachians; my hobby is bird watching, you see. I leaned over to inspect a recently fallen feather, one which is suspected belonged to a kestrel I had been after; I pull my head back up and ten hunters had already drawn a bead on me. You know how embarrassing it was to have to explain that I wasn't a deer?" His eye glints with pride, daring me to come up with a better story.
"Well, has anyone ever tried to use you as a recycling outhouse, to place deleted data in?"
"Have you ever woken up and found your half-awake Gelgoog roommate has detached your head and has it on the counter, vainly attempting to stick a piece of bread inside?"
"Do you have a windmill mode?"
The mobile suit snorts. "Be glad. You have legs. Try getting someone's attention when you have to float up meet their gaze."
I laugh into my drink, disrupting the billowy foam that has developed. "I see you weren't very active during the Gryps era, when the Titans and Neo- Zeon were advocating all that free love and crap."
The disgust registers blatantly in his voice. "Hell no! Did you see some of the designs that came out then? I would have got myself killed too if I looked that ugly."
I was about to say I differed, but I thought it better to keep my mouth shut. "Heh. I know they didn't age gracefully." The suit again laughs. "Oh, the naïveté. My friend, no mobile suit ages gracefully. We're always in a race against time, constantly being outpaced by someone faster, sleeker, or cooler. The old suits don't have the gadgetry of those that follow, so hey end up forgotten in the march of time. To us, only the present matters."
I turn to the screen above me, where the Jaburo Jumpers against the Side 7 Colony Droppers battle in the soccer semi-final. The turretless and armless Ball, now painted in the standard octagonal pattern of alternating white and black, is bounced back and forth between teams, and I watch as the Colony Droppers are given the card for heat hawk use. Off at the opposite end of the bar, two Zakus bicker over a tiny, one credit bet, eventually taking their battle outside. "Then why do we even come here?" I ask, more to myself than to my companion.
"Because we're not needed anymore. We're old models. Our tech is outdated, out abilities mothballed, evolved, or just plain useless; we give way for the next line of suits." He motions to the viewing monitor above us, where the game has given way to commercials. The game fades to black and I see an ancient mobile suit standing, feet resting comfortably apart. In the background rests a desk and bookcase done in the old Imperial style, softly lit to emphasize the scholarly aspect. They seem out of place in the highly geometric and abstract modern world, with their soft curves and plush leather.
A flash catches on the mobile suit's plain v-fin and he smiles, patiently explaining why Federated Insurance is the best for the retiring suit of today, long forgotten since his glory days in the One Year War. What is better than a secure carrier who makes sure to cover you when ever need strikes, going out of its way to find just that right discontinued part to fix your troubles, when the others, who might be a little cheaper would turn you away. The commercial winds to a close, and the Gundam shakes a knowing finger at the audience, his very atmosphere extruding a calm dignity.
It's so fake and old-fashioned I could choke, but the suit next to me smiles. "Even my old rival the RX-78 Gundam, is washed up. We're no longer needed in the world of warfare, so we make our little niches at places like these, scavenging whatever dignity we have left. Want more proof? Look over there."
His gaze turns to a dimly lit round table, normally used for poker but today occupied by group of Leo mobile suits. "Ever night, those guys come in and drink one can for every comrade lost, no matter the cause." I watch as two of the suits attempt to stand, arms locked in comradery, their internal speakers blasting out an indecipherable song. One Leo elbows another in an attempt to gain his attention. The other Leo begins to turn toward his partner when he is overtaken by convulsions and explodes, engulfed in a fireball of soft white light. The Leos pause to stare at the empty space, then shrug in unison and shift over a seat as a call for another round of beer goes up, "At least two of them disappear every night."
I turn my attention to the beam-bash game, where a new challenger has arrived and is rapidly demolishing the old champion's reputation and string of successes. Around him, numerous white cylinders hover, like bees awaiting the call of their queen to strike. He holds out a triumphant hand. And the old champion is forced to submit and pay his bet.
"You see," the old mobile suit says sadly, "that's why we're all here. Because we fear when the newer, faster, cooler mobile suit shows up and ruins out one moment of glory. Because for that one second, that one strand of time-space, we were the best there was. The freshest and the fastest."
The disk jockey announces that the karaoke competition has begun, and a tall, broad shouldered suit takes this stage, the microphone looking tiny in his hand. His red armor gleams under the light, and the soft baritone that he emits seems to be unfitting for his bulk.
"You belong to me, Sayonara ienakute itsumade mo dakishimeta katta I belong to you. harisake sou ni naru kono mune o kimi ni sashidashite We belong to Earth. haruka na sora no moto Kobaruto ni hikaru hoshi ga aru kanashimi wa soko kara hajimatte itoshisa ga soko ni kaeru no sa."
Even my ignorance of Japanese cannot prevent me from enjoying the feeling with which these words are sung.
Not everyone was listening as intently as I, though. The beam-bash cage flies past my head as I turn to clap for the suit on stage. Shards of glass rain around me, and the bartender dives for cover a single antiquated metal fencing saber clutched tightly in his hand. The two opponents begin to grapple knocking the Leos from their precarious positions, three to a chair. Several explode in the fury, and the Zakus protest out of apparent pity.
I watch the scene with growing excitement; the alcohol has begun to do its work. Look to my companion and catch him studying his glass face shivering in the vibrating amber. Shall I be like this, a dilapidated old-style model, accepting my fallen existence on the surface, suspending myself in time. Will I drown my true feelings in the drink?
A chair flies past my face and impacts the television just as the Jaburo Jumpers enter their Base Hopper formation. Or shall I be like the Gundam, erking out my existence on a few meager strands of fame, threads of the past. Shall I seduce retired models into parting with their only credits for a simple repair job, for an insurance plan that doesn't even cover an oil change? Shall I be reduced to infomercials, reality television?
I shudder at the thought then extend my hand to my companion, "What's your model number?"
"MSN-02. Zeong Zeon. A Bau A Qu Mobile Suit Factory"
I pull him upward, disregarding his reluctance. "GF13-066NO. Nether Gundam. Neo-Holland Engineer Corps."
I lift my arms to adjust my helmet, like a huge horror out of a Spanish knight's greatest nightmare. I am a juggernaut, unstoppable, undeniable.
The future will come, and then I shall face it. Day by day.
While I originally tried to make this a all out humor piece, I found it drifting more and more into the serious realm, a move I hardly noticed or moved to stop. Through writing this, I have purged and idea from my soul that I needed out.
In the end, I'm not very satisfied with the ending, but overall I think it is fitting. As always, all critiques are welcome. ------------------------------- A Meeting of the Minds
Smoke drifted lazily from the entrance, opaquely filtering out the kaleidoscope of flickering neon light, the hazy wall highlighted with names like Corona, Budweiser, and Heineken. The strains of Mr. Roboto soar upward, carrying with it a message of contented drunken stupor and the luminescent advertising. It is a place of alcohol Nirvana, where ruminations give way to a twenty dollar drum and a night that you wish you could forget, but can't remember.
In other words, the perfect setup for a beer commercial.
Not like I was looking for anything different. I wanted the women, impossibly glistening; music that provides that perfect audio atmosphere; a couple of good buddies to josh and lay your troubles so they'll buy you a round out of sympathy; the beer that seemed to flow from an endless spring, frothy and cool; the all-out fantasy that had for years inspired mobiles suits to polish their armor plating and prime their beam cannons whenever that commercial-perfect woman walked by, watching as they drank that miracle beer.
Instead my luck had run dry as I slowly weaved my way through the weaving press of bodies, choosing a ubiquitous seat off in a darker section of the building that I hoped would help hide the sails emblazoned across my chest. To my right slouches an older model suit, unfocused mono-eye staring enviously at the couples dancing on the floor. Nimbly, I dodge an antenna and lean in to take an olfactory reading of his drink.
It stinks of burning cat and motor oil, and something inside me shudders with displeasure. "I'll have whatever he's having."
"Right away, monsieur." The bartender seems out of place with his thin superstructure, tiny v-fin resting above his heat vents, and tricolor shoulder armor. His mixing of the vile-looking concoction is punctuated by a crash and a string of heavily accented and violent French and I, ever wary, turn to find the source.
A white mobile suit, bedecked in blue shoulder cape and bicorne like a conqueror of yore, stands with saber drawn and ignited, resting lightly at the neck joint of grey and blue older model whose his spiked head decoration is none too incongruous; they appear out of their element surrounded by all these military model suits, calling for a duel of honor. Both are standing, their gazes burning with a furor that can only be achieved by drink. The bartender shrugs with a turn of his head and mutters something in French, then sets his completed masterpiece in front of me.
The suit next to me waves a dismissive hand at the scene and turns his gaze on me, inspecting me carefully "Most people stay away from the 30 Bunch Gasser."
I snort softly, my gesture detaching a puff of foam to float in his direction. "I like a strong drink. You come here often?" I look to get information on this joint, trusting he can give me accurate information on my competition.
"Yeah. Used to be the beam-bash champion until Mr. Fancy Reflector Units showed up." He gestures ruefully at a huge hulk of magenta metal that sits confidently beside the I-field cage, his gaze focusing intently upon the mayflies trapped inside. One by one, he rapidly vaporizes them with nothing more than a flash of beam and a puff of smoke. "What brings a new model like yourself here?"
I shrug and take a sip of my drink. It rapidly flows down my throat, scaring all the way. I hide the pain as gracefully as possible, knowing the high that comes after. "Oh, the usual."
The suit's voice pattern registers a hint of a smile. "Hmm?"
"I was in need of a little harmless fun, so I decided to go play a round or two of miniature golf. Maybe blow of a little cash in the arcade afterwards. I'm about halfway through the course, about to set up a perfect hook and bounce shot over a waterfall, when a fall comes rolling between my legs. I ignore it, of course; it's just a simple shot," Here I pause to take another sip of my gasser to fortify myself. "Then behind me I hear someone yell, 'I told you I could get past the windmill.' I about knocked those GMs a new upgrade that night."
The mobile suit next to me chuckles, obviously not impressed. "I was hiking once, out in the Appalachians; my hobby is bird watching, you see. I leaned over to inspect a recently fallen feather, one which is suspected belonged to a kestrel I had been after; I pull my head back up and ten hunters had already drawn a bead on me. You know how embarrassing it was to have to explain that I wasn't a deer?" His eye glints with pride, daring me to come up with a better story.
"Well, has anyone ever tried to use you as a recycling outhouse, to place deleted data in?"
"Have you ever woken up and found your half-awake Gelgoog roommate has detached your head and has it on the counter, vainly attempting to stick a piece of bread inside?"
"Do you have a windmill mode?"
The mobile suit snorts. "Be glad. You have legs. Try getting someone's attention when you have to float up meet their gaze."
I laugh into my drink, disrupting the billowy foam that has developed. "I see you weren't very active during the Gryps era, when the Titans and Neo- Zeon were advocating all that free love and crap."
The disgust registers blatantly in his voice. "Hell no! Did you see some of the designs that came out then? I would have got myself killed too if I looked that ugly."
I was about to say I differed, but I thought it better to keep my mouth shut. "Heh. I know they didn't age gracefully." The suit again laughs. "Oh, the naïveté. My friend, no mobile suit ages gracefully. We're always in a race against time, constantly being outpaced by someone faster, sleeker, or cooler. The old suits don't have the gadgetry of those that follow, so hey end up forgotten in the march of time. To us, only the present matters."
I turn to the screen above me, where the Jaburo Jumpers against the Side 7 Colony Droppers battle in the soccer semi-final. The turretless and armless Ball, now painted in the standard octagonal pattern of alternating white and black, is bounced back and forth between teams, and I watch as the Colony Droppers are given the card for heat hawk use. Off at the opposite end of the bar, two Zakus bicker over a tiny, one credit bet, eventually taking their battle outside. "Then why do we even come here?" I ask, more to myself than to my companion.
"Because we're not needed anymore. We're old models. Our tech is outdated, out abilities mothballed, evolved, or just plain useless; we give way for the next line of suits." He motions to the viewing monitor above us, where the game has given way to commercials. The game fades to black and I see an ancient mobile suit standing, feet resting comfortably apart. In the background rests a desk and bookcase done in the old Imperial style, softly lit to emphasize the scholarly aspect. They seem out of place in the highly geometric and abstract modern world, with their soft curves and plush leather.
A flash catches on the mobile suit's plain v-fin and he smiles, patiently explaining why Federated Insurance is the best for the retiring suit of today, long forgotten since his glory days in the One Year War. What is better than a secure carrier who makes sure to cover you when ever need strikes, going out of its way to find just that right discontinued part to fix your troubles, when the others, who might be a little cheaper would turn you away. The commercial winds to a close, and the Gundam shakes a knowing finger at the audience, his very atmosphere extruding a calm dignity.
It's so fake and old-fashioned I could choke, but the suit next to me smiles. "Even my old rival the RX-78 Gundam, is washed up. We're no longer needed in the world of warfare, so we make our little niches at places like these, scavenging whatever dignity we have left. Want more proof? Look over there."
His gaze turns to a dimly lit round table, normally used for poker but today occupied by group of Leo mobile suits. "Ever night, those guys come in and drink one can for every comrade lost, no matter the cause." I watch as two of the suits attempt to stand, arms locked in comradery, their internal speakers blasting out an indecipherable song. One Leo elbows another in an attempt to gain his attention. The other Leo begins to turn toward his partner when he is overtaken by convulsions and explodes, engulfed in a fireball of soft white light. The Leos pause to stare at the empty space, then shrug in unison and shift over a seat as a call for another round of beer goes up, "At least two of them disappear every night."
I turn my attention to the beam-bash game, where a new challenger has arrived and is rapidly demolishing the old champion's reputation and string of successes. Around him, numerous white cylinders hover, like bees awaiting the call of their queen to strike. He holds out a triumphant hand. And the old champion is forced to submit and pay his bet.
"You see," the old mobile suit says sadly, "that's why we're all here. Because we fear when the newer, faster, cooler mobile suit shows up and ruins out one moment of glory. Because for that one second, that one strand of time-space, we were the best there was. The freshest and the fastest."
The disk jockey announces that the karaoke competition has begun, and a tall, broad shouldered suit takes this stage, the microphone looking tiny in his hand. His red armor gleams under the light, and the soft baritone that he emits seems to be unfitting for his bulk.
"You belong to me, Sayonara ienakute itsumade mo dakishimeta katta I belong to you. harisake sou ni naru kono mune o kimi ni sashidashite We belong to Earth. haruka na sora no moto Kobaruto ni hikaru hoshi ga aru kanashimi wa soko kara hajimatte itoshisa ga soko ni kaeru no sa."
Even my ignorance of Japanese cannot prevent me from enjoying the feeling with which these words are sung.
Not everyone was listening as intently as I, though. The beam-bash cage flies past my head as I turn to clap for the suit on stage. Shards of glass rain around me, and the bartender dives for cover a single antiquated metal fencing saber clutched tightly in his hand. The two opponents begin to grapple knocking the Leos from their precarious positions, three to a chair. Several explode in the fury, and the Zakus protest out of apparent pity.
I watch the scene with growing excitement; the alcohol has begun to do its work. Look to my companion and catch him studying his glass face shivering in the vibrating amber. Shall I be like this, a dilapidated old-style model, accepting my fallen existence on the surface, suspending myself in time. Will I drown my true feelings in the drink?
A chair flies past my face and impacts the television just as the Jaburo Jumpers enter their Base Hopper formation. Or shall I be like the Gundam, erking out my existence on a few meager strands of fame, threads of the past. Shall I seduce retired models into parting with their only credits for a simple repair job, for an insurance plan that doesn't even cover an oil change? Shall I be reduced to infomercials, reality television?
I shudder at the thought then extend my hand to my companion, "What's your model number?"
"MSN-02. Zeong Zeon. A Bau A Qu Mobile Suit Factory"
I pull him upward, disregarding his reluctance. "GF13-066NO. Nether Gundam. Neo-Holland Engineer Corps."
I lift my arms to adjust my helmet, like a huge horror out of a Spanish knight's greatest nightmare. I am a juggernaut, unstoppable, undeniable.
The future will come, and then I shall face it. Day by day.