ShadowGonissa
01-13-2006, 2:20 PM
Awhile back, I posted an epic poem about my good friend Protosschick, and I said that the first person to post in that thread would get a story about them. Ender_Wiggin was the first, but I haven't put up his story yet. So here it is, Soul's Inheritance, chapter one.
---
"Hold on, Wiggins," Private Carlson said worriedly as he put his fellow marine down behind a large rock. "we're gettin ya out of here. Damn it, don't die on us, it's just some bleeding...Jones, get over here with the first aid, now! No, no, Wiggins, everything's gonna be cool...just cool..."
The withered looks of his friends ruined their own argument, or would have if Nathan Wiggins had been paying attention. Instead the searing pain of his limbs, right eye, and chest, as well as his missing left leg, distracted him from everything else. Leaning against a large boulder, Wiggins couldn't help but think of the other times when he was the one trying and failing to comfort a severely wounded friend.
But of all the images of dying soldiers that passed through his head, the worst was of the marines that cried out for their buddies to save them, to find their missing body parts or to find relatives, or some sentimental crap. Cowardice had to be overcome with pure grit, which this soldier knew all too well.
So forcing a sincere grin, he said, "Man, Carlson, I was planning on using that leg in the future. Oh well, I'm not playing football anytime soon. Think I can still manage a little croquet though, if somebody's got a set."
"You keep that up. I don't want you goin' unconscious or gettin' depressed like some piss-ant cadet. I'm gonna contact Mengsk now, he'll know how to get us out of this...I hope..."
"I got it."
So Nathan Wiggins rested in the grassy plains of Chau Sara, smiling bizarrely and recounting his surroundings. He and the few other Sons of Korhal were in a pleasant field, filled with tall, deadened grass and large boulders, behind which the men now hid. In the distant east lay the direction of a Confederate base, one they had just fled from, except for the brave few; they sacrificed themselves to hold back the Confederates until they could be retrieved. If the rebels hoped to survive, they would have to escape before the soulless ghosts were sent out to search and destroy. And with as many injured as they had, running on foot from them was futile.
The ghosts cared for neither man nor beasts, exploiting both without hesitation for whatever twisted purposes their government had in mind. If caught, you disappeared from the living world forever. Behind closed doors you either became one of them or became tomorrow's unrecyclables, the latter being the more common of the two.
Originally, the now small Sons of Korhal platoon had been meant to take out the Confederate base, one with the highest of securities, to investigate the experiments. Vaguely before, SoK spies had received clues that Zerg and cybernetic tests proceeded to advance the human soldier to its possible peak. Mengsk believed that this could end the militias that fought for freedom against the sovereign Confederates.
But the Sons of Korhal failed this attempt, leaving the battered survivors to fall back.
This was a depressing thought, so Wiggins returned to the comfort of his unusually happy mind, finding comfort in the memories of his past. What was it that so revealed the jolly dying man in this grim soldier?
His father, he remembered.
(Flashback)
Little Nathan, 8 years old, youngest of five children, played in the small living room/dining room/family area of the tiny apartment with his toy soldiers, little Confederates lined up to shoot mythical bad guys, aliens, and slime monsters. They were of cheap grey plastic, but worth much more to the boy. They were his miniature comrades and subordinates, successful in each endeavor. Nathan wanted to be just like them, except not plastic, when he grew up, defiant and a good Confederate citizen.
The oldest son, Angel, had long since passed out of the household, and the first daughter had married away. Maria stayed to bolster the family in place of their mother, and Fabian wasn't out of school yet, but worked at night in the same tank factory as their father. That left only Nathan unemployed.
Or he was the family moral officer, as his father joked about his melancholy son, who only took pleasure in life when with his toy warriors. Bad grades at school, a lack of friends, fights with Fabian, and conflicts with Maria all pushed the boy into solitude. There, perhaps, his only comfort was the thought of revenge against the world, Nate and his gun. He'd show them what "no namer Nate" could do. He'd show everybody. Except ladies. Shooting women isn't polite, isn't the Confederate thing to do, so his father taught him.
As often as he could, Tobias Wiggins tried to relieve his son of his depression and destruction. Unfortunately, that was only about once a week, if he was lucky. The factory, besides time-consuming, was tiring, meaning free time was spent in the shower or near comatose in bed. But when possible, Tobias would join Nathan with his toys and show him a more lighthearted side of reality.
One time especially stood out in Nathan's memory, when the dad and his son pretended war in a desert plain. The father hadn't much felt like being conventional, so kept singing random songs when his soldiers charged, like "the Bonnie Blue Flag" or "Ghost Riders in the Sky", tunes the boy had never heard before. He would even shout nonsense when a soldier "died".
"Oh no, not Jimmy! Anybody but him! Jimmy!" Mr. Wiggins exclaimed.
"Dad, that's not how the game goes!" Nathan said, feigning annoyance.
This comment went without response as the silly father continued. "Oh no, I can't let Jimmy die! Medic! Somebody find a medic!"
Picking up another supposedly dead action figure, he waved it about over 'Jimmy', saying in a mock feminine voice, "I am the magic soldier fairy, and I save the soldiers with good souls. You Jimmy have the best soul of all, so you get to live forever and be the strongest warrior ever!"
The Jimmy figure got to its feet and 'said', "Yay! I'm the specialest!"
But the fairy continued, "But this comes at a cost...you must serve me forever in fairyland!"
"No, I don't wanna! I'm allergic to fairy dust!"
"Daddy! Stop being so silly!"
"I'm being serious. If you ever get into battle, son, a good fire-fairy will prevent you from dying, because you've got the spirit of Korhal in you, and she's all about Korhal. I seen her myself. She looks like a woman all dressed in soldier's camo. Boots, too. They've, that's the fairies, not the boots, got the power to heal any wound, and even regrow arms. But if you don't pay what she wants, she'll turn you into a rotten tree stump."
"Uh uh, I don't think so."
Mr. Wiggins laughed. "You don't believe the magic fairy has power? No? Well look at this!" Returning to the feminine voice, the father made the 'fairy' fly around his own head. "Tobias Wiggins, because you have a very generous soul, I grant you the title of the best father ever! But you must complete this task: put the stubbornest boy to bed! Magic pixie dust, ha!"
With that, the chase ensued. Tobias ran after Nathan, bumping over anything in his way, yelling, "I won't be a tree stump today!"
It wasn't long before Nathan was caught, and Mr. Wiggins picked up his laughing and struggling son, ran about the small interior space of the apartment, then put him in the room Nathan shared with Fabian. A plop later, the giggling boy was deposited on his small bed and tucked in.
"Good night, kid."
"Night, Dad."
Mr. Wiggins headed for the door and turned out the light. Just before exiting, a small voice made him pause.
"Daddy, you're a weirdo."
"Yeah, and aren't you lucky too? The best dad in the world!"
(End Flashback)
Even two decades later, Nathan was not inclined to disagree, even though Tobias's behavior was peculiar, and some said that too much equipment had fallen on his head during the workday. What father pretended a toy man was a fairy and told his son such a stupid myth?
Still, that grinning fool parent had rubbed off his eccentricities on his son, allowing Private Wiggins to survive the greatest pains of his life, besides the loss of his poor mother. It was this that kept him amused when he knew he could never walk with his natural legs again. In this state of euphoria, Carlson returned with a radio, transmitting on an encrypted wave.
The fellow marine shook his head. "Got in contact with Mengsk. The dropships will be here in one or two minutes."
"Oh yeah, I'm looking forward to that. Gotta get some metal on this here stump and fight some more for the rebel cause. All the way! Guess you're right, everything's gonna be fine after all." Wiggins tried to shift his position without bothering his bandages too much.
"Um, about that..."
"Yeah?"
"Well, dude, there's not enough time to get you outta here. The Confederates have our position, and they'll be coming along after us, like right now. We been ordered to leave behind the seriously injured, 'cause there ain't no sophisticated medical care nearby. And most the dropships are doin' other things, so can't spare enough to get y'all out real quick."
Carlson stopped there, stricken pale even for his African skin. He tried to say something to Wiggins, but nothing came out. What were you supposed to say to your friend, your best friend, who was going to be abandoned to the enemy? How is one supposed to act?
"Please, Zac," Nathan said pleasantly. "don't be upset now. I'm gonna be a genuine war hero! Make sure I get a posthumous medal or two, okay? Somethin' shiny and pretty for the ol' Sheol."
"You're gonna be dead turkey is what you are." Carlson murmured, shaking his head.
"Turkey, eh? It's got to take a lotta time in an oven to roast me! Ha! An hour per pound!"
Carlson did not find this statement as hilarious as his weakened friend, but again shook his head. "Man, you've got some major problems."
There was either no response or nobody heard it. The dropships had come, noisily and quick, rushing to save the rebels. Carlson went towards them, but turned back for a moment to glance worriedly at his friend. Wiggins waved him on happily, as if to give permission, or maybe even forgiveness. Whatever it was, Zac Carlson went on his way afterwards. No goodbyes.
Wiggins didn't see him leave. He just closed his eyes and waited for silence. This was his death, and he wanted to face it ready. Seeing his battlefield brothers leaving could only make him suffer. So he had to find focus to clear his mind. Focus came in the form of a memory, one that had occurred five years ago. It was when Mengsk had first opened his eyes to a world where the Confederacy was wrong.
---
"Hold on, Wiggins," Private Carlson said worriedly as he put his fellow marine down behind a large rock. "we're gettin ya out of here. Damn it, don't die on us, it's just some bleeding...Jones, get over here with the first aid, now! No, no, Wiggins, everything's gonna be cool...just cool..."
The withered looks of his friends ruined their own argument, or would have if Nathan Wiggins had been paying attention. Instead the searing pain of his limbs, right eye, and chest, as well as his missing left leg, distracted him from everything else. Leaning against a large boulder, Wiggins couldn't help but think of the other times when he was the one trying and failing to comfort a severely wounded friend.
But of all the images of dying soldiers that passed through his head, the worst was of the marines that cried out for their buddies to save them, to find their missing body parts or to find relatives, or some sentimental crap. Cowardice had to be overcome with pure grit, which this soldier knew all too well.
So forcing a sincere grin, he said, "Man, Carlson, I was planning on using that leg in the future. Oh well, I'm not playing football anytime soon. Think I can still manage a little croquet though, if somebody's got a set."
"You keep that up. I don't want you goin' unconscious or gettin' depressed like some piss-ant cadet. I'm gonna contact Mengsk now, he'll know how to get us out of this...I hope..."
"I got it."
So Nathan Wiggins rested in the grassy plains of Chau Sara, smiling bizarrely and recounting his surroundings. He and the few other Sons of Korhal were in a pleasant field, filled with tall, deadened grass and large boulders, behind which the men now hid. In the distant east lay the direction of a Confederate base, one they had just fled from, except for the brave few; they sacrificed themselves to hold back the Confederates until they could be retrieved. If the rebels hoped to survive, they would have to escape before the soulless ghosts were sent out to search and destroy. And with as many injured as they had, running on foot from them was futile.
The ghosts cared for neither man nor beasts, exploiting both without hesitation for whatever twisted purposes their government had in mind. If caught, you disappeared from the living world forever. Behind closed doors you either became one of them or became tomorrow's unrecyclables, the latter being the more common of the two.
Originally, the now small Sons of Korhal platoon had been meant to take out the Confederate base, one with the highest of securities, to investigate the experiments. Vaguely before, SoK spies had received clues that Zerg and cybernetic tests proceeded to advance the human soldier to its possible peak. Mengsk believed that this could end the militias that fought for freedom against the sovereign Confederates.
But the Sons of Korhal failed this attempt, leaving the battered survivors to fall back.
This was a depressing thought, so Wiggins returned to the comfort of his unusually happy mind, finding comfort in the memories of his past. What was it that so revealed the jolly dying man in this grim soldier?
His father, he remembered.
(Flashback)
Little Nathan, 8 years old, youngest of five children, played in the small living room/dining room/family area of the tiny apartment with his toy soldiers, little Confederates lined up to shoot mythical bad guys, aliens, and slime monsters. They were of cheap grey plastic, but worth much more to the boy. They were his miniature comrades and subordinates, successful in each endeavor. Nathan wanted to be just like them, except not plastic, when he grew up, defiant and a good Confederate citizen.
The oldest son, Angel, had long since passed out of the household, and the first daughter had married away. Maria stayed to bolster the family in place of their mother, and Fabian wasn't out of school yet, but worked at night in the same tank factory as their father. That left only Nathan unemployed.
Or he was the family moral officer, as his father joked about his melancholy son, who only took pleasure in life when with his toy warriors. Bad grades at school, a lack of friends, fights with Fabian, and conflicts with Maria all pushed the boy into solitude. There, perhaps, his only comfort was the thought of revenge against the world, Nate and his gun. He'd show them what "no namer Nate" could do. He'd show everybody. Except ladies. Shooting women isn't polite, isn't the Confederate thing to do, so his father taught him.
As often as he could, Tobias Wiggins tried to relieve his son of his depression and destruction. Unfortunately, that was only about once a week, if he was lucky. The factory, besides time-consuming, was tiring, meaning free time was spent in the shower or near comatose in bed. But when possible, Tobias would join Nathan with his toys and show him a more lighthearted side of reality.
One time especially stood out in Nathan's memory, when the dad and his son pretended war in a desert plain. The father hadn't much felt like being conventional, so kept singing random songs when his soldiers charged, like "the Bonnie Blue Flag" or "Ghost Riders in the Sky", tunes the boy had never heard before. He would even shout nonsense when a soldier "died".
"Oh no, not Jimmy! Anybody but him! Jimmy!" Mr. Wiggins exclaimed.
"Dad, that's not how the game goes!" Nathan said, feigning annoyance.
This comment went without response as the silly father continued. "Oh no, I can't let Jimmy die! Medic! Somebody find a medic!"
Picking up another supposedly dead action figure, he waved it about over 'Jimmy', saying in a mock feminine voice, "I am the magic soldier fairy, and I save the soldiers with good souls. You Jimmy have the best soul of all, so you get to live forever and be the strongest warrior ever!"
The Jimmy figure got to its feet and 'said', "Yay! I'm the specialest!"
But the fairy continued, "But this comes at a cost...you must serve me forever in fairyland!"
"No, I don't wanna! I'm allergic to fairy dust!"
"Daddy! Stop being so silly!"
"I'm being serious. If you ever get into battle, son, a good fire-fairy will prevent you from dying, because you've got the spirit of Korhal in you, and she's all about Korhal. I seen her myself. She looks like a woman all dressed in soldier's camo. Boots, too. They've, that's the fairies, not the boots, got the power to heal any wound, and even regrow arms. But if you don't pay what she wants, she'll turn you into a rotten tree stump."
"Uh uh, I don't think so."
Mr. Wiggins laughed. "You don't believe the magic fairy has power? No? Well look at this!" Returning to the feminine voice, the father made the 'fairy' fly around his own head. "Tobias Wiggins, because you have a very generous soul, I grant you the title of the best father ever! But you must complete this task: put the stubbornest boy to bed! Magic pixie dust, ha!"
With that, the chase ensued. Tobias ran after Nathan, bumping over anything in his way, yelling, "I won't be a tree stump today!"
It wasn't long before Nathan was caught, and Mr. Wiggins picked up his laughing and struggling son, ran about the small interior space of the apartment, then put him in the room Nathan shared with Fabian. A plop later, the giggling boy was deposited on his small bed and tucked in.
"Good night, kid."
"Night, Dad."
Mr. Wiggins headed for the door and turned out the light. Just before exiting, a small voice made him pause.
"Daddy, you're a weirdo."
"Yeah, and aren't you lucky too? The best dad in the world!"
(End Flashback)
Even two decades later, Nathan was not inclined to disagree, even though Tobias's behavior was peculiar, and some said that too much equipment had fallen on his head during the workday. What father pretended a toy man was a fairy and told his son such a stupid myth?
Still, that grinning fool parent had rubbed off his eccentricities on his son, allowing Private Wiggins to survive the greatest pains of his life, besides the loss of his poor mother. It was this that kept him amused when he knew he could never walk with his natural legs again. In this state of euphoria, Carlson returned with a radio, transmitting on an encrypted wave.
The fellow marine shook his head. "Got in contact with Mengsk. The dropships will be here in one or two minutes."
"Oh yeah, I'm looking forward to that. Gotta get some metal on this here stump and fight some more for the rebel cause. All the way! Guess you're right, everything's gonna be fine after all." Wiggins tried to shift his position without bothering his bandages too much.
"Um, about that..."
"Yeah?"
"Well, dude, there's not enough time to get you outta here. The Confederates have our position, and they'll be coming along after us, like right now. We been ordered to leave behind the seriously injured, 'cause there ain't no sophisticated medical care nearby. And most the dropships are doin' other things, so can't spare enough to get y'all out real quick."
Carlson stopped there, stricken pale even for his African skin. He tried to say something to Wiggins, but nothing came out. What were you supposed to say to your friend, your best friend, who was going to be abandoned to the enemy? How is one supposed to act?
"Please, Zac," Nathan said pleasantly. "don't be upset now. I'm gonna be a genuine war hero! Make sure I get a posthumous medal or two, okay? Somethin' shiny and pretty for the ol' Sheol."
"You're gonna be dead turkey is what you are." Carlson murmured, shaking his head.
"Turkey, eh? It's got to take a lotta time in an oven to roast me! Ha! An hour per pound!"
Carlson did not find this statement as hilarious as his weakened friend, but again shook his head. "Man, you've got some major problems."
There was either no response or nobody heard it. The dropships had come, noisily and quick, rushing to save the rebels. Carlson went towards them, but turned back for a moment to glance worriedly at his friend. Wiggins waved him on happily, as if to give permission, or maybe even forgiveness. Whatever it was, Zac Carlson went on his way afterwards. No goodbyes.
Wiggins didn't see him leave. He just closed his eyes and waited for silence. This was his death, and he wanted to face it ready. Seeing his battlefield brothers leaving could only make him suffer. So he had to find focus to clear his mind. Focus came in the form of a memory, one that had occurred five years ago. It was when Mengsk had first opened his eyes to a world where the Confederacy was wrong.