My first Installment of 2011's NaNoWriMo

            Humanity has always been prized for its many derived wonders. Some of the most horrific nature, as seen in Japan at the closing of the second great war, but some also of such beauteous nature as the refrigerated freight car which allowed for the greater distribution of meat. They have spanned oceans, conquered mountains, and transgressed all earthly boundaries. I do admire them for it, truly I do, but I must say, I truly believe we are their greatest achievement. Years of genetic studies beginning with something as simple as the color of pea plant blooms has now matured past something so benign as Dolly to the greatest power house of human innovation.

            Yes, I’m well aware I sound presumptuous, but you see, that is what they always taught us. Propaganda and all that, though several of our scientists honestly believe the hog-pog of feel-good statements they recited to us every morning. I’m sure it was to breed confidence in us and assure we felt that we would always be worth the time and trouble we both contributed each and every morning. Unfortunately they did not take into account how quickly we would begin to understand how humans can lie. A few fine chaps bit off their own tendons and bled to death from how awful and cheated they felt. I can’t deny I was about to do the same. You can’t tell a dog they’ve done well when they know they haven’t; our loyalty isn’t so blind anymore. That’s the problem when you start incorporating the intellectual, cognitive mind with the more instinctual based animal mind of a dog. I knew I was well ready to get away from the labs and the trainers and their contraptions and training apparatuses, and off to something truly new and fascinating. So you can understand my joy to find I was being shipped off to a new owner.

            Rehckivic had only a small, little, pitiful airport from what I’ve seen of the satellite images, unfortunately I was never permitted to see it as my guide informed me that I and the hand full of other Neo-dogs would have to remain out of sight while still in Iceland. Something to do with staying out of sight from the general populous. When we arrived in Berlin – after a loud and uncomfortable ride in what must have been a small, rickety flying contraption – we were allowed out of our tightly sealed crates into larger wire ones. When our guide walked us out of the tightly sealed containers, I was overwhelmed with the potency of the air.

            The Berlin airport struck me paw over tail immediately with just how diverse and strong they all were. Rubber and jet petrol, sewer steam and human sweat, Germans smell different than Icelandic people; more sausages and potatoes than fish. They even smoke different types of tobacco. Very different smells. I kept catching little bits of things I had been taught to recognize; blood, sweat, vomit, but then there were many others I had only faintly knew of the smell of cigarette smoke and strong beer, but then there were so many others I could only assume where types of food.

            My guide was quite frustrated with me turning my head and tugging my lead like an untrained pup. But it was all so lovely, my tail was wagging incessantly as she packed me in the metal cage that would be my private compartment for the flight over to England. I was then most roughly placed on a conveyor belt and moved to the belly of the plane. My crate was stationed next to quite a number of animals. The closest neighbors of which were a shaky, skittish rat of a Chihuahua, a completely sedated Persian tabby and a large bloodhound mastiff, or something of the sort. Hard drow and drooping jawls, that sort of thing. I stood in my crate for a while, just trying to capture the memory all the various smell that were still filtering through the open loading hatch. I didn’t think of how I was being watched.

            “You seem excited.” I heard the largest of my neighbors growl, though that was more as he was a rough individual opposed to the actual message intended.

            “You could say that,” I commented, trying to take in what I assumed was the faint smell of freshly baked bread – it smells much like the stale stuff but much more buttery and potent.

            “First time flying?”

            “No,” I said, it wasn’t exactly a lie. I realized uncomfortably that he was watching and intently with his shoulders quite still. I wondered intently with his shoulders quite stiff . I considered if he thought me a threat though I couldn’t understand why, it wasn’t as though I was going to take over his crate or anything.

            A person came and closed the hatch as he and others shouted back and forth in German, the Chihuahua whimpered and a few other animals around the cargo bay voiced their discomfort. Especially a bird I noticed swearing profusely and rattling his feathers in his cage. It was a great deal darker in the cargo bay now that the main light source was suddenly cut off.

            “What are you?” I heard the neighbor ask most rudely, even living the sheltered life I had had, I knew basic canine etiquette, he couldn’t have offended me more if he had referred to my dame as a ‘bitch’ – exclusively a human term for a female dog, not ours.

            “German and Australian shepherd,” I said truthfully, “. . . and a little black lab on my sire’s side.” I knew I couldn’t use the truth as to why I had such black fur. I doubt he would have understood the explanation anyways.

            “A mutt . . .” he sneered. I rose my hackles at this.

            “I was specially chosen and bread for multiple traits, not simply appearance.” I sat rigidly as a dog of good breeding. He snorted. I resisted the urge to bare my teeth at him.

            “Are you some sort of hunting dog?”

            “In a manner of speaking.” I realized with a flutter of shame that being elusive was a distinctly feline trait. He gave a low rumbling chuckle which a human might mistaken for coughing.

            “I’ve been trained for Scotland Yard at a facility in Munich.” He said with some smugness, scratching his ear in a gesture of unimportance. It was my turn to laugh and I did so loudly.

            “And when you mutts fail who do you think the humans send in?” I pulled back my lips from my long fangs in an almost human style grin. I knew he could see the wolf blood in me then. “I’m bred and trained for military purposes, my fine fellow, not simple a smidge of detective work here and there.” He turned from me with a low growl and lay down with his back to me. I knew he believed me because it’s not in a dog’s nature to be able to lie straight out, elude a question, yes, refuse to answer, more likely than not, but never lie straight out. I’ve been alleviated of this almost inborn trait, but it still takes a great deal of conscious effort. I can say, however, that I hadn’t been lying then.

            Even thought I had won the argument I now no longer had anyone to talk to during the flight. I lied down with my head on my paws and contemplated what I should do about things, contemplating the life ahead and such what. To be honest the smell of jet fuel and airline plastic was beginning to make me feel ill. When the plane began to move down the runway all the animals around me began a new protest. I closed my eyes, hoping I was to expect a shorter flight than the first, especially when the whimpering Chihuahua stopped his pleading to vomit in the corner of his crate.

Double Leaf - Chapter 1 Excerpt 2

“And another thing –” Grendel was cut off by a sharp rap on the door of the observation booth. He switched off communications to the Simulation Sphere and rounded on the door. “It better be important,” He barked, “I’m with a trainee right now.”

“Is it Brag?” The door slid open and a young man strode in without waiting to be invited. He leaned over one of the screens showing the charted heart rate. Even then, it was still bobbing around ten beats per minute more than was average. The instructor snorted disapprovingly.

“Yes, a mater of fact I was just debriefing him on his despicable attempt assassination.” The other man was busy cycling through the recorded charts from the missions that morning. His normally bright and cheery features were drawn into a dark frown. Grendel gave him a severe glace before saying, “You really should teach that boy some resilience, Jofur; he’s been acting like a frightened pip all day. Jumpy as hell.”

“I would be, too, if I had had three kamikaze missions back to back.” Jofur said softly from in front of the screen. As he looked at the recorded pulse monitored through each mission he noticed they looked more like a seismograph of a serious earthquake than a chart of a human’s heart rate. “There’s a reason they have a daily limit for these mission types, Grendel; the chemical and psychological strain can be –” He shook his head, giving a low whistle, “- nasty.”

“You sound like you have a lot of experience in the matter,” the instructor said sarcastically. Jofur straightened and look the older man staight in the face when he said, “Yes, a lot more than I wish.” Grendel coughed, deciding he wouldn’t mock him on the subject anymore. Jofur sat down at the desk and started looking through some of the video footage from the missions. “Remember Ieron?” Jofur asked after a while. The instructor grunted, faintly remembering a thick-necked assassin he had to constantly chase from the simulators.

“He was my Big Brother.”

This inspired the slightest hint of surprise, “I keep forgetting who’s assigned to who, nowadays.”

Jofur continued, “He died from almost five different types of cancer just a few years ago. The medics traced it all back to his excessive uses of the last generation simulators, and the stress and frustration that came with it.”

“He was trying too hard to use a fake life to get over his real one.” Grendel said thickly, the incident had left a dark stain in his memory and had caused a massive reevaluation of the simulators – not to mention the many new regulations concerning how often the simulators were open for use. Jofur agreed with the blunt observation, but he would never admit that openly to Grendel. He had started scrolling through the times.

“You should have withdrawn him after he was stabbed in the stomach.” Jofur said stiffly.

“Hmm?”

“He was bleeding to death for almost seven minutes, and after the second stab he was completely incapacitated.”

“Oh, the first mission,” The instructor commented lightly, “I thought I would give him a chance to bring a few down with him; he was trying right to his last breath.” Jofur gave him a dark look through the corner of his eyes, he was sure there was some rule against ‘unnecessary suffering’ in the books. He would have to find that before this particular instructor had another session with his trainee. The younger man slipped a thump-nail sized memory chip into the command panel.

“You really like to overdo it, don’t you?” Jofur, snarled under his breath. Grendel rounded on him; he hadn’t heard a single word, but the tone had made the meaning apparent. “Whatever you need to say to me you can say it to my face!” His vicious bark was usually enough to startle a lesser assassin into silence; but Jofur was an equal, despite their difference in age, and such shows of force did little to faze him.

“It seems to me you forget that what’s happening in those simulators is affecting a living human.” Jofur stood to his full height and stared at the grizzly instructor firmly. Grendel glared back. He gritted his teeth as he snarled.

“Just ‘affecting’ isn’t enough. They’re supposed to be learning means for survival.”

“All he’s ‘learning’ is to fear every second of every mission because they’ll ultimately lead to some horrid death -” Jofur’s voice was swiftly rising, but the older man’s bark cut through.

“And for an assassin that screws up, that’s exactly what awaits him -”

Jofur hissed sharply, “And do you know, statistically, what the single leading cause of accidents on the field is?”

“Naiveté and arrogance –”

“No, actually; it’s not naiveté, or arrogance, or even inexperience,” Jofur gave a crooked little smile before suddenly roaring. “It’s because of the exhaustion from continuous stress, the kind your ‘training’ –” Jofur gestured angrily at one of the screens, “- causes in the trainees, and the kind you’re teaching to my Little Brother. Do you know what that does to a person on a four to five hour long mission -?”

“These boys need some idea of what the real world is like!” The man roared, a tendon throbbing beneath his ear. Jofur quivered with fury at the gall of the instructor’s exhausted excuse.

“Yes, I get that,” He hissed at first, but his voice soon rose to a pitch to match his opponent. “But in the real world a person isn’t going to face death three different ways in just a few hours and then be expected to stand at attention and go straight to a written examination, not to mention the usual daily training. For lots sake, Grendel, you’ve had him in there since five in the morning!”

Grendel jabbed his finger at Jofur’s face, “You haven’t the faintest clue what this boy is capable of because you spend all your time coddling him and putting bandages on every little scratch –”

The youth shoved the hand away and roared. “He would be capable of much more if he wasn’t being worn thin by your statistical training regime –”

“What’s all this?” The low voice rolled like thunder into the dark observation booth. Both Jofur and the Instructor froze. A bull of a man was standing outside of the door. His skin was as dark as ebony and seemed to absorb all of the light from the hallway behind him. To the two observers in the room, he was the imposing silhouette of muscled shoulders with two steely eyes glinting from a shadowed face. He had to lower his head to walk into the observation booth.

“What’s going on in here?” His words seemed to fill the whole room. Jofur bowed his head, suddenly self-conscious of what the Master Commissioner must have heard. Grendel, in his usual fashion, stood erect and faced the Commissioner with the resolute of feeling he was in the right.

“He was questioning my authority, sir.” The instructor said, “As you know, the training schedules and procedures in the simulators are under my jurisdiction.”

The imposing man nodded casually. “Yes, that’s true,” He pulled a long rod from a pocket on the thigh of his uniform. It folded out into a touch screen. “But that power is always limited by the rules and regulations of Commissionings and the Medical Faction. Medical leave counts as one of those limitations.” He navigated the files on the viewing device and then held out the Visual Platform for the other two to see. It was a form signed by a doctor and two of the head Commissioners. The red seal of the Lotus Garden flashed from the bottom of the page. The instructor deflated in the dim light of the V-P screen. “This isn’t your first offence, Grendel. If you continue to overreach your authority then it will be in my jurisdiction to take you before the Courts. Is that clear?” Without so much as raising his voice, he had cowed Grendel completely.

“Yes, sir.”

Once he had made his position clear, he returned his attention to the V-P, and said flatly, “You have my permission to leave.” The other two hesitated, It wasn’t always clear with this Commissioner as to what was a request and what was an order. When the man’s sharp eyes fell on Grendel, though, the intention seemed clear. “What are you still doing here?”

“Yes sir.” He disappeared as quickly as possible after that. Jofur watched him with the faintest tremor of pity. He realized the instructor had just been removed from the only place he had any authority. The Commissioner was looking over the various computer screens, pausing occasionally to type away at the V-P. Jofur fidgeted beside the door.

“Yes, Jofur, I know you want to ask me something.” The tall man bent over one of the screens. The youth nodded.

“Master Morgan, sir –”

“’Morgan’ is just fine for the moment, I’m not here to reprimand you, specifically.”

“Alright, Morgan,” It felt strange to say his name without any title, it went against his training, “I just wanted to apologize for my outburst before you had come in, I was being a little – eh – uncouth about my opinions.”

Morgan straightened, and gave a weary sigh. He turned to Jofur and spoke to him as a mentor, not as a master. “Jofur, I can understand as well as anyone your concerns for your trainee. I had the same worries over my Little Brother when I was still a part of Double Leaf; as do most who take on the position of Big Brother.” Jofur listened with rapt attention to a side of the Commissioner he had never even considered. “It is good to be attentive to his needs and weaknesses, and to be there to help him through his troubles, but you mustn’t forget your own position and duties. Remember the Assassin Tenet is based on the respect of each member’s place within the whole. It is never about the individual, because the individual will never be as strong as he would be beside his brethren.”

“Sir, it was never my intention of questioning the ways of the Double Leaf; only Grendel. I didn’t feel what he was doing was right considering Brag’s current state. And he’s only seventeen; he doesn’t need this sort of pressure when his Confirmation Mission won’t be for another ten months.” He would have said more, but Morgan had lifted his hand in a gesture for the younger assassin to stop.

“Jofur, your intentions in this situation were never in question. You had every right to challenge Grendel this time. My concern is that you will forget yourself and challenge an equal, or even superior from very single-minded feelings for your LB. When there is confrontation with another assassin you take it before one of the higher assassins or a member of the Lotus Garden before it escalates to a heated shouting match.”

Jofur bowed his head, “That was my intention, sir.” He pointed to the chip still sitting in the command panel. Morgan reached over and plucked up the tiny memory device.

“May I take it with me for further evaluation?”

Jofur nodded. Morgan slid the chip into a protective casing around his wrist. The wide bracelet, like the Visual Platform, was a staple of all the assassins, regardless of rank. He pocketed his V-P and had turned to the door.

“Thank you – and Jofur; understand that this wasn’t a reprimand, merely a reminder.” He paused at the door and gave the younger assassin a polite nod, “And you should go and take care of your Little Brother.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jofur bowed from the hip, but Morgan had already turned away. He called over his shoulder as the door closed.

“Let him sleep the rest of the morning, I’m sure he’s exhausted.”

Double Leaf - Chapter 1 Excerpt

            All Brag could do was run. With each step he could hear the rumble of the massive mine transport closing the gap. He glanced to either side, but remembered that each of these alleys lead to dead ends. He would just have to trust that this narrow street would provide some means of escape. The burning in his leg muscles was joined by the waves of heat from the front grate of the ironclad wolf at his heels.

            “You can’t run forever.” He faintly heard. His mind was too jarred to be sure if it came from around him or from inside his own head. He tried to put an extra kick of speed into his attempt, what other choice do I have?

            The mine cart was speeding up. He could hear his sweat dripping off and sizzling on the open grate. His own terror drove him to glance back at the approaching doom. The great face of the beast was red and burning like the open maw of hell. His already drumming pulse managed to double, the massive vehicle was still ebbing closer despite all his efforts. He turned back to the path and saw the wide brick wall. There were many more of the armed gang waiting for him, they were armed with long plasma rifles. The gun smugglers, why didn’t anyone warn me!

            One had already lifted the rifle to his shoulder. Brag’s eyes did a quick sweep over the street end, but there was nothing for him now. The gun fired. It was a surprisingly soft sound, like the hiss from a spray bottle, but the sound still filled Brag’s head and spurred him to movement. His body hit the pavement, he gave a sharp gasp as he felt the heat of the grate travel over him, and then everything stopped.

            If he hadn’t been able to hear the low spit and growl of the massive engine above him he might have thought it had all just been paused at that split second. He trembled underneath the belly of the mining vehicle, wondering how he had gotten there without dying. He strained his neck to look around and realized he was laying in the gap between the two caterpillar struts. It was by some divine providence that he hadn’t had his arms torn up under the teethed belts that flanked his body. He faintly heard the door of the metal beast grate against the close walls of the narrow street. He heard the driver shout. “Don’t shoot at the Beetles, the ammo in those can burn right through conventional metal.”

Brag lay panting and sweating as several sets of dusty boots swarmed the vehicle type affectionately called ‘Beetles’. He felt himself quiver involuntarily when he noticed the thin barrels of the plasma rifles.

“Did you hit him?” He heard a voice close above him ask, they were answered by others slowly circling the Beetle.

“Not with the gun, he didn’t.”

“What about the Beetle? No one could survive those trets.”

“That’s if he was under the trets.”

Brag shifted to look at the gap behind him, but there were more men waiting there too. He was surrounded and feeling himself slowly roast in the coffin sized space under the hot engine. His whole body was still raging with the chemical panic that had been eating through him since the mission had begun. He looked forward towards the closest means of escape. He would need a distraction. He tried to reach the side pockets along his close-fitted uniform. He was fumbling with a fat pill when his elbow strayed to close to the engine; in just the split second that it made contact, the burning hot metal had seared through his uniform and burned flesh. It took all his self control to not shriek aloud, but the sharp gasp of pain was enough.

One of the more curious gun smugglers jumped back from the square opening. “I heard him, he’s alive!” Brag clutched his elbow, trembling anew and biting his lip. In his other hand he held the only tool he could grab in time.

“Let’s end this,” a harsh voice growled, Brag recognized it immediately. It sent an involuntary sting of pain through the still healing gashes along his right eye, and made the pounding against his ribs intensify until his heart was fluttering like a little bird. Why does it always have to be him? “Back up the Beetle, and you bits aim for the opening. If he’s alive, then gut him.”

This was his only chance, he held the silver pill tightly, preparing to throw it. The engine rumbled above with a growl like rolling thunder. As it pulled back he caught a glimpse of the rifle tips aimed at the shadow of the Beetle. He buried his face in his arm and tossed the metal pill. It made a little pop like a flash bulb and all the men gave some shout of surprise or pain. Brag pulled himself out from under the vehicle and scooped up the little pill, feeling the first twinge of relief all morning. The tiny flash grenade had worked beautifully.

He rounded on the Beetle, the driver was trying to climb out of the door, still blinded. “Don’t shoot! You might hit – ” Brag slammed the door on his head to get past the tiny gap in the wall. Soon he was off running again. Many of the men behind the Beetle hadn’t been affected by the blinding flash and raised their rifles at him as he darted out from the side of the vehicle, but he still had the upper hand. He swung around the corner and had the barrel of the first rifle in his grip before the smuggler could react. Brag’s foot darted out and slammed another man into his companions. The rifle he was holding was pulled out of the owner’s grip and then came back at his face with a sharp jab. Brag fired a spray of plasma over the three rifles that lay in the hands of the struggling men, each trying to stand. One began to scream as the viciously corrosive solution made his skin bubble like melted wax.

It had all happened in just a few seconds, and then he was running again. They had managed to chase him a long ways from his quarry; he would have to retrace his steps until he had reached their headquarters again. He could already hear the engine revving to go, apparently the cheap blow had only angered the driver, and had done nothing to stop him directing the mine vehicle back the way it had come. Brag shouldered the rifle still in hand -it had already proved useful- now he just needed to get out of the path of that fire-breathing monster. He glanced around at the windowless, ash-streaked buildings around him and the same alleys from before. He wasn’t going to escape into the buildings, but what about over them? He looked up and remembered the stretches of electric wires and strings of naked bulbs that crossed back and forth over the street. If he could find a way to get up to them, then he could get onto the roof, and then nothing would be able to hold him back. He didn’t feel any twinge of relief or excitement at the realization; it seemed too easy to hope for. He darted down one of the alleys to search for a way up, out of the beaten track of the Beetle.

This alley seemed to have presented one, in the form of a mountain of garbage and scrapped machinery that seemed to slope up the wall almost to the rooftops. He didn’t slow his pace as he approached, instead running at it and then leaping up. He heard shouts behind him as he half ran - half climbed the mound of refuse.

“There he is!”

“Shoot him down! What else are those guns good for?”

“Don’t let him get to the roof or we’ll never catch him!”

There were some men already climbing as Brag had reached about mid way. The rise had become steep and everything kept trying to shift out from under him. He had reached the top of the pile when he heard the blast. He was enveloped with smoke and everything went silent save for a constant humming in his ear. He felt around through his delirium, scattering pieces of brick and plaster that had come off the building, then he fell through darkness.

After a moment long enough to realize he had become weightless, he felt his body land heavily onto what must have been a concrete floor. The blast, whatever it was, had left a gaping hole in the building and he had managed to fall right through. As his head started to clear, he remembered he needed to get away. He struggled up onto his trembling arms, starting to feel the throbbing in the side of his head, and the fierce sting of what must have been shrapnel in his arm and shoulder. He crawled into the dark space that was still too blurred by his pain to see.

“There you are.” He heard the husky growl. His terror returned, no, not him, anyone but him! Suddenly Brag felt something hard collide with his side. He struggled to get up off the ground, but as he tried he was struck a second time. It hit him again and again until his first shout of panic had been contorted to choked gasps. He swore he heard his ribs breaking.

“What are you doing? Stand up and fight!” He heard the faint voice again, it was coming from the back of his head. Then he heard a low, barking laugh come blearily through his stuffed up ears. He was rolled onto his back. He could see a figure outlined against the white light of the hole in the wall above. “What made you think you would do any better this time, boy?” The voice growled. Brag blearily tried to reach for the rifle still hanging off his back, but his hand was pinned effortlessly down by the figure’s heavy boot.

“Nice try,” Brag saw the figure lift the blade up against the circle of light. He gave a weak whimper as he felt the grip at his neck.

“What are you waiting for? Finish him!” The hidden conscience shouted angrily. He was being lifted off the ground by the throat. Now suspended limply like a dead rabbit, he heard his enemy growl close to his face.

“But this time I’m going to finish what we started –”

“NOW!”

 “- you bastard assassin.”

He could do nothing. He could barely lift his own arms to try and pull at the fingers around his throat, let alone fight, as the voice had demanded. Brag gave out a choked sob as he saw the blade come down to sink into his eye-socket.

Brag felt his stomach dragged down through his navel and then the rest of his body follow as it remembered what real gravity felt like. He was meant to land standing, but his physical weakness left him to crumple helplessly in the bottom of the Simulation Sphere. The sharp edges lining the inside of the training simulator stabbed his arms through the sensory suit. He was reminded that for all the advancements of the cutting edge simulator, it still couldn’t match real pain. Brag was thankful for it.

He reached up and touched the smooth helmet face. He closed his unharmed eyes with a tense sigh; he was still intact, he was still alive. He rubbed his sides where he could still feel the ghost pains from being kicked by the knife wielding gang leader. The ache in his legs from the running was real, but the sting of shrapnel, the beatings, and the burning had all been simulated. Still, they left him pale and sweaty. The fear had been real.

“What was that?” He heard the voice clearly now that it wasn’t being piped into his brain through the needles in his spinal cord. “That was the worst yet this morning!”

Brag pressed his face into the back of his hands, curling up to form a kow-tow on the floor of the tiny chamber. If I had time to rest . . . he thought. He wouldn’t dare say it aloud should the instructor hear. The man seemed angry enough at his performance as it was; any response –what the instructor, Grendel, automatically dubbed ‘back-talk’- would only lead Brag into more trouble.

“I’m sorry, sir.” He said softly trying meekness as a way to hopefully pacify this man. The last thing Brag wanted was for Grendel to make him do another mission, he didn’t think he could handle another just then, or for the rest of the day. His attempts seemed to have no effect on the strict instructor.

“Get up, stop your groaning!” He heard the voice snap through the intercom. Brag winced, he wasn’t sure he could stand, and the thought of trying made his leg’s ache intensify. Slowly he rose up and placed his feet on the yellow marked places in the base of the sphere. He tried to keep steady but his head had started to swim.

“That was pitiful. You’ve been trained better than this.” Brag closed his eyes and tried to relax, but his empty stomach was knotting up inside of him. He didn’t need to hear a briefing on what he had done wrong, he was the one who had died from it after all. “That was the sort of performance I expected from some first tier trainees, not an assassin about to perform his Confirmation Mission. If I was the one directing Commissionings I wouldn’t let you past novice level with that kind of performance.” Brag was hardly listening; he stared blankly at the inside of his helmet wondering if there was enough in his stomach to vomit with, or if he would only gag a few times and that would be it. “I fully expect you to come in here every morning until you’ve gotten over this phobia. You can’t freeze up in panic every time you have to deal with one of the gun smugglers or that ‘Jack the Knife’. It’s an insult to your post.” Brag bowed his head, so that’s what this is all about. It suddenly made sense why he had kept running into him in the simulator like some recurring nightmare. He could stand steadily now, but the pains in his stomach had only gotten worse. He was wondering if it were better to puke on the simulator and risk damaging it, or just do it in his helmet and risk having to smell it for every mission until they updated to a new suit. Neither sounded very pleasant.