>>5302997The morning hangs over you like a dense cloud, your mind and body groggy. Despite having the best sleep in what seemed like half a month it barely helps. Everything was building up, plaque sticking to every surface. Your face felt numb and puffy as if it wasn't your own. Enduring it you work through the plights of the morning and rush to get dressed, trawling through the mud. Only a few more days remained until you would be sent off for further training, so you wanted to get as much done before then as possible. As you play with your tablet over breakfast you find yourself alone, the first pilot to arrive. Strangely enough you found the absence of people soothing, it wasn't the first breakfast you had eaten alone. You knew it wouldn't be the last. The digital clock read out in hot orange that it was only ten past five in the morning. Your old habits were returning as your body spent more energy on recovering than discovering. You let a sigh escape, hoping it would ease the tension between your brows.
What few snippets you could remember weighing on you. Opening the notepad app you watched the screen intently, all the unclouded slithers of your life marching passed your eyes one by one. A misstepping troop with only a quarter of its full capacity. You were playing with half of a deck. You only had the low cards, you needed some of the faces. You begin to transcribe what you could remember. First starting with skimpy notes, Mother, Brother. No face. Father. The Interior ministry. The Hole. But as the words stamp the backlit screen you begin to track more recent events. Ones you could remember as if they were yesterday. The rough nuggets of gold that kept you human. Concentrating on the act helped the fog and daze leave. Content with the paragraphs you finish up your food, promising yourself to update it daily. You leave the small recreation room before any other pilots arrive.
The route down to the Phobos training area was a familiar one now, you found the small fortitude writing had made the trip slip by. Before you know it you stood before your Phobos, the main training level was still in a lull. Mostly repair and maintenance crewmen were about. Nameless you watched the towering weapon, soaking in the elegance and yet simple design. The Alien masterpiece. Sleek and sharp the body held two spots that stood out on your Phobos. The grey hull possessed silver scars. Fresh Xeno alloys had been produced to fill in the gaps Anastasia had carved into you. Just looking at the wounds made your hip and shoulder twinge, the painful memories hauntingly real. The faint tinge of blood still plaguing your tongue. You swore the core was pulling you closer and closer. It deserves a name.
>What do you do, Pilot?>What do you name your Phobos? Write in.>Something Wicked?>The Half Soul?>Heartthrob?>Hysteria Madonna? >Name it Later?>Write In? 