Junk (No Time for Tears Remix), for brennanspeaks
Title: Junk (No Time For Tears Remix)
Author: inlovewithnight
Summary: Sentimentality is a luxury of peace.
Characters: Lee, Tyrol, Kara
Pairings: None
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Beta Thanks: Thanks to sionnain
Title, Author and URL of original story: Junk by brennanspeaks
One of the first things Lee learned in flight school was that you don't anthropomorphize the planes. Pilots tell themselves all kinds of things about how if you treat your bird right, she'll take care of you in a pinch. Hell, they call them birds and she.
Major Komine, the flight instructor, had a special degree of spitting contempt for all of that.
"Vipers and Raptors are machines," she told them, pacing back and forth on the flight deck. "They're tools; they don't think, and they don't feel. There's no magic connection between you and the onboard computer that's going to make it save your ass if things go wrong. Your skill is what will save you--or not."
Lee never forgot that lecture, or the point of it that the Major drove home again and again right up through graduation: In the end, you're all you've got. You save yourself.
He knew that most flight instructors didn't come at it that way. Kara definitely isn't teaching the nuggets anything of the kind. Kara flies the same way she does everything else-all gut and emotion, and logic and rationality could go frak themselves. It would have been a waste of time and energy to argue with her about it.
Right now he kind of wishes he had, though. Watching that kid beat himself up because he wrecked the Mark II is depressing and irritating at once. The loss of a valuable piece of equipment is the problem here, and would be the exact same problem, no more or less, if that equipment had any name on its side other than Husker.
"You understand what went wrong?" he asks, watching the deck crew drag the equipment over to start cutting up the hull.
"Yes, sir." At least the kid's voice is steady. He's miserable, but he's not crying.
"And that won't happen again, will it?"
"No, sir."
"You'll find an entirely different way to frak up your next landing, but you won't do that again."
The kid flushes deep, unhappy red. "Sir." From the corner of his eye, Lee sees Kara grinning.
"Dismissed," he says, and the nugget retreats back toward the racks, not sparing a single look back for the Mark II, just as Lee wanted. There wasn't a handbook of psychological tricks for military commanders in the wake of genocide, but if he ever sat down to write one, this would be right up near the front: keep them pissed off at you and what a frakked-up coldhearted bastard you are, and they might not get as tangled up in sentimentality and despair.
"It's a shame," Tyrol says, coming over to stand next to Kara.
"Yes." The knuckledraggers start the first cut, and Lee winces at the shriek of tearing metal. "We need all the planes we can get."
Kara gives a sharp, irritated huff of breath. "You know what he means. That thing saved your life."
Lee doesn't answer, just watches the sparks fly as the saw moves through the hull. Yeah, he knows. He was there.
Flying a Mark II should have been an interesting experience, a puzzle to stretch his skills--the old controls, the need for more precise input from him to adjust for the lack of automation, the ever-so-slight lag in response time; if it had been for any other reason, he would have jumped at the chance to fly that model of plane. It was a challenge.
But that particular Mark II, with its baggage and its name...it felt like walls closing in on him when he sat in the cockpit, like he was trying to wear his father's skin and the way it didn't fit was just another reminder that he was never going to be Bill Adama or even a decent imitation. And when the attack came, it was even worse, because after the end of the frakking world, they were going to need men like Bill Adama. Larger than life men. Heroes.
Of course he went back to his Mark VII as soon as he had a chance. He'd lost everything else in the frakking universe, at least that was his.
He shakes his head sharply, laughing a little at himself. Maybe he hadn't taken Major Komine's lessons to heart very well after all.
"What's so funny?" Kara asks, exchanging a glance with Tyrol.
"Nothing." Lee runs his hand over his hair and turns to go. "Get me the report of what's salvageable by tomorrow morning, Chief."
"Yes, sir." Tyrol winces as a piece of the hull falls to the deck. "Sir, should we keep the nameplates? Save them for the Commander?"
It's on the tip of his tongue to say yes. But there's not a lot of room for sentiment anymore, and he has a feeling that the Commander is very unlikely to appreciate the gesture.
His dad's the hero, he's the frakked-up coldhearted bastard. It's good to have well-defined roles to rely on, out here. That'll go in his book as well.
"They're still useful," he says instead. "Melt them down or paint them over."
Tyrol looks like Lee punched him in the stomach. Kara looks like she wants to return the favor.
He envies them the luxury of feeling that way.
Author: inlovewithnight
Summary: Sentimentality is a luxury of peace.
Characters: Lee, Tyrol, Kara
Pairings: None
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Beta Thanks: Thanks to sionnain
Title, Author and URL of original story: Junk by brennanspeaks
One of the first things Lee learned in flight school was that you don't anthropomorphize the planes. Pilots tell themselves all kinds of things about how if you treat your bird right, she'll take care of you in a pinch. Hell, they call them birds and she.
Major Komine, the flight instructor, had a special degree of spitting contempt for all of that.
"Vipers and Raptors are machines," she told them, pacing back and forth on the flight deck. "They're tools; they don't think, and they don't feel. There's no magic connection between you and the onboard computer that's going to make it save your ass if things go wrong. Your skill is what will save you--or not."
Lee never forgot that lecture, or the point of it that the Major drove home again and again right up through graduation: In the end, you're all you've got. You save yourself.
He knew that most flight instructors didn't come at it that way. Kara definitely isn't teaching the nuggets anything of the kind. Kara flies the same way she does everything else-all gut and emotion, and logic and rationality could go frak themselves. It would have been a waste of time and energy to argue with her about it.
Right now he kind of wishes he had, though. Watching that kid beat himself up because he wrecked the Mark II is depressing and irritating at once. The loss of a valuable piece of equipment is the problem here, and would be the exact same problem, no more or less, if that equipment had any name on its side other than Husker.
"You understand what went wrong?" he asks, watching the deck crew drag the equipment over to start cutting up the hull.
"Yes, sir." At least the kid's voice is steady. He's miserable, but he's not crying.
"And that won't happen again, will it?"
"No, sir."
"You'll find an entirely different way to frak up your next landing, but you won't do that again."
The kid flushes deep, unhappy red. "Sir." From the corner of his eye, Lee sees Kara grinning.
"Dismissed," he says, and the nugget retreats back toward the racks, not sparing a single look back for the Mark II, just as Lee wanted. There wasn't a handbook of psychological tricks for military commanders in the wake of genocide, but if he ever sat down to write one, this would be right up near the front: keep them pissed off at you and what a frakked-up coldhearted bastard you are, and they might not get as tangled up in sentimentality and despair.
"It's a shame," Tyrol says, coming over to stand next to Kara.
"Yes." The knuckledraggers start the first cut, and Lee winces at the shriek of tearing metal. "We need all the planes we can get."
Kara gives a sharp, irritated huff of breath. "You know what he means. That thing saved your life."
Lee doesn't answer, just watches the sparks fly as the saw moves through the hull. Yeah, he knows. He was there.
Flying a Mark II should have been an interesting experience, a puzzle to stretch his skills--the old controls, the need for more precise input from him to adjust for the lack of automation, the ever-so-slight lag in response time; if it had been for any other reason, he would have jumped at the chance to fly that model of plane. It was a challenge.
But that particular Mark II, with its baggage and its name...it felt like walls closing in on him when he sat in the cockpit, like he was trying to wear his father's skin and the way it didn't fit was just another reminder that he was never going to be Bill Adama or even a decent imitation. And when the attack came, it was even worse, because after the end of the frakking world, they were going to need men like Bill Adama. Larger than life men. Heroes.
Of course he went back to his Mark VII as soon as he had a chance. He'd lost everything else in the frakking universe, at least that was his.
He shakes his head sharply, laughing a little at himself. Maybe he hadn't taken Major Komine's lessons to heart very well after all.
"What's so funny?" Kara asks, exchanging a glance with Tyrol.
"Nothing." Lee runs his hand over his hair and turns to go. "Get me the report of what's salvageable by tomorrow morning, Chief."
"Yes, sir." Tyrol winces as a piece of the hull falls to the deck. "Sir, should we keep the nameplates? Save them for the Commander?"
It's on the tip of his tongue to say yes. But there's not a lot of room for sentiment anymore, and he has a feeling that the Commander is very unlikely to appreciate the gesture.
His dad's the hero, he's the frakked-up coldhearted bastard. It's good to have well-defined roles to rely on, out here. That'll go in his book as well.
"They're still useful," he says instead. "Melt them down or paint them over."
Tyrol looks like Lee punched him in the stomach. Kara looks like she wants to return the favor.
He envies them the luxury of feeling that way.