[VOICE. Arsenal's comm, for those who'd recognize it. -- 2/24/10, 12:14 PM]
[[OOC: BEFORE WE GET GOING, let me explain--it's forward dated until tomorrow afternoon so I have time to actually do any resulting tags. My work schedule basically forces me to spend 2/3 of tomorrow and then all of Thursday there, consecutively, with ~6hr sleep in the middle. Therefore, in order to not just post this up tomorrow afternoon and not manage to touch it again until some time Saturday, pretend this post is happening at the time in the subject title. The solo log explaining this hours leading up to this post will probably go up late tonight/early tomorrow. I'm sorry for any confusion this may cause.]]
[The boy's voice is fairly serious, as though he's doing a lot of thinking just then. It's not mournful, however, or angry, or any number of other tag-along feelings that tend to accompany people in complicated situations. It's just... there. Like someone quietly and patiently reciting a speech they've had memorized for years.]
It wasn't supposed to be a game. He wanted to know where he belonged.
[Long pause. The creak of leather and rustle of clothing--someone shifting in a seat, perhaps.]
People will do a lot of things to protect others.
[You can hear various plastic clicks, electronic beeps, and metallic squeaks and clangs as he talks.]
But they're all tactical errors.
...The enemy should be destroyed. It's the only way to finish the battle.
[The boy's stops speaking; the feed becomes nothing but soft footsteps and the sound of air moving across the mic as he walks, combined with very faint background sounds from where-ever he's at just then. A car horn in the distance--and suddenly, a deep rumbling noise that starts out low down enough to feel as though it's vibrating in the blood of anyone listening. It begins to grow louder, only to abruptly replace itself with a high-pitched whine and the extended vvrreeeeeeeeeeee of machinery coming online and moving.]
[For an incredibly brief moment, there's sheer silence. Not even the birds are daring to sing. Something taps against the mic--something thick, a hand or a jacket or a scarf--and muffles it slightly just as an incredibly violent short series of explosions fire off, rocking the audio feed and overloading it for a moment with unintelligible static before fading back out into what seems like the faint crumbling of some kind of rock or concrete.]
[And then he shuts it off.]
[The boy's voice is fairly serious, as though he's doing a lot of thinking just then. It's not mournful, however, or angry, or any number of other tag-along feelings that tend to accompany people in complicated situations. It's just... there. Like someone quietly and patiently reciting a speech they've had memorized for years.]
It wasn't supposed to be a game. He wanted to know where he belonged.
[Long pause. The creak of leather and rustle of clothing--someone shifting in a seat, perhaps.]
People will do a lot of things to protect others.
[You can hear various plastic clicks, electronic beeps, and metallic squeaks and clangs as he talks.]
But they're all tactical errors.
...The enemy should be destroyed. It's the only way to finish the battle.
[The boy's stops speaking; the feed becomes nothing but soft footsteps and the sound of air moving across the mic as he walks, combined with very faint background sounds from where-ever he's at just then. A car horn in the distance--and suddenly, a deep rumbling noise that starts out low down enough to feel as though it's vibrating in the blood of anyone listening. It begins to grow louder, only to abruptly replace itself with a high-pitched whine and the extended vvrreeeeeeeeeeee of machinery coming online and moving.]
[For an incredibly brief moment, there's sheer silence. Not even the birds are daring to sing. Something taps against the mic--something thick, a hand or a jacket or a scarf--and muffles it slightly just as an incredibly violent short series of explosions fire off, rocking the audio feed and overloading it for a moment with unintelligible static before fading back out into what seems like the faint crumbling of some kind of rock or concrete.]
[And then he shuts it off.]