In which Falcon muses retrospectively, and Sarge makes a pretty scarf.
Entry Four
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Start Log
August 17th, 4026
Above Noctus Prime
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It's the days like these -- the slow, dragging, boring rests in-between duties that you spend just staring out porthole by your bunk -- that I miss my old life the most. Looking retrospectively on those days when we'd just lay together in bed all day, letting the world flow by around us, I finally realize how good we had it. Back before the economy crashed, before the war, before the fallout -- before the corporations. I long for those simple days again. I long for the peaceful, quiet, perfect days that I'd work on my novel.
Spending my youth along the beach side, sitting on the warm sand as the foamy waves came crashing in, watching the gulls soar between the speeders that streaked through the sky, and the brilliantly fiery sunsets had filled me with the inspiration and ambition to be a writer before I'd even hit puberty. Coincidentally, it was that very same beach line that I discovered my only other reason for living: you. That's all over now, though, since the corporations like Haos arose out of the war. There wasn't any room for writers anymore with the proliferation of fighting throughout the galaxy, so I picked up a gun and joined the PMC.
Speaking of the PMC, they're bringing in that extra battalion tomorrow. Loads of kids, fresh out of the pathetic training they give them. Sarge and I are supposed to get eight of them that are going to be serving under us, with me as his right-hand. Apparently one time in an actual battle is enough to warrant more responsibility in his eyes -- even said that I'd be ready for a promotion some day before this was all over. I'm surprised that he actually talks to me like a person.
I had an interesting conversation with Sarge today. Since he is currently my only bunk-mate in the quarters for the Green Hawks until other privates are put under our command, we spend a lot of time laying around and talking about various things. Sports, weaponry, the latest speeders, holovids we've seen lately -- anything to keep from talking about ourselves. However, he saw me messing around with my datapad, and asked me what I was doing. When I told him that I was working on a novel, he seemed a little surprised. Guess he didn't see me as the writer-type. He only had one thing to say in response.
"That so? Yeah, yeah.. I can understand that... I like to knit."
I guess it's like Jones always said: "Everyone's human".
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End Log
August 17, 4026
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