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51stcenturyfoxTitle: Time Agency Awards Banquet, 5094
Author: 51stCenturyFox
Characters: John Hart
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 250
Summary: Bit of a character study.
John gripped the engraved disc of hypersteel and glass as he stepped out for a biting breath of air. It was a bizarre little object - half indestructible, half fragile - and cold to the touch.
He ran a thumb over the lettering. Technological marvel it was; the name was alterable with the whack of a few buttons. He could change it along with his aliases, if he'd brought any baggage on a mission, which of course he wouldn't. I'd be a dead giveaway, no? He needed his strap and the clothes on his back and a prodigious number of weapons.
If he ever went back to the homeworld (and if he'd had a house) he could hang it in a hallway, along with the others he'd received over the years. An I Love Me wall. He could stare at it when he felt that his life, his accomplishments, had been a bit of a joke. Which wouldn't really make them less of a joke.
Intelligence Gathering, Top Capture Rate, Marksmanship. Most of his were labelled Marksmanship.
None of these really meant... anything.
Who would care in another hundred years, when this disc had long ago rolled through a recycle queue, its glass surface pitted and illegible and steel bits destined for a second or tenth life as a handful of bullets or a baby's first spoon?
John considered flinging the disc off the balcony or stuffing it into a bin, but tucked it into his jacket instead.
He heard the band strike up again and hoots and whistles from the ballroom. The official and serious part of the evening was over and it was time for the frivolity, the toasts, the "fun" awards.
With a smirk, he headed in as he considered who might be first in the running for "Rear of the Year".
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laurab1 made artwork! John's medal. Thank you!
A/N: Listening to a little Bowie this morning.
Author: 51stCenturyFox
Characters: John Hart
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 250
Summary: Bit of a character study.
John gripped the engraved disc of hypersteel and glass as he stepped out for a biting breath of air. It was a bizarre little object - half indestructible, half fragile - and cold to the touch.
He ran a thumb over the lettering. Technological marvel it was; the name was alterable with the whack of a few buttons. He could change it along with his aliases, if he'd brought any baggage on a mission, which of course he wouldn't. I'd be a dead giveaway, no? He needed his strap and the clothes on his back and a prodigious number of weapons.
If he ever went back to the homeworld (and if he'd had a house) he could hang it in a hallway, along with the others he'd received over the years. An I Love Me wall. He could stare at it when he felt that his life, his accomplishments, had been a bit of a joke. Which wouldn't really make them less of a joke.
Intelligence Gathering, Top Capture Rate, Marksmanship. Most of his were labelled Marksmanship.
None of these really meant... anything.
Who would care in another hundred years, when this disc had long ago rolled through a recycle queue, its glass surface pitted and illegible and steel bits destined for a second or tenth life as a handful of bullets or a baby's first spoon?
John considered flinging the disc off the balcony or stuffing it into a bin, but tucked it into his jacket instead.
He heard the band strike up again and hoots and whistles from the ballroom. The official and serious part of the evening was over and it was time for the frivolity, the toasts, the "fun" awards.
With a smirk, he headed in as he considered who might be first in the running for "Rear of the Year".
laurab1 made artwork! John's medal. Thank you!A/N: Listening to a little Bowie this morning.
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Date: 2009-01-10 08:33 pm (UTC)