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How to talk to veterans about the war »

A powerful talk by paratrooper and captain Wes Moore, on talking to soldiers in a way that honors their service. 

Watch it now »

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Whether or not Van expects Ambient to hear him is no matter. How quickly that blip on the radar skips between clicks is more demands more attention. For the first time in nearly two years, Van feels that raw, unadulterated adrenaline. No ounce of thought to anything else. Nothing but this fight. There is no mistaking the sudden, maddening clarity steadying his hands and focusing his mind.

Finally, a challenge.

As much as this may be for the safety of the world, for honor, and for survival, Van is drawn into chasing the danger. It cracks a smile across his face. Oh, he has missed this feeling far too much.

Van activates the Caesar's boosters, and they charge forward to meet Ambient head-on. His hand is ready to swing the energy swords wide at the last second for an idiotically gutsy game of chicken.

Ambient can’t hear Van, wouldn’t care even if he could. He could’ve come up with a strategy. He could sense the snipe masters and brastle tigers, but why not let the pests have their fun? The descat screams again and rockets straight towards Van with no indication of stopping or slowing. They don’t bother with any maneuvers to avoid the sniper fire either. The organoid does have a plan. A few should he need them.

 For now he just plays chicken with irritating human and waits for the others to make their first move. Perhaps they’re too afraid of him to try, not that it mattered. He had no intention of allowing any of the parasites to live.

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You have fuckin wild turkey AND christmas

Cheer

the fuck.

Up.

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"Van, it doesn’t matter if you’re from the republic or the empire. A life is a life and you did the right thing trying to save his. Wars are no good for anybody."

-Doctor D, Zoids Chaotic Century Episode 16  (via anindoliveblogsthings)

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ゾイドログ | さつま

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Blade Liger joins the ranks of dancing Zoids

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らくがき１ | 紅緋梅†

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隠密の大蛇 | NaR

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「俺の力を信じろ！」 | mice

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押せ押せジーク | ポンガシ

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らくがき１ | 紅緋梅†

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By that late in the day, yes. Ambient more than definitely let Van stew for quite some time; half a pack of cigarettes and a ninth of wild turkey are burned through. Still, the young man has been through more than enough to know battles are a lot like running, public speaking, and most average day-to-day things in general -- relax, or you're fucked. Yet, it's undeniable how many anxiously excited jitters he feels from head to toe. It has been far, far too long since he has gotten a good fight. It isn't like he would ever admit it, being the poster child of a hero and so adamant about peace -... but, he feels the allure of adrenaline pumping action and testosterone fueled violence, and the sharp, maddening clarity that comes with both. As much as Van has gone through from war to war, and even with how much he has grown, he is only twenty years old -- still so very young, still so very easy to lose himself in chasing the rush. It tempts him with empty promises of glory and false honor.

He would have given into it, too, if not for Caesar's counsel and the touch of a tarnished ring nestled between his dog tags.

When there is a crackled warning over the squad's frequency that a zoid is closing in at approximately 200 miles per hour, Van is ready. Caesar hunkers down at the north-north-east edge of town as the veteran settles into the pilot seat, small quirk of a smile tugging at his lips, and hands eagerly at the controls.

"Took you long 'nough."

He let them stew. Yes, that is exactly what he did. He did not simply forget about the challenge. His memory is fine. It doesn’t matter when or if he shows up. He napped for a while in the desert, bright red body blending surprisingly well with the red clay cliffs. He wakes. Sharpens his claws on some ore. Did he have plans? Did those plans matter? It was always easier to remember things with the boy around. His boy. He didn’t want to involve the boy. Why?

Wanders. The clay is soft under his talons but not as soft as meat. Wait. Yes. He did have plans. A grin. Ambient shoots into the air in a bolt of crimson energy and flies. Flies back towards where he came, where he had left the zoid. The Descat had been dead. He had given it life. Life and power. The zoid screams when he bonds to the core. Rage, his rage. Rage at the humans for their trespass. For their relentless murder of his people. His and Hiltz’. For their ongoing, unapologetic destruction of the planet. 

The Descat screams again, humans might compare core-bonding with Ambient to a night of 4Loko. Another might compare it to a bad meth high, and another could compare it to steroids. The truth is something between all three, zoid forced to grow a full ten feet taller simply to accommodate the sheer amount of power. The armor shines red, blood red all over, spikes erupting from the plates. A roar, long and loud. They take off.

A red demon screaming across the desert at 200 m/h in a straight line to an insignificant colony of pests. The sun is halfway set.

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Van has dreamed of coming home for a long time now; big feast at the church, rod and reel by the lake, then a long comfortable siesta, go for a ride up the bluffs, maybe help Ol' Uncle Joseph around his ranch. And every time he had let himself daydream about this sabbatical, it was never like this. Never smothered in dirt and sweat, wearing crusty old dungarees, and with over-grown peach fuzz on his face. Not like this.

Not with five acclaimed Guardian Force operatives piloting Snipe Masters surrounding Wind Colony 37, and two Brastle Tigers guarding each. Not with a duel at high noon hanging over his head. As much as his sister had welcomed him happily, Van does not consider this any sort of homecoming. Especially with all fifty-three residents of the village evacuated to a Guardian Force military base. This is business, this is war.

It just happens to be on his front porch.

And that really does not make Van happy. But, hey, home playing field advantage. Better make the most of it. The weather is excellent -- sixteen knot breeze, moderate cloud cover, not even close to ninety degrees. Being at the backside of a mesa facing the Badlands makes for a relatively decent fortress, with an emphasis on 'relatively'. The perimeter the Snipe Masters have spans at least seven miles, hidden beneath sand dunes or camouflaged in a distant cliff-side. The Brastle Tigers -... Van has no idea. In all truth, he didn't ask for the help. It was an order from up-top. The most he cares about is that there are snipers that are from some fancy military academy that apparently makes them incredibly amazing, and he has a long overdue fight with a red organoid coming.

12:01 PM, and this is Van's fifteenth patrol around the village with Caesar.