crossmyheartandhope (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2020-01-10 09:02 pm
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2020-01-10 09:02 pm
Entry tags:
Memory 18: Trials
“How’s that?” says Yoshioka.
Hurricane blinks, peering through the unfamiliar faceplate.
“The fit’s okay,” he says.
And it is; it’s snug and comfortable, made for his measurements, though the HUD takes its time starting up – flickers to life a full ten seconds after he’s synced and suited.
“HUD’s got a delay,” says Hurricane. “Just kicked in.”
He peers around the room, taking in the details – checks for visibility and accuracy, the way he’s supposed to. He watches the readout begin to do its thing, the glowing letters pulling up names and vital signs as he regards Yoshioka and the techs all in turn.
Then he actually reads the labels, and he starts to laugh. He laughs until he’s gasping for air – until he has to pop the faceplate because he’s kind of dizzy.
“Might wanna check the connection to the main database,” says Hurricane, when he can breathe again. “Everyone’s got your name, dude.”
===
“On three,” says Yoshioka.
He’s seated at a bank of monitors at the end of a long, long room – an aircraft hangar, though there aren’t any planes in sight. There’s just Yoshioka, in his too-big white lab coat, and a handful of techs, and a medic standing by, just in case.
Hurricane’s heart feels like it’s going to slam its way out of his chest.
“Sure thing,” says Hurricane. “On three.”
Even though he’s behind the suit’s faceplate, the sound distortion is almost nonexistent. He’s in the big leagues now; the days of static and poor reception are in the past.
“One,” says Yoshioka. “Two.”
Hurricane takes off. He can hear Yoshioka sigh through the comms, and he grins, hard.
The suit’s not finished yet. Only the basic outline of what it’s going to be is in place, like a kid’s sketch next to the final, polished work of a master artist.
It’s faster than the test suits, by design, but he can feel it listing to the left when he banks, and there’s more drag than he wants there to be. He guns it for the far wall, meaning to pull up at the last second – skim along the high ceiling and test maneuverability up by all those beams.
Only, he doesn’t pull up, after all. He hits the wall, goes end over end, and lands in a heap by Chroma’s test station.
“So, uh,” says Hurricane, into the comms. “Controls could use work.”
===
The table where Hurricane’s resting his elbow is metal, and the suit gauntlet encasing his forearm is the same shade as the brushed steel. There’s no paint yet, even though he’s picked his colors. That will come later.
He flexes the fingers, one at a time – watches as the metal around his hand responds, easy as breathing.
“Now the blade release?” prompts Yoshioka.
Hurricane shifts his hand in just the right way, and there’s a distinct hiss of metal on metal. It doesn’t sound like snikt, no matter what the comic books say. If this was in comic form, it’d have to be shh or ffsh or maybe even hhhssh.
But the sound doesn’t come with a blade, no matter how cool it is.
Hurricane stares, waiting. Yoshioka stares, too.
At length, Hurricane reaches over to knock on the metal with his bare hand.
The blade, reluctantly, slides out. It’s longer than a dagger but shorter than a sword, and it’s mounted there in the gauntlet that encases his forearm, extending from the wrist. It’s a sleek, matte black, carbon fibre with a sci fi kind of aesthetic. It looks badass.
It would look badass, if it wasn’t doing a weird, jittery in-out dance, like it can’t decide which position it wants the blade to be in.
“Hmm,” says Yoshioka.
The blade pulls in and ejects, and then again, and then again, and Hurricane starts to laugh.
===
“One,” says Yoshioka. “Two.”
This time, Hurricane waits.
This time, they’re clocking him.
“Three,” says Yoshioka’s voice over the comms.
Hurricane takes two quick steps and pushes up off the ground, barreling into the air without any hesitation. The left leg’s still sticking a little at the knee joint, but most of the handling issues have been cleared up. When he angles up toward the ceiling, it’s smooth and even.
He hits the course like a hurricane, fast and relentless – is through the rings hanging from the ceiling in ten seconds, and back down to the floor to tag the first checkpoint barely a heartbeat after that. He swings a wide loop around the walls, rattling the equipment laid out on the testing benches as he passes. The zig-zags don’t throw him anymore, and he twists, and banks, and comes down to land again, right where he started.
“Time?” says Hurricane, a little breathless.
“Thirty seconds,” says Yoshioka, sounding pleased. “Do you realize you just beat the record Freedom set during its trial run?”
“Dude,” says Hurricane. “For real?” He pops the faceplate, grinning – leans in over Yoshioka’s shoulder to peer at the stats: weight and drag and mobility.
Hurricane glances at the numbers, and he glances at Yoshioka’s face.
“Hey,” he says. “Wanna ditch the chest plating?” Metal-encased fingers reach out to tap at the display projected in the air. “We get the weight down, I bet I can do that run in twenty.”
“You’ll have no armor,” says Yoshioka, dubious.
“Tradeoffs,” says Hurricane, waving a dismissive hand. “C’mon, if nothing can hit me, I’m not gonna need armor anyway, right?”
“Hmm,” says Yoshioka.
“That a yes?”
Yoshioka leans forward to adjust the hologram model hovering in front of them. He scraps the chest plating, and the leg plating, and part of the reinforcement along the shoulder blades.
“I do believe,” says Yoshioka, thoughtful, “That you’ll be able to do it in fifteen.”
Hurricane blinks, peering through the unfamiliar faceplate.
“The fit’s okay,” he says.
And it is; it’s snug and comfortable, made for his measurements, though the HUD takes its time starting up – flickers to life a full ten seconds after he’s synced and suited.
“HUD’s got a delay,” says Hurricane. “Just kicked in.”
He peers around the room, taking in the details – checks for visibility and accuracy, the way he’s supposed to. He watches the readout begin to do its thing, the glowing letters pulling up names and vital signs as he regards Yoshioka and the techs all in turn.
Then he actually reads the labels, and he starts to laugh. He laughs until he’s gasping for air – until he has to pop the faceplate because he’s kind of dizzy.
“Might wanna check the connection to the main database,” says Hurricane, when he can breathe again. “Everyone’s got your name, dude.”
===
“On three,” says Yoshioka.
He’s seated at a bank of monitors at the end of a long, long room – an aircraft hangar, though there aren’t any planes in sight. There’s just Yoshioka, in his too-big white lab coat, and a handful of techs, and a medic standing by, just in case.
Hurricane’s heart feels like it’s going to slam its way out of his chest.
“Sure thing,” says Hurricane. “On three.”
Even though he’s behind the suit’s faceplate, the sound distortion is almost nonexistent. He’s in the big leagues now; the days of static and poor reception are in the past.
“One,” says Yoshioka. “Two.”
Hurricane takes off. He can hear Yoshioka sigh through the comms, and he grins, hard.
The suit’s not finished yet. Only the basic outline of what it’s going to be is in place, like a kid’s sketch next to the final, polished work of a master artist.
It’s faster than the test suits, by design, but he can feel it listing to the left when he banks, and there’s more drag than he wants there to be. He guns it for the far wall, meaning to pull up at the last second – skim along the high ceiling and test maneuverability up by all those beams.
Only, he doesn’t pull up, after all. He hits the wall, goes end over end, and lands in a heap by Chroma’s test station.
“So, uh,” says Hurricane, into the comms. “Controls could use work.”
===
The table where Hurricane’s resting his elbow is metal, and the suit gauntlet encasing his forearm is the same shade as the brushed steel. There’s no paint yet, even though he’s picked his colors. That will come later.
He flexes the fingers, one at a time – watches as the metal around his hand responds, easy as breathing.
“Now the blade release?” prompts Yoshioka.
Hurricane shifts his hand in just the right way, and there’s a distinct hiss of metal on metal. It doesn’t sound like snikt, no matter what the comic books say. If this was in comic form, it’d have to be shh or ffsh or maybe even hhhssh.
But the sound doesn’t come with a blade, no matter how cool it is.
Hurricane stares, waiting. Yoshioka stares, too.
At length, Hurricane reaches over to knock on the metal with his bare hand.
The blade, reluctantly, slides out. It’s longer than a dagger but shorter than a sword, and it’s mounted there in the gauntlet that encases his forearm, extending from the wrist. It’s a sleek, matte black, carbon fibre with a sci fi kind of aesthetic. It looks badass.
It would look badass, if it wasn’t doing a weird, jittery in-out dance, like it can’t decide which position it wants the blade to be in.
“Hmm,” says Yoshioka.
The blade pulls in and ejects, and then again, and then again, and Hurricane starts to laugh.
===
“One,” says Yoshioka. “Two.”
This time, Hurricane waits.
This time, they’re clocking him.
“Three,” says Yoshioka’s voice over the comms.
Hurricane takes two quick steps and pushes up off the ground, barreling into the air without any hesitation. The left leg’s still sticking a little at the knee joint, but most of the handling issues have been cleared up. When he angles up toward the ceiling, it’s smooth and even.
He hits the course like a hurricane, fast and relentless – is through the rings hanging from the ceiling in ten seconds, and back down to the floor to tag the first checkpoint barely a heartbeat after that. He swings a wide loop around the walls, rattling the equipment laid out on the testing benches as he passes. The zig-zags don’t throw him anymore, and he twists, and banks, and comes down to land again, right where he started.
“Time?” says Hurricane, a little breathless.
“Thirty seconds,” says Yoshioka, sounding pleased. “Do you realize you just beat the record Freedom set during its trial run?”
“Dude,” says Hurricane. “For real?” He pops the faceplate, grinning – leans in over Yoshioka’s shoulder to peer at the stats: weight and drag and mobility.
Hurricane glances at the numbers, and he glances at Yoshioka’s face.
“Hey,” he says. “Wanna ditch the chest plating?” Metal-encased fingers reach out to tap at the display projected in the air. “We get the weight down, I bet I can do that run in twenty.”
“You’ll have no armor,” says Yoshioka, dubious.
“Tradeoffs,” says Hurricane, waving a dismissive hand. “C’mon, if nothing can hit me, I’m not gonna need armor anyway, right?”
“Hmm,” says Yoshioka.
“That a yes?”
Yoshioka leans forward to adjust the hologram model hovering in front of them. He scraps the chest plating, and the leg plating, and part of the reinforcement along the shoulder blades.
“I do believe,” says Yoshioka, thoughtful, “That you’ll be able to do it in fifteen.”