[There's a quiet shift of movement as he glances back at [??] over his shoulder, but he says nothing. Then, unexpectedly, the cockpit canopy opens, sunlight shining through, until the light becomes blinding and [???] is carried away into a memory.]
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It's a simple household, cozy and smelling faintly of some kind of spicy food being prepared, and the scent grows stronger as Messer enters the kitchen. He's young, here, mid-to-late teens but already tall, wearing the basic issue uniform of a low-ranking trainee in Alfheim's military. Before he can even call out a greeting he is embraced by a middle aged woman who shares many of his features, though distinctly different is her bright eyes and warm smile. "Messer! We didn't expect you until tomorrow!"
"I caught an early flight," is his answer, soft as ever but warm in a way he rarely allows himself to be. "I only have a few days until training starts, so I wanted as much time here as I could get."
She pulls back, hands on his arms as she gets a good look at him, pleased and proud. Her eyes lift and- "Ohhh, but your hair was so lovely and long," she laments, patting at his fresh buzz cut as if mourning a child. "All that fluff, gone. I hardly recognize you- now you look too much like your father."
"Hey," comes a man's swift, mildly offended protest as he wanders in from the next room, an older, grizzled fellow with a noticeable limp.
Messer ducks under her touch and accepts the man's firm handshake. "Military issue. I'll be allowed to grow it back if I rank up. And if I want to." He's still deciding. It feels weird beneath his hand, but he'd already tried on his father's old helmet and it feels right.
"Well, I suppose." She doesn't look convinced, but doesn't argue against what's already been done. Instead she pulls him into another hug, too strong and fierce for his fussy teenage pride to let him pull away. "You be safe, okay? Promise me. I'll worry anyway, but promise."
He huffs quietly against her neck, sheepishly hugging her back. "I promise."
"Your mother and I are both very proud of you," chimes in his father, and he can hear it in the man's voice- the strength of an old soldier past his prime, pleased to see the next generation follow in his footsteps. He doesn't answer, merely nods, his eyes carrying with it a promise of that pride not being misplaced. He'll be strong, he'll go further. He'll fly higher than any who came before. Not for his father, or for family pride, but for him.
"Mesa! Mesa!"
He pulls back with a disapproving frown directed at his mother. "See, someone still knows it's me. Hey, Adie, want to feel it, too?"
The infant in the corner playpen reaches out towards him with all the urgency that a two year old can muster, and he crouches down, offering his head out to her. Tiny, stubby fingers sift through his hair, tickling and tugging. Rather than trying to free himself, he just grins. Yeah, feels just right.
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[When it's over, they're back in the plane, but the window is still open and Messer is sitting on the edge of the cockpit instead of in the seat, and his helmet is in his lap. He's gazing off in the distance, towards the town below.]
flight team photo
It's a simple household, cozy and smelling faintly of some kind of spicy food being prepared, and the scent grows stronger as Messer enters the kitchen. He's young, here, mid-to-late teens but already tall, wearing the basic issue uniform of a low-ranking trainee in Alfheim's military. Before he can even call out a greeting he is embraced by a middle aged woman who shares many of his features, though distinctly different is her bright eyes and warm smile. "Messer! We didn't expect you until tomorrow!"
"I caught an early flight," is his answer, soft as ever but warm in a way he rarely allows himself to be. "I only have a few days until training starts, so I wanted as much time here as I could get."
She pulls back, hands on his arms as she gets a good look at him, pleased and proud. Her eyes lift and- "Ohhh, but your hair was so lovely and long," she laments, patting at his fresh buzz cut as if mourning a child. "All that fluff, gone. I hardly recognize you- now you look too much like your father."
"Hey," comes a man's swift, mildly offended protest as he wanders in from the next room, an older, grizzled fellow with a noticeable limp.
Messer ducks under her touch and accepts the man's firm handshake. "Military issue. I'll be allowed to grow it back if I rank up. And if I want to." He's still deciding. It feels weird beneath his hand, but he'd already tried on his father's old helmet and it feels right.
"Well, I suppose." She doesn't look convinced, but doesn't argue against what's already been done. Instead she pulls him into another hug, too strong and fierce for his fussy teenage pride to let him pull away. "You be safe, okay? Promise me. I'll worry anyway, but promise."
He huffs quietly against her neck, sheepishly hugging her back. "I promise."
"Your mother and I are both very proud of you," chimes in his father, and he can hear it in the man's voice- the strength of an old soldier past his prime, pleased to see the next generation follow in his footsteps. He doesn't answer, merely nods, his eyes carrying with it a promise of that pride not being misplaced. He'll be strong, he'll go further. He'll fly higher than any who came before. Not for his father, or for family pride, but for him.
"Mesa! Mesa!"
He pulls back with a disapproving frown directed at his mother. "See, someone still knows it's me. Hey, Adie, want to feel it, too?"
The infant in the corner playpen reaches out towards him with all the urgency that a two year old can muster, and he crouches down, offering his head out to her. Tiny, stubby fingers sift through his hair, tickling and tugging. Rather than trying to free himself, he just grins. Yeah, feels just right.
[When it's over, they're back in the plane, but the window is still open and Messer is sitting on the edge of the cockpit instead of in the seat, and his helmet is in his lap. He's gazing off in the distance, towards the town below.]