Nukestuck Fic
Oct. 10th, 2012 05:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
andalitebanditoREAD THIS FIC ON AO3
---
Ψ:// {un*th0ri2ed acc//e22 d*tected}
Ψ:// --{CRITICAL BR--EACH: M//(ANUAL FLIIGHT 2Ψ2T--EM2 OVE[RRID3}
Ψ:// OV--ERRIDE
Ψ:// {acce22 granted}
“Damn, they’ve stripped this thing out since the last time I saw it...”
“Yeah, Materiel Command is always itching to get their hands on whatever they can take apart. Spending billions of Uncle Sam’s dollars on those shiny new aircraft that only the bugs can fly.”
“At least it keeps our boys out of enemy crosshairs...”
Ψ:// {awAIITIING C*(OMMAND}
“Kind of surprised this thing can still power up. Just imagine what we could do with this kind of energy.”
“Maybe it won’t be long. The eggheads up in Dayton are starting to think they got what it takes to make this bird fly for our side.”
Ψ:// ---
Ψ:// {}[[aΨaiiting CCoMMAND
Ψ:// --EMPRE22
“What the hell is... look at this console, can you make heads or tails of this?”
Ψ:// ALERT
Ψ:// {UNAU(THHORI2--ED 2UB[[ORBIITAL D--E2CENT}}{
Ψ:// ALERT
Ψ:// CRIITIC4L SΨ22TEM2 F--4ILURE;;;;; CR----EW OFFL!NE
“You know I can’t read this chicken scratch. The systems are probably going nuts, this thing hasn’t powered up in years. Besides, it’s our job to transport the ship, not to understand it.”
“Yeah... hey, so do you know what even happened to the poor bastard they pulled out of here when it was recovered?”
“Don’t think he kicked around too long after. Military’s always been interested in his spawn, though, hear they got one of his brood fenced up at Wright-Patterson.”
Ψ:// [[G--ENER((aL DI2TRE22 B34C))*N ONLIINE{
Ψ:// ALERT
Ψ:// CRIITIC4L 2Y2--EM2 INACTIIV--3 FOR 27 SW--3300071[[
Ψ:// ALERT
Ψ:// N0 FL--EET ACTIIVII[7Y DETECT--ED IIN TH[[2 2ECT[]R
“Wright-Patterson? That’s where this wreck’s headed, right, Commander?”
“Yep. They’ve put together some hotshot new team, seasoned technicians backed up by some of the best new graduates out of the academy. They’re gonna tear this sucker apart.”
Ψ:// {awaIItiing c0mmand}
Ψ:// {empre22}
Ψ:// {]]H3L[[P.me]]
- - - - - -
Today is a test flight day.
Sollux Captor absolutely lives for test flight days.
His status as a Materiel Command test pilot sounds interesting enough, perhaps. Mention it without a lot of explanation, and civilians fill in the blanks with images of sleek, futuristic military aircraft, of blinking dials and gauges around a brave young pilot as he blasts through the sound barrier, adrenaline surging in his brain, pulling slick maneuvers and putting the machine through her paces to make flight safer for all the military’s airmen.
Hell, mentioning that he can power, maneuver, and control the aircraft with his mind is usually enough to get him laid.
The reality of it is that, most of the time, the job is absolutely mind-numbing, except for the days when it’s excruciating. Sollux usually spends his workdays not piloting cutting-edge aircraft, but hooked into flight sims, running through psionic systems calibrations that human test pilots can’t do. The grating monotony is occasionally broken up by the prototyping of new hardware, which in its early phases tends to be hacked together from existing systems, by scientists with little to no understanding of troll physiology and getting zero actual input from actual trolls in their most critical stages of development.
Those days are the absolute worst, leaving Sollux drained and weak after endless hours of trial and error, troubleshooting and fine-tuning until the development teams have a foundation they can actually work from. Not once in his career has this process actually produced a more intuitive psionic-operated flight system, but at least by the time the guys on active duty are being trained in the new systems, they’re usable.
Well, for all that “not actively causing unbearable migraines and/or full-body tremors” can be considered “usable.”
But all of it, the monotony and the repetition and even the grueling test hardware, seems worthwhile to endure when they finally manage to get an aircraft to test phase.
Anything, anything is worth it when he gets to fly.
And that’s why Sollux is nearly bouncing (and is literally hovering a good six inches off the ground) when he reports to the airfield, fingers tightening in a deathgrip on his flight helmet at the sight of the new aircraft ready to go on the runway. It’s a multirole stealth fighter, a modification of the F-35 that’s taken on the nickname “Psyclone.”
Single pilot.
Just the thought of such a potentially mission-critical tactical aircraft designed for a single psionic pilot was exciting enough on its own, and Sollux’s mind was buzzing at the promise of being the first to actually fly it.
“Airman Captor!”
Sollux’s feet hit the ground at the sound of Staff Sergeant Lancaster’s voice, and he turns to greet the woman with a sharp salute. She’s tall, for a human, sharp and lean, with narrow eyes that watch like a hawk and dark hair buzzed nearly bald. It’s amazing how she manages to be imposing, even with the troll standing a good six inches over her, but Sollux would never question it.
“At ease, Captor, I’m just handing down new orders.”
“New orders, ma’am? I’m supposed to fly Psyclone today.”
“There’s been a change of plans. You are to report immediately to the research lab.”
It’s everything Sollux can do to keep the crushing disappointment from showing on his face. He takes a measured breath, brow creasing as he glances back at the new jet sitting lonely on the runway.
“Research... which research lab?”
“Sensors Directorate.”
“What? I mean. Is there something wrong with the aircraft?”
“The Psyclone project has been postponed until further notice.”
“But... no, that can’t be right. Ma’am, that can’t be right, Psyclone is in testing phase, that’s--” he turns to point at the aircraft. “That’s her, right there on the runway. I’m-- I was. Supposed to fly her today.”
A frown sets across Lancaster’s lips. Sollux nearly shivers.
“Are you questioning your orders, Airman?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You are to report to the lab immediately, Captor. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Dismissed.”
- - - - -
The ride to the sensors lab is a short one, but crammed into the backseat of the transport van, nursing the fresh sting of being denied the test flight he’d been anticipating for months, it feels like an eternity to Sollux. It’s one of those rare moments when he’s almost glad that he doesn’t have his own car, since he’s not too sure he wouldn’t point it at the nearest cliff right about now.
Not that he knows where he might find the nearest vehicle-accessible cliff, but by god he’d try.
“What’s going on back there, Captor?”
Sollux looks up to see the driver watching him in the rear-view mirror, worried, wrinkled brown eyes reflected in the glass. The retired major has been driving the shuttle since Sollux was first stationed at Wright-Patt, and while the man’s vaguely paternal demeanor had seemed off-putting and alien to Sollux at first, now it’s just another one of those small comforts he’s glad for.
“Nothing, Major Lewis,” Sollux lies, pouting and turning his gaze to the window.
“Don’t lie to me, Captor, when I picked you up this morning you were nearly glowing.”
Lewis’s deep, good-natured laugh is infectious, and Sollux can’t help quirking his lips in a sad little smile.
“Just one of those days, Major. Not quite going as planned. Hey...” He scoots forward as much as he can, resting his arms on the back of the empty passenger seat. “Have you heard anything around about the Psyclone project?”
“Psyclone? The new stealth fighter? That’s what they got you on, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Is it in trouble?”
Lewis frowns, dark fingers stroking over his greying mustache as he thinks.
“Well I haven’t heard much about it directly, but I think Sensors has been working on something big.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, got a lot of new personnel over there. Saw them bring in some kind of shipment a few weeks ago. I know they’ve put together a new research team, pulled some of the brightest new grads from electronics and munitions.”
“And they’re doing this at the sensors directorate? You’re sure?”
“Mmmhm. Seen Miss Lalonde’s motorbike parked over there this morning.”
Sollux perks up visibly at that, and the man laughs.
“I-it’s just weird they’d have her working over there, is all,” Sollux stammers, turning to the window again with a frown. “Well dang, Major, there goes my hope that there was just some kind of bug or bureaucratic hangup.”
“Yeah, son, looks like they’re putting you back up in the lab.”
Sollux groans, face hidden in his crossed arms, and sits back up just in time for the van to roll to a stop in front of the facility. It does bring a small smile to his lips to see an unmistakable pink motorcycle parked in the lot.
“Thanks for the ride, Major.”
“Just doing my job, son. Give ‘em hell.”
Sollux makes his way into the research facility, the thrill and anticipation of the morning’s test flight finally fading completely and leaving behind only disappointment and frustration. He’s making the familiar route to the lab, flashing his ID at familiar checkpoints, giving nods to familiar guards and by the time he actually gets to the lab he already hates this day and it hasn’t even started.
The bright overhead lights and humming computer stations are a stark exchange from rushing winds and the deafening roar of aircraft. Sollux tries not to sigh when he notices his flight sim station is powered up. Damn, he’s spent so many hours plugged into that thing it’s like a second home.
“Morning, Captor.”
The project director seems almost as flustered and confused as Sollux, pushing his bifocals up on the bridge of his nose as he thumbs through what looks like a new set of schematics on his tablet.
“Morning, Dr. Yorke. Maybe you can tell me what’s going on, I’m--”
The doctor sighs, shaking his head and running a hand through thinning hair.
“I’m sorry. The Psyclone project has been postponed until further notice.”
“You’re shitting me. That aircraft was in test phase! That’s... that’s billions of dollars, just...”
“Trust me, Captor, no one wanted to see that bird fly as much as I did.”
“And no one wanted to fly her as much as me.”
There’s a moment of silence as the doctor and his star test pilot mourn the project, snatched from them with success just within reach.
“So... what’s the next phase, doctor? They haven’t told me anything.”
“Well. You’re not gonna like this, but we’ve got some new experimental hardware--”
“Of course.”
“We’ve got a new research team coming in, and--”
“Yep.”
“It’s our new top priority.”
“Well, let’s get to it.”
And then he’s strapped into the simulator, like any other day, though his regular custom flight helmet is replaced by some new device they’ve rigged up. It displays a readout across his goggles, which seems like it will be odd getting used to, and feeds directly into the navigation and control systems. The oddest part, though, is that it fits comfortably over his horns, as though it were actually designed with his mutation in mind.
“You ready to go, Captor?”
Sollux takes a deep breath, bracing himself for the pain that comes with using new, uncalibrated equipment.
“Yeah. Start her up.”
He closes his eyes, and... nothing. Damn, waiting could be the worst part. He barely has enough time to be nervous before he hears Yorke’s voice again.
“Startup successful.”
Sollux frowns.
“Are you sure? I-- oh sweet fuck.”
His eyes go wide as the uplink forms in his mind, effortless and smooth. He doesn’t really notice the data scrolling across the goggles -- actually, he’s not really seeing anything at all. The new system is transmitting all of the simulated data directly to his mind, arranging it piece by piece into information he processes as easy as breathing.
“Are you alright in there, Captor?”
“Yeah. Yeah...”
He tries to go through the motions -- starting up, shutting down, checking the equipment, testing the controls. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt. Instead of monitoring countless individual readings, he just.. knows them. Feels them, somehow, innately understands them in some part of his mind he’s never accessed or understood. And it doesn’t hurt, it’s not even uncomfortable. In fact it feels... good. Unbelievably good, on some strange, primal level. It’s like he’s satisfying some imperative, like he’s supposed to be doing this, like he was made for this...
“Doctor? Doctor get me out of here...”
He’s nearly shaking by the time the system has safely shut down, lifting himself out of the sim station and removing his helmet with a ragged sigh.
“That bad, Captor?”
Sollux shakes his head, stepping away from the station as Yorke’s research assistants collect and record the system’s data.
“No. No, that?” He points at the station, a broad grin spreading across his lips. “That needs to be in an aircraft. Can I see the schematics?”
Before Yorke can object, Sollux has snatched up the tablet, swiping through the panels that lay out this unbelievable new tech. The doctor tries to take it back, but Sollux is hovering upside-down and just out of reach, beaming as he pages through the documents.
“This is incredible. This is incredible, you guys haven’t used anything like this before. Wait... this came from Edwards?”
“Airman, get -down!-” Yorke hisses.
“Seriously, if you could get a flight system like this in the Psyclone, it’d--”
Yorke manages to snag one of the pockets of Sollux’s flight suit, tugging it sharply downward. Sollux notices that the doctor’s round face is burning red, and his own face falls when he sees the seething scowl fixed on him from the doorway.
He’s only met General Crowe once, but once was enough to know that the AFRL Commander’s ire was something to avoid, especially in light of the fact that he was quite vocal about his displeasure with the amount of the defense budget that went towards developing equipment, munitions, and vehicles specifically for trolls.
Crowe is broad-shouldered and heavyset, with stern grey eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. He’s the sort who commands a room with all the confidence and authority of a man with too much power, the medals decorating his uniform gleaming beneath the overhead lights as he crosses the lab.
“At attention, soldier,” the man hisses, and Sollux shoves the tablet back into Dr. Yorke’s hands, righting himself quickly to salute the general.
“What’s your name and rank, boy?”
“Sir! PSII-Tactics Airman First Class Sollux Captor, 88th Test Wing, sir!”
The general laughs, in that certain, dismissive sort of way that Sollux has come to recognize as laughing at his lisp.
“So you’re Sollux Captor. Can you not talk straight, Airman?”
Sollux sets his jaw. “No, sir.”
“At ease, Airman.”
Sollux clasps his hands behind his back, and it’s all he can do to keep them from shaking with rage.
“What is it you do here?”
“I aid and assist the Sensors Directorate scientists in developing flight systems technology for military psionics, sir!”
“And why were you selected for this position?”
“I-- because my psionic capabilities exceed the median average of others my age in magnitude, duration, and precision, and my education in aeronautic--”
“Let me stop you right there, son. We... indulge you, Captor, because you’ve somehow got a better battery installed than all the other lightning bugs in our service. Understand?”
Sollux grits his teeth, drawing in a sharp breath.
“I asked you a question, soldier.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So I think you need to get back to your job, Captor, and let the men with academy degrees do the thinking.”
“Permission to speak, sir.”
Crowe laughs again. “Go ahead.”
“The modifications I made to the Psyclone schematics pushed development ahead by four months. Sir.”
“I remember those modifications...” the general steps closer to Sollux, eyes burning into his. “The team that signed off on that report didn’t mention your involvement at all.”
“Well, not officially, because--”
“Because the DoD is not going to greenlight a stealthfighter designed by a smartass bug, are they, Captor?”
Sollux’s eye twitches and his hands clench and it takes every bit of self control to keep the rage spiking in his brain from manifesting in visible psionic sparks. His eyes close, but not in time to hide that faint glow. The general smirks.
“I asked you a question, soldier.”
“No, sir.”
“Now why don’t you get back to work, son. This project is top priority and if I so much as hear that you’ve been violating procedure, I’ll direct the disciplinary action against you myself. Are we clear, Airman Captor?”
“Sir, yes sir!”
“Dismissed.”
It’s nearly dark when Sollux gets home, exhausted and drained in every possible way. The new system was a dream to use, but any joy he may have had from that is crushed under every fucking other thing that had happened throughout the day.
A hot shower and a quick meal and things still aren’t looking much better, and as he stands on his tiny porch, taking a long drag from a much-needed cigarette, he scrolls through the contacts on his phone. He smiles a little when he highlights one “Lalalalonde,” leaning back against the wall as he taps out a text message.
wor2t day ever at work. ii need two be 2wiimmiing iin booze by o-now-hundred hour2. you iin?