Post by Deleted on Aug 30, 2007 0:16:27 GMT -4
To give a break from Edith's great episodic adventure, a little something with what I hope are some tasty morsels.
The Five Ps
Paris looked up from his calculations and blades to see Thomas and Jensen conversing on the ob-deck. "There's the one place there's absolutely no hope of getting a handle on things," he thought as he starting scratching on an altimeter.
There were times in the past when he'd been tempted to plant listening devices so he could hear what the officers were saying. He had done it when Winfield and Olsen were running missions, hoping for some juicy bits about who was doing what to whom. He later learned that he didn't need to work that hard for that information. For the price of a cheap lager, the chosen readily handed out the details to all within earshot.
On a highler level, he hoped he might catch jewels about the company. Learn some of the background and the secrets of those astonishingly brilliant but bizarre people they all served. Learn the names of the enemies, where the bodies were buried. But he was now beginning to realize he'd find more clarity and enlightment in blue-gray wavering mass that greeted the crew this morning.
He returned to the scratchings he was making on each the choppers and boats. The one thing he did know without reading a dispatch or hearing a briefing was that time was short and everything was at risk, and he had to keep at it if he cared about the lives of his fellow crew members.
He was fairly certain that his figures and marks could be faithfully followed, but what no one could say was how useful they would really be once the action began. The charts and markings were only useful if the navigator kept his, or in the case of Charlotte, her head. The thing is, the navigators were not robots, but men, and one woman, each trying their damnedest to calms the fears and doubts squirming just beneath their skin as they flew or drove without electronics or radio signal through the fog. Once one of those worms broke through the skin — and they always did — it was strictly seat-of-the-pants time mixed with dashes of terror and confounding moments of unearthly calm and hallucinatory revelations. Only a few have survived the blue-grey fog, and every one of them chose court-martial, if that's what it was called, than attempt a second run through it.
He chuckled remembering his CO's admonition back in the service:
"There are five Ps you men, and women, need to learn," he barked at them. "Learn these," he pointed tapped at the five Ps stacked on top of each other on the marker board. "and all the rest is just follow through. Here they are:"
He turned and begin squiggling beside each 'P': 'roper,'reparation' 'revents' 'oor' and 'erformance.'
"There it is," he said, setting the pen into the tray, and recited: "Proper preparation prevents poor performance," tapping the board with each word.
Nathan and he exchanged glances and fought the urge to roll their eyes.
He'd like to find the yayhoo who dreamed that one up. Just like he'd like to tell Karen DeGroot her no-brainer motto was about as useful a candle on the surface of the sun. But both the CO and DeGroot were gone, leaving him and his associates to steer the enterprise through the preparations and observations of their genius leaders.
Paris turned back to his work. He'd wasted too much time already letting his mind wander. He looked up and saw both Thomas and Jensen head into the comm station. After a few seconds, their posture and gestures changed abruptly. Thomas flailed his arms and grabbed his hair flaying his fingers through the thick greying brunet mop. Jensens' arms just dropped to his side and he looked askance, staring at the deck and shaking his head.
Then both men turned to look at him. He waved; they waved back. After a few more moments with the satlink operator they headed directly for him. His heart sank. He knew before either man would open their mouth that once again the plans of mice and men was about to go south.
Half a world away, Solange Rousseau had been watching the mice and men aboard the freighter. She quickly determined that she would let none of them, not Thomas, not Jensen, not even that sweet-faced and untested Paris let these plans go south.
"Nathan," she had shouted to an assistant sitting as at a communications array.
"Yes, Dr. Rousseau," came a melodious reply.
"Get me, Widmore."
The Five Ps
Paris looked up from his calculations and blades to see Thomas and Jensen conversing on the ob-deck. "There's the one place there's absolutely no hope of getting a handle on things," he thought as he starting scratching on an altimeter.
There were times in the past when he'd been tempted to plant listening devices so he could hear what the officers were saying. He had done it when Winfield and Olsen were running missions, hoping for some juicy bits about who was doing what to whom. He later learned that he didn't need to work that hard for that information. For the price of a cheap lager, the chosen readily handed out the details to all within earshot.
On a highler level, he hoped he might catch jewels about the company. Learn some of the background and the secrets of those astonishingly brilliant but bizarre people they all served. Learn the names of the enemies, where the bodies were buried. But he was now beginning to realize he'd find more clarity and enlightment in blue-gray wavering mass that greeted the crew this morning.
He returned to the scratchings he was making on each the choppers and boats. The one thing he did know without reading a dispatch or hearing a briefing was that time was short and everything was at risk, and he had to keep at it if he cared about the lives of his fellow crew members.
He was fairly certain that his figures and marks could be faithfully followed, but what no one could say was how useful they would really be once the action began. The charts and markings were only useful if the navigator kept his, or in the case of Charlotte, her head. The thing is, the navigators were not robots, but men, and one woman, each trying their damnedest to calms the fears and doubts squirming just beneath their skin as they flew or drove without electronics or radio signal through the fog. Once one of those worms broke through the skin — and they always did — it was strictly seat-of-the-pants time mixed with dashes of terror and confounding moments of unearthly calm and hallucinatory revelations. Only a few have survived the blue-grey fog, and every one of them chose court-martial, if that's what it was called, than attempt a second run through it.
He chuckled remembering his CO's admonition back in the service:
"There are five Ps you men, and women, need to learn," he barked at them. "Learn these," he pointed tapped at the five Ps stacked on top of each other on the marker board. "and all the rest is just follow through. Here they are:"
He turned and begin squiggling beside each 'P': 'roper,'reparation' 'revents' 'oor' and 'erformance.'
"There it is," he said, setting the pen into the tray, and recited: "Proper preparation prevents poor performance," tapping the board with each word.
Nathan and he exchanged glances and fought the urge to roll their eyes.
He'd like to find the yayhoo who dreamed that one up. Just like he'd like to tell Karen DeGroot her no-brainer motto was about as useful a candle on the surface of the sun. But both the CO and DeGroot were gone, leaving him and his associates to steer the enterprise through the preparations and observations of their genius leaders.
Paris turned back to his work. He'd wasted too much time already letting his mind wander. He looked up and saw both Thomas and Jensen head into the comm station. After a few seconds, their posture and gestures changed abruptly. Thomas flailed his arms and grabbed his hair flaying his fingers through the thick greying brunet mop. Jensens' arms just dropped to his side and he looked askance, staring at the deck and shaking his head.
Then both men turned to look at him. He waved; they waved back. After a few more moments with the satlink operator they headed directly for him. His heart sank. He knew before either man would open their mouth that once again the plans of mice and men was about to go south.
Half a world away, Solange Rousseau had been watching the mice and men aboard the freighter. She quickly determined that she would let none of them, not Thomas, not Jensen, not even that sweet-faced and untested Paris let these plans go south.
"Nathan," she had shouted to an assistant sitting as at a communications array.
"Yes, Dr. Rousseau," came a melodious reply.
"Get me, Widmore."