[February challenge] Bowled over
Jan. 21st, 2010 11:38 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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writing_shadowsMike stood as a towering, defiant statue against the elements. A bitter wind howled around him, lashing his features and blowing locks of hair into swirling tendrils above his head. For a moment he surveyed his surroundings. Then, his voice resonating with deepest sincerity, he spoke.
“I cannot impress enough the historic importance of the event that lies before us. Not since the days of Jardine, Clark and Nichols have we stood on the precipice of such a momentous triumph. Simply put, this could be a moment to rouse the hearts of all Englishmen for time immemorial.”
At the base of the structure, metres below, Mike could see the others watching with concern for his well being. It was a long way to fall. For a second his confidence drained a little, and he thrust out a hand to grasp for a better hold. The gloves of the Mark VI sunk against hard stone, and he felt the textured grooves gain purchase and fix his grip, buttressing him securely. Only then did his confidence return.
“You know,” he began, gesturing with his other arm, “it’s surprising how effective the Mark VI is in preserving body temperature in these conditions. That said, I feel this field trial has demonstrated room for improvement. Remind me to take a note: it should be possible to improve temperature regulation by harnessing appropriate body secretions, much like the Fremen in the science fiction epic Doom.”
The reply from down below was lost in the breeze, a howling whip of air sucking it away. The wind was picking up now, Mike thought. Even the little mounted weather doo-hickey was spinning around at thunderous pace. Perhaps a modification to the Mark IX could harness wind power. Perhaps some form of turbine. And perhaps a device could be fitted to the rear end of cows to...
Something cold struck him on the head, shaking him from his reverie. For a moment he was taken off guard, before another droplet fell and the heavens opened, a cacophony of wet, watery beats drumming down onto his self-contained body suit.
“It would appear we are in for a deluge,” Mike chirped. “Worry not and return inside, good people – I’ll soon have your equipment operational once more.”
It took him less than a minute to correct the dish telemetry and descend, though by the time he reached the ground the others had retreated indoors. He followed after them, striding through the front door and into the living room of the abode, hair damp and matted from the rainfall outside.
”How close are we?” he asked, staring at the glowing screen as the distant events unfolded.
“Ssh! Almost there!”
Mike stepped closer, watching the motion and movement displayed on the screen, his breath unsteady with delicious anticipation. This was it. This was what they had been waiting for.
At that moment, far away, the event happened. The information was caught, captured, transmitted, relayed and beamed to the now-aligned dish. Then it appeared in front of Mike’s eyes.
Johnson’s wicket had fallen.
“Huzzah!” Mike yelled, arms punching the air in triumph. His father launched upward from his chair, embracing his son in patriotic delight, barely able to speak save to utter “unbelievable” repeatedly.
Then, as the embrace ended, Mike felt his father’s hands fall gently on his shoulders.
“Never mind your plunger success,” the elder said, his delight glowing behind a thin film of tears, “I’d have missed that. England beating Australia at Lords? That’s a once in a lifetime event! And you went up on the roof, risking life and limb to fix my reception? Incredible! Son, I just want to say, I’m so proud of you…”
“I cannot impress enough the historic importance of the event that lies before us. Not since the days of Jardine, Clark and Nichols have we stood on the precipice of such a momentous triumph. Simply put, this could be a moment to rouse the hearts of all Englishmen for time immemorial.”
At the base of the structure, metres below, Mike could see the others watching with concern for his well being. It was a long way to fall. For a second his confidence drained a little, and he thrust out a hand to grasp for a better hold. The gloves of the Mark VI sunk against hard stone, and he felt the textured grooves gain purchase and fix his grip, buttressing him securely. Only then did his confidence return.
“You know,” he began, gesturing with his other arm, “it’s surprising how effective the Mark VI is in preserving body temperature in these conditions. That said, I feel this field trial has demonstrated room for improvement. Remind me to take a note: it should be possible to improve temperature regulation by harnessing appropriate body secretions, much like the Fremen in the science fiction epic Doom.”
The reply from down below was lost in the breeze, a howling whip of air sucking it away. The wind was picking up now, Mike thought. Even the little mounted weather doo-hickey was spinning around at thunderous pace. Perhaps a modification to the Mark IX could harness wind power. Perhaps some form of turbine. And perhaps a device could be fitted to the rear end of cows to...
Something cold struck him on the head, shaking him from his reverie. For a moment he was taken off guard, before another droplet fell and the heavens opened, a cacophony of wet, watery beats drumming down onto his self-contained body suit.
“It would appear we are in for a deluge,” Mike chirped. “Worry not and return inside, good people – I’ll soon have your equipment operational once more.”
It took him less than a minute to correct the dish telemetry and descend, though by the time he reached the ground the others had retreated indoors. He followed after them, striding through the front door and into the living room of the abode, hair damp and matted from the rainfall outside.
”How close are we?” he asked, staring at the glowing screen as the distant events unfolded.
“Ssh! Almost there!”
Mike stepped closer, watching the motion and movement displayed on the screen, his breath unsteady with delicious anticipation. This was it. This was what they had been waiting for.
At that moment, far away, the event happened. The information was caught, captured, transmitted, relayed and beamed to the now-aligned dish. Then it appeared in front of Mike’s eyes.
Johnson’s wicket had fallen.
“Huzzah!” Mike yelled, arms punching the air in triumph. His father launched upward from his chair, embracing his son in patriotic delight, barely able to speak save to utter “unbelievable” repeatedly.
Then, as the embrace ended, Mike felt his father’s hands fall gently on his shoulders.
“Never mind your plunger success,” the elder said, his delight glowing behind a thin film of tears, “I’d have missed that. England beating Australia at Lords? That’s a once in a lifetime event! And you went up on the roof, risking life and limb to fix my reception? Incredible! Son, I just want to say, I’m so proud of you…”
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no subject
Date: 2010-01-21 11:47 pm (UTC)Nonetheless, I love that he'd make a mighty song and dance of fixing the dish.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 12:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 09:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 10:40 am (UTC)It was not unlike the video to Take On Me by a-ha.
Alternatively, he just had very eccentric parents.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 11:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 02:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 02:46 pm (UTC)