Princes and Jesters
10 Dec 2022Red Jester (Heathen)
Much can be said about Imperial administration, high living standards being just one. However, it leaves much for a son of a Prince of Facece to establish about themselves outside the shadow of their fathers shadow. A life on a military complex world, constantly chastised and berated for embarrassing his father for acts one would expect from a child. This naturally escalated to further heights as said child grows up, starts dabbling in drinking, parties and eventually narcotics. Then what is said Prince meant to do with his son? He send him to the Imperial Navy of course, in hopes the son learns honour and humility.That was the hope for me anyway, Jaime Sinclair, son of Prince Fraser Sinclair. It may of worked as well, the regiment was strict without sacrificing the baser luxuries Imperial Nobles are accustomed to. Being noble born afforded opportunities that many weren't so lucky to have. However, not satisfied with the outcome of rehabilitation of his son after the last slight, Prince Sinclair decided to twist some arms into lowering his son further.
After I graduated flight school, I found myself not forming the ranks of the front line of fighter pilots in Imperial Operations. Instead, I found myself hurtling towards some back water planet, with my hold filled with Imperial Naval Infantry. Ground thumpers who didn't care for sensibilities, dropping them into hot zones then circling to provide Close Air Support. It wouldn't have mattered if it was just transport, but the position meant sharing living space with them as well. Loud, abrasive and usually stinking of cheap beer, their humour usually sat within philistine territory.
I thought I would be stuck in this miserable heap, and I was. Until I met him, Heathen. Heathen was still as brash as the others, and rarely cared for what others thought, but there was a glint in his eyes that many couldn't ignore. One particularly hot insert left my co-pilot dead, her chest gapping with a 20cm hole that penetrated the canopy, and in my hysteria I must have left my comms open. Heathen came to the front and switched it off and laughed, in a situation like that, and gripped my shoulder reassuringly. Days later the dismounts told stories of the pilot who cackled hysterically while multi-cannons glanced their shots off our hull.
I wasn't proud of laughing, but I couldn't help it. Heathen supposedly asked to be kept with the pilot who could see the funny side, and a week later I found my helmet on my pillow with a sharp toothed grin crudely painted on it.
I flew dozens of sortees with Heathens Axe Head, I provided rocket barrages from the sky. I started enjoying flying this way, hot and heavy. Until the crash.
After the reconstructive surgery, and the replacement eye, I went back to my old ways. Directionless, I sat in a flush apartment on Capitol with bottles of wine to blur the pain. A mannequin with my old flight suit in the corner taunting me.
I would have remained in that blur, until a stranger came to my door. "I have news and a proposition." He said, holding a tablet in his hands which I assumed had my file on. "Heathen and Muninn haven't been in the Imperial Navy Infantry for a number of years now. They were working for us." The man coughed as I tried to focus on him through my blurry vision. "They died late last year on a raid on the Sacrosanct."
He seemed to let this hang for a little, as I processed the words that a brave man had died. A minute broke then the stranger took in a steep breath. "Heathen had a list of recommended pilots to join our ranks, however you were still in rehabilitation when he recommended you." He looked up from the tablet. "However, with current events, it wouldn't be wise to ignore when Heathen says there is a pilot who is mad as the Hatter."
My good eye starts to well up as clarity hits me like a Cutter. "I'm sorry, my friend is dead, and you're offering me a job? Who are you?"
The stranger smiles and lends out his hand firmly. "Heathen would appreciate that Thargoids are probably a bigger issue than his arrival in Valhalla as he would believe it." His eye glides over to the mannequin in the corner. "And I would be a representative of your interests. So, would that be an acceptance of Red Jester into the 9th?"