Hi! Yes, I know, I have far too many story projects I'm working on. This one sort of wrote itself today while I was sitting around not feeling especially inspired... until I thought about body armor. So please, enjoy, and let me know what you think. I love feedback. Enjoy!
Body Armor, an Excerpt
Body armor is useless. Think about it. Most of the time when you’re in a fight it’s going to be with ranged weapons. And trust me, when you’re being hit by round after round from a creamer there’s nothing that’s going to stop those projectiles. No, the only time body armor is going to help you is if you’re a street fighter like Brogun, hammering a living out of the bodies of others. But even then… I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen a street fight go wrong. A miscalculated twist of the knife, and your opponent is bleeding to death on the ground in front of you. I can see why Brogun doesn’t like to talk about his previous life.
“Just leave it, Ash,” he’d warn me in that low rumble of his if ever the conversation turned to our past lives. I knew barely anything about him the first time we met. Still don’t. It took a lot of sweat and perseverance to even learn he’d been a streetfighter on Togruta Five.
You know, looking at Brogun and his fighting style, I can see why he’d choose to wear the body armor that’s become such a part of his image. He’s big for a human. Probably close to 2.2 meters tall when he stands straight, and predictably broad and muscled, especially around the arms and shoulders. Most of the streetfighter’s I’ve ever met have been small and lithe. Brogun’s style is straightforward “bash them till the ref says it’s over” whereas the more sophisticated streetfighters tend to make the whole thing into a dance, weaving in and out, over and under their opponents until they’ve overwhelmed them. You’d need some good body armor if your style was so antithetical to the mainstream athletes in your chosen bloodsport. Truth be told, I envision Brogun in a sport more like Old-Earth rugby than streetfighting. I mentioned that to him once. Told him he should have played in the rugby leagues back home. He just grunted.
“Wouldn’t’ve taken me,” was all he said. I tried to get him to explain, but he went back into his shell and refused to budge. You know, I’m wondering if he’s even pure human, given his size. That certainly would’ve disqualified him in the eyes of the officials. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against a bit of mixed blood. My own ancestral history’s not that clean. But for Brogun, that’s yet another subject you can’t worm out of him.
But that body armor. You know, I had it inspected shortly after he arrived here, and the lab couldn’t make heads or tails of it? The lab director called me to personally report her failure. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she confessed when I went to her office, looking for an explanation. “It’s made of some sort of metallic alloy, but it’s not one I’ve ever seen, nor one the computers can identify. The closest match seemed to be the skin of the Molyt Dragon, and if we went by density and texture alone I’d have to agree, but there’s more to it that we can’t explain.”
She wanted to keep the armor for more testing, but Brogun was already feeling rather naked without it, so I had her technicians return it to him. You know, beside that one time when I had him take the armor off, I don’t think I’ve seen him without it more than… maybe five times. When I saw the man next I asked him how it felt to have his armor back.
“It chafes,” he said, shifting his shoulders around inside it. Brogun almost never complains, just stoically accepts whatever ill fate comes his way.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Did it chafe before?”
“Yeah,” he said, “but differently.”
“Do you think the lab damaged your armor?”
“No,” he told me, giving one last shrug, “it’s just… different.” Getting words out of Brogun is like trying to tow a starliner with only one engine left, and that one’s on the fritz.
As much as I dislike body armor in general, I do have to admit, Brogun and his suit have saved my life on more than one occasion. This last time in particular stands out in my memory. It was on Rogrush Two, where a small band of rebels had contacted our employer, asking for help against the local constabulary which just happened to be composed largely of T.U. vets. Now, I’m not usually sent into hot zones, but I told my boss that if anything ever came up against the T.U. I would be there. Officially or not. After two or three unsupported operations they got the message and started scheduling me on those missions.
On Rogrush Two, things were a bit more heated because one of the sides, and I’m not sure who so I’m not placing any blame, started a completely unnecessary firefight which resulted in a lockdown in the capital and the surrounding areas. Some time ago, shortly after we had met and found how well we work together, Brogun had unofficially named himself my personal bodyguard. Of course he wasn’t about to let me go on this mission to Rogrush Two without him. Again, my employers have learned from experience that it’s just better to schedule us together than let one go without the other.
No, it’s not love or sentiment or any of those gushy emotions. It’s just trust, pure and simple. Brogun will make sure nobody sticks a knife in my gut, and I’ll make sure nobody in the hierarchy touches him.
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