It’s been six months since my last entry. But I might as well start here.
Tom Mason is dead.
It was a bad night all around and Tom wasn’t the only one lost. There were a lot of dead. A lot of wounded. Anthony got hit bad. Real bad. And it was touch and go with him for about a week. Don’t know how they did it, but those doctors actually brought the man back from the brink of death.
Mason himself turned out to have more balls than a bubble gum machine. Son of a bitch actually boarded a Skitter ship. Unbelievable. It took guts, yes, but… that was the end of him. No more Tom Mason. Hard to say wether I’ll miss him or not. Some here are still holding out that he’ll be found alive.
Me? I say if the man isn’t already dead, he’ll wish he was.
Naturally, such an absence has knocked the entire 2nd Mass on it’s ass. But I always try to look to the bright side of things. Tom’s sexy little doctor friend, Anne Glass? I can only assume she’s single now and could probably do with a back rub.
And so begins another chapter.
The Second Mass is running short on everything. Fuel, food, tempers. Hell, give us another week and we’ll be out of dirt. Everything you touch here is either rusted, broken or poisoned. The damned lizards nuked so much of the atmosphere, even the rain tastes funny.
But at least I’m out of the kitchen. Not only that, but Weaver’s actually given me the green light to put together my own crew. The Captain’s a smart man. And so, after hours of meticulous consideration and having interviewed some of the best and brightest, I have whittled it down to a crack team of ‘five’.
It would have six, but the other guy stepped on a rake.
There’s a quiet in the air. Not a silence mind you, but a quiet. A din made all the more empty with the distant crack of a rifle. Lives once so very much alive here no longer cry out in either pain nor laughter. So many voices have been cut short by either infection or a Mech bullet. As for those left behind, there’s simply not all that much left to express out loud.
In short? War has a way of killing a perfectly good tune.
It’s one of the first casualties of any conflict I suppose, but it’s true. Nobody here sings anymore. Too much pain. Too many dead.
That, and after a while you just forget the damn words.
