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Seeing the small clutch of pilots huddled tightly together at the base of Crimson Typhoon awakened in Marshal Pentecost an inexplicable feeling of dread. From across the hangar he could hear laughter and excited chatter, neither of which struck him as a good sign. He couldn’t help but think there must be some task they were neglecting. He walked at a brisk clip toward the congregation, noticing on the way that whatever was engrossing his four ranger teams had also drawn the attention of their science department. Herc Hansen caught his eye from the edge of the group, quirking an eyebrow and trying with limited success to keep snorts of laughter at bay.
“No way,” came the disaffected drawl of the younger Hansen, “I don’t believe it. That’s not him.” Stacker huffed irritably, deepening the furrow that had been set into his brow for the last decade.
“What the hell’s going on here?” He demanded quietly of Herc. Anything that had the triplets abandoning their incessant dribbling must be important. Herc chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest, a subtle wickedness appearing in his eye,
“History lesson,” he turned back toward the group, bellowing “Marshal on deck!” The group sprang apart, eyes dropping instantaneously to the floor. Only the Kaidanovskys held his gaze.
“Rangers,” the marshal greeted, clasping his hands behind his back, “it’s encouraging to see that you’ve all read the latest data from Drs. Gottlieb and Geiszler.” He was met with silence, “If you hadn’t, I imagine you’d all be doing that right now instead of whatever it is that has you so rapt out here. Cockfighting, I presume?” They looked around apprehensively like kids awaiting a scolding. After a moment, Mako stepped forward, holding out a square of tattered, glossy paper. To an outside observer, her face would have appeared impassive, businesslike, but Stacker knew cheeky when he saw it. He glanced down at the paper and felt his jaw clench in disdain, the veins of his forehead threatening to make a break for it. It was worse than he had thought. He held a photograph, frayed and creased from years of being kept in wallet pockets and stashed in shoeboxes. It showed a grinning boy of ten, crouching on the pavement in a pair of aggressively pink shorts and a Sonic the Hedgehog 3 t-shirt. His baseball cap was turned backwards and tiny, glowing lights shone out of the heels of his trainers. On the back, in blue ink so faint it was barely legible, an inscription read: “Stacks’ fresh kicks. Summer ’95”.
“Where on earth did you get this?” He asked, indignantly, as though he couldn’t guess.
“Tamsin,” Mako responded, simply. Of course. Stacker heaved a sigh,
“This is why I can’t have nice things like untarnished authority.” His voice was weary, but his face had softened. Mako smiled. “Alright, rangers,” Stacker continued, “clear out. Get some shut-eye and report tomorrow by 0800.” The group began to disperse, meandering toward the barracks while trying to get a last look at the marshal, disbelief still painted on all their faces. Becket, he noticed, seemed to be experiencing the worst of the cognitive dissonance, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to reconcile his two disparate images of his commanding officer,
“If I may, marshal,” Geiszler quipped, “it’s a strong look for you.” He opened his mouth to go on, but Dr. Gottlieb had him by the forearm, dragging him away despite noisy protest.
“I wish they’d been cockfighting,” Stacker lamented to Herc, who leaned over his shoulder and took the photograph between his fingers,
“He’s right, Stacks,” Herc said, “it is a good look. Dunno why you ever gave it up.”
“Those shoes were the height of fashion back then, I’ll have you know.” Stacker allowed himself a minuscule, begrudging smile, shaking his head, “It was acceptable at the time, I swear.” He took the picture back and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, if only to keep it from falling back into his daughter’s traitorous hands and further destroying his reputation.