Post by Dunwik on Jan 13, 2023 3:07:10 GMT
Isaac Arthur paced impatiently back and forth in front of the new ship he was to commission, a bottle of clear pineapple liquor in his hands. Around him, standing on the docks, craning their heads to look at the new vessel, more than five thousand people - by Arthur's count - chattered curiously at it. This was a warship of a kind unseen before, a warship without guns, a warship that promised to change warfare forever. It was over 500 feet long, with a large, flat deck. A runway, a floating runway, the ship was called. The vessel was almost finished. All it needed was a name.
The vessel was waiting to be launched, covered in sleek black-and-yellow flags, blue banners, emblazoned with the Dunwikki cog-and-nail ensign over the mark of waves, the banners hanging down from around the flight deck and off the doors and portholes. Arthur stood on a small wooden podium just behind the ship, right next to the lapping waves of the sea. A megaphone on a short stand was just at about his mouth level, and around him, electric lamps were hastily rigged, casting him and his white coat in a brilliant, ethereal light. Arthur chewed on a small tablet as he gathered his thoughts. It was up to him to name this vessel - all capital ships were named by high-ranking men, and this one was his project.
But what to name this vessel? Arthur thought of scientists, engineers, mountains, generals, admirals, and provinces. None of them felt right. He thought of what this vessel was, and began to reminisce, ignoring the bombastic tunes played by the brass band around him, the photographs from curious reporters, the chatter from the technically or navally minded as to what this mystery ship was.
Arthur remembered a day nearly thirty years ago: a day a man died for his dream. Arthur had stood there, on the side of the runway, as Oscar Wright - a dreamer more than an engineer - became the first man to fly, for a glorious half a second, before he met his end in a heap of burning splinters. Then, Arthur pieced together his words. He stepped up to the megaphone and took a breath in, the sound echoing over the crowd.
"Today..." he began, his voice slow and unsure, "we are at war. At war with more than just an ethnic enemy. Today... by our calendar, is the year ninety-three, nearly ninety-four. We are entering the second century. By some reckoning, the year is 1916. By others, over five thousand. What matters is... this is a time of changes. When I was a boy, we had no electric lights. We had no aircraft, or automobile no telephones, or radios," he started to pick up, "but we had a dream. We didn't know what marvels we'd create. We only knew we could make something, that we could explore and discover, that we could dare and pioneer. And we are at war, with those who cling to old superstitions. Stories told, to make the dark less intimidating!"
Arthur realized then, the two thoughts coalescing into a single, glorious idea, and he shouted into the megaphone, "these people, these enemies of ours! Puye! These people fear the coming day! They call out to us and try to stop us, to strangle us now! They demand we go no further, they fear us! They fear what we can do; because we are one people! We are a free people, a unified people, a people who dream and create, unlike any others in the world! All they have are stories, stories of raising the dead, of supernatural horrors that befall their foes! But they will cower now, they will flee to their holes and die there: we can surpass their dreams! We have a dream and story of our own! We have the greatest dream in the world!"
The crowds seemed confused as Arthur marched to the ship, the bottle of liquor in his hand, his hand clenched around it until bone-white knuckles seemed to protrude from his flesh, "our foes cling to the hope that one day, their martyrs will return to slay us! I say: we will do it first! I call on a dreamer, a man who died to bring this vessel to us! To bring our dream ever closer to fruition! I call on you, Oscar Wright! Rise from your grave, and grace this vessel with your ambition and name!"
Arthur, red-faced and panting, his bald forehead beading with perspiration and his heart pounding in his chest, brought the bottle of liquor in a massive swing, gripping it with both hands and shattering it against the side of Dunwik's first aircraft carrier: Oscar Wright.
The vessel was waiting to be launched, covered in sleek black-and-yellow flags, blue banners, emblazoned with the Dunwikki cog-and-nail ensign over the mark of waves, the banners hanging down from around the flight deck and off the doors and portholes. Arthur stood on a small wooden podium just behind the ship, right next to the lapping waves of the sea. A megaphone on a short stand was just at about his mouth level, and around him, electric lamps were hastily rigged, casting him and his white coat in a brilliant, ethereal light. Arthur chewed on a small tablet as he gathered his thoughts. It was up to him to name this vessel - all capital ships were named by high-ranking men, and this one was his project.
But what to name this vessel? Arthur thought of scientists, engineers, mountains, generals, admirals, and provinces. None of them felt right. He thought of what this vessel was, and began to reminisce, ignoring the bombastic tunes played by the brass band around him, the photographs from curious reporters, the chatter from the technically or navally minded as to what this mystery ship was.
Arthur remembered a day nearly thirty years ago: a day a man died for his dream. Arthur had stood there, on the side of the runway, as Oscar Wright - a dreamer more than an engineer - became the first man to fly, for a glorious half a second, before he met his end in a heap of burning splinters. Then, Arthur pieced together his words. He stepped up to the megaphone and took a breath in, the sound echoing over the crowd.
"Today..." he began, his voice slow and unsure, "we are at war. At war with more than just an ethnic enemy. Today... by our calendar, is the year ninety-three, nearly ninety-four. We are entering the second century. By some reckoning, the year is 1916. By others, over five thousand. What matters is... this is a time of changes. When I was a boy, we had no electric lights. We had no aircraft, or automobile no telephones, or radios," he started to pick up, "but we had a dream. We didn't know what marvels we'd create. We only knew we could make something, that we could explore and discover, that we could dare and pioneer. And we are at war, with those who cling to old superstitions. Stories told, to make the dark less intimidating!"
Arthur realized then, the two thoughts coalescing into a single, glorious idea, and he shouted into the megaphone, "these people, these enemies of ours! Puye! These people fear the coming day! They call out to us and try to stop us, to strangle us now! They demand we go no further, they fear us! They fear what we can do; because we are one people! We are a free people, a unified people, a people who dream and create, unlike any others in the world! All they have are stories, stories of raising the dead, of supernatural horrors that befall their foes! But they will cower now, they will flee to their holes and die there: we can surpass their dreams! We have a dream and story of our own! We have the greatest dream in the world!"
The crowds seemed confused as Arthur marched to the ship, the bottle of liquor in his hand, his hand clenched around it until bone-white knuckles seemed to protrude from his flesh, "our foes cling to the hope that one day, their martyrs will return to slay us! I say: we will do it first! I call on a dreamer, a man who died to bring this vessel to us! To bring our dream ever closer to fruition! I call on you, Oscar Wright! Rise from your grave, and grace this vessel with your ambition and name!"
Arthur, red-faced and panting, his bald forehead beading with perspiration and his heart pounding in his chest, brought the bottle of liquor in a massive swing, gripping it with both hands and shattering it against the side of Dunwik's first aircraft carrier: Oscar Wright.