You are a drop-pod mechanic. To pass the time, you write a short, encouraging message on the inside of every pod you repair. Today, a heavily scarred veteran comes looking for the person whose message kept him sane.
A piece of metal fell into my lap. I picked it up and read the familiar hand writing.
âThis was so damaged that most of the parts are new. Proof that no matter how battered you get, you can come home and weâll fix youâ
Another piece of metal dropped to my lap. Then another and another. I read each one I could but some were too worn away to tell what had been on them. I looked up at the scarred man before me. He gave me a grin. âIt got to be something of a habit for me. But others started thinking of them as souvenirs and trophies. It got kind of out of hand.â
I looked down at the pieces of metal again, examining a few of them I didnât remember. âI didnât write these.â
The man nodded, âFrom what I gather, your people saw what you did and decided to do it too. Some of them arenât the best but they tried.â His eyes softened as our eyes met. âI kinda just thought of it as you raising up the ranks and teaching new rookies to be believers.â
I raised a brow, âbelievers?â
âBelievers, yea. That what you do brings us home. You keep us safe. You keep us sane. You believe in the First Drop.â
I nodded my head. âWell I believe alright. Couldnât really join the drop myself on account of my condition but I could make a machine from a washer thatâd spin you out sideways into battle.â I laughed at the old joke. Joke though wasnât exactly right. My ma, may she rest easy, was mad for a while that I ruined her favorite washer but I had made it through to the recruiters. I had made myself known, needed. And now, I fiddled with the old metal brace buried into my leg like a second skin. It didnât matter what condition my body was in. I could build whatever I wanted with the blessing of all higher powers.
I shook my head, clearing my thoughts, âI didnât train anyone to make these messages. It was just me and my thoughts.â I brought out a bag from my desk, the ones I kept to put the rookiesâ dropped equipment in and staple them to their shirts so they didnât lose them again. I carefully placed each metal piece into the bag. âSo that ends the mystery of why soldiers are destroying pieces of their drop pods. Thank you.â I handed the bag to the man and he saluted.
âIâm sorry to cause you any issues, sirâ he gave a nod then turned to leave.
I stood quickly, âSay,â I shrugged to disguise the involuntary twitch the sudden movement gave me, âif we were to make a stamp to use instead of just writing new ones on each pod. Which was your favorite?â
The man turned, a gleam in his eye, âYou are the Angel who chose to fall to create Hell for those below.â
I laughed, holding my side and picking up a picture frame from my desk. My daughter sat in my lap, buried deep in some machine Iâd been tinkering with, little red horned headband slightly off center and oil all over her face. âI think sheâd be thrilled if you told her that yourself. I walked to the door and called out, âCallie,â my daughter, all grown and as unruly as the day she escaped her mother, unearthed herself from a severely damaged pod, I waved her over, âgot something special for ya.â She smiled, wiped a smear of oil from her face and grabbed her jacket to cover the little satan tattoo on her right bicep with the words âDrop Thisâ under it.

















