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Marcus Sheffield

0 · 1,502 views · located in Wing City Plaza

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by Ottoman

Description

Deceased

So begins...

Marcus Sheffield's Story

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#, as written by Ottoman
To think that his profession, the base-line for the military, was, to someone, important, did a little for him. They were proud, to be sure, as they were the queen of battle. Nothing happened without them. He tried, however, to maintain his focus, rather not letting his mind wander as she related to him another story of her own. Taking his cup, a rather bland looking beige mug that looked to be made out of some sort of plastic, he poured himself something of a reserve of the Stovnoski, taking a slight sip of it as she continued, making quite a good point.

Time did put a perspective on things, just in his case it wasn't the most positive of filters. The closing remark caused his mind some action, though, as he had to actively try to remember that he was dealing with, as much as appearances might suggest otherwise, a seventy year old woman. "Well," he offered as she finished, "I'm glad that you think so. Liked the job so much I decided to stay." More humor, or so he tried. Rather he could never find the will to advance beyond corporal, and the constant citations for drunkenness didn't help him. Though the lack of seniority in Terran personnel meant that he was a valuable commodity, a troop from before the Glassing, and such a release from his service was, at best, unlikely any time soon.

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[color=black]His response was rather immediate, reacting in a more reflexive manner to the angered Scatterran as she bellowed at the man, Marcus' eyes widening as he withstood the brunt of her ridicule, looking with eyes that stood somewhere between terror and surprise as she closed with him. Marcus withstood it, his practice from days of dealing with his superiors and their displeasure doing him some good with this, though their berating never bore such fire or intensity.

He remained unmoving for the duration, somehow, as her emotions seemed to detonate, and thus he stayed until she turned away, at which point his gaze followed her, though his mind still resided on her words. It wasn't so much the volume or the suddenness of the tirade which had struck him so deeply, but rather just the message -- because it was true. He was a coward, a man who deserved no pity for his decisions, and for a moment he thought he understood just why it was he wanted to die again.

He forgot that as his hand had, unintentionally, made its way to his left breast pocket, as it did in times when he was uncertain. Always he kept this blouse pocket empty, save for one singular content, which he now reached for, unbuttoning the flap with little concentration. Several moments of silence occupied the space between them thereafter, Marcus only interrupting it with the statement: "I loved them. Very much." He shifted, for the first time she had risen, his gaze from Grove to the single weathered band that rested between his index and thumb, the golden ring tarnished with life in a man's working garment for the past two years. "What do you want me to tell you?" He asked, a slight undertone present in his voice, "How I met her? How the house looked? How I wasn't even given the chance to meet my daughter?" A sigh wracked his body as he finished with the words, looking to his tray for a moment as his face was slowly consumed with anger. He wished it was directed at Grove, though he knew he was its

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#, as written by Ottoman
target.

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#, as written by Ottoman
"What kind of initiative can a man take who can't even protect his own God-damn family?!" Marcus too could project his voice, his time in the service reflecting well on him as his response was immediate and likely the most vehement one out of him in quite some time, at least since the Aschen decided to hang about the bar. As familiar as she was with the subject, she didn't strike him as the most faithful of individuals, surely she didn't grow up with faith being as integral part of her life as it was his. Or did she know to see it all come crashing down, a final, sickening proof that the God to whom he had prayed for well over twenty years of his life didn't exist. What kind of God would make such a thing happen in the first place, much less force you to watch it enacted from orbit. You live and then you die. Plain enough.

So convicted was he in his mind that he didn't bother, until now as he looked to Lara, to see that she too suffered, that tears now occupied the eyes of this harsh woman. He glanced as he listened, to his hand, which had instinctively drawn the wedding band in with his thumb to protect it in a fist. Loosening his hand with time, Sheffield looked in to the spartan piece that used to straddle his finger, the light of the room reflecting off of it in a soft glint, taking in the sight for some time. Slowly he tilted his hand until the ring slid off of it and landed on the table.

"It's why I drink." He admitted, the point of shame rather strong for the man, who, in his faith, rejected the vice for so many of his younger years, God disallowing such a thing. With tears in his own eyes, he added, glancing to her as he did, "There's no other way for me to stop thinking about it."

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Her movement for the ring caused an immediate stir in his heart, the base desire to protect the only physical link he still shared with that life welling up for a moment to near a crescendo, though his body refused to react, as if cemented. He looked to the table again for a moment, unsure, largely, as to whether he felt well concerning the matter or not. All he knew for certain was that his mind dwelt on the past now, that for the moment he could remember Ilsa's face without qualm, what he could recall of Alexander's, and the conjecture of Farah. She would've been a beautiful girl, just like her mother.

He couldn't linger on such thoughts, however, as both the tears etching the lines of his cheeks and the ring pressed back into his hand demanded his attention. Marcus looked to Lara, listening to what she had to say with redoubled interest since such thoughts returned to his mind. There seemed to be an energy in them absent elsewhere, imbuing him with a sense of being, if not one that ushered with it sadness. If his cheeks could find any more color they would with Grove's suggestion, and for a moment he couldn't meet her gaze. Ilsa possessed a strong dislike for drunks, as did her family, and to think that now he was reduced to that...

"She would be." He muttered, sighing as he did and looking to the ring before returning his eyes to look up to Grove's, "I'm sorry. About this."

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Responsibility. That was a thing that had been foreign to him for quite some time, and even if he was something of a lowly NCO he never truly felt it. He mused on matters that had transpired whilst she had her way with her vice, and for the most part he considered just how he treated the memories of his family, what, in all cases, should be his pride and joy, no matter their state. It was a sorry realization that he treated them in a manner not dissimilar to shame, that he rarely touched on their subject save for the most unpleasant of times.

He hung his head by this time, and looked to nothing but his own boots as he leaned forward in his seat, not daring to meet Grove's gaze now. Eventually, however, he did manage to speak, after several long moments of deliberation, "I would give anything to look at them one more time." He glanced up now, daring a peek towards Lara, shaking his head as he repeated solemnly, "Anything." Was this what it felt like? To know that they were gone, now and forever, save for what he recalled in his heart and mind?

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Marcus did little to stop her hand, if anything he seemed to display a hint of surprise by its arrival, though he soon returned to his thoughts concerning Isla, Alexander and Farah. Lara was right in almost every capacity, that he should endeavor to recall such names and faces with pride and happiness, to recall the joy he felt when he slipped the ring onto her finger or when Alex had made one of those picture frames out of a paper plate. What he would give to just relive one of these memories for but a moment... he couldn't comprehend what he'd do.

With his gaze still arrayed towards the table for some time, his hand soon found itself lightly placed upon her arm, though his eyes now struck for his hand, the clenched fist encircling the artifact of his former life. "... thank you." He managed the words, which, despite their hushed tone, rang like a crash to the man in the silent cavern. Slowly he slipped the ring back into his breast pocket, offering a glance to Lara as he repeated himself, his voice, though relived in some way, still maintaining an air of exasperation, "Thank you."

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The man was, for the most part, oblivious to whatever unpleasantries that Grove harbored in her mind, still largely concentrating on things as they were for his family and him coming to terms with... well, whatever it was he had left besides his family. Nothing really managed to stand out as vividly, however, as they did, even thoughts of his hometown, though beautiful, evoked little in comparison. The arm dropped as she pulled away, and he was content to allow both of his hands to rest in eachother's company, his eyes unfocused with his mind's journeys. Offering her a glance with the onset of her coughing, he was worried in the immediate sense but soon relaxed as it seemed that nothing was terribly amiss.

With a sigh he looked from her to the room at large, and the plate before him. Waiting a few moments, offering a hushed chuckle, forced to accompany her own, he eventually spoke, his suggestion coming quietly as he rose from his seat, "... I should be back to my quarters." With the offer of a brief nod, he started on his way out.

He had a deal to reflect on with this.

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It was a surprise, in a way, to hear her voice, which he largely didn't expect, judging from her previous actions. He returned her smile, hoping that his was a hint more amiable than her own as she informed him concerning their departure, and with a curious eye he watched her depart, heading back towards the bridge whilst he stood by a corridor's crossroads. "Goodnight." He said, the average tone likely not carrying far enough to hear, especially not over one's footsteps, even if he directed it towards the bridge.

Perhaps, for a night, he wouldn't feel so alone.

The setting changes from Wing City Spaceport to The Razorbacks

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Marcus, meanwhile, was certainly looking distressed. If there was anything he didn't want, it was for Grove, someone who largely shouldn't even be involved in his affairs, to die. Obeying her orders rather quickly, he looked to his seat, fixing the safety harness over his frame with little effort and in good time, his efforts likely sped on by the worry with which he was looking towards this whole scenario. He would’ve much rather preferred to die on his feet than in the belly of some tin can, no offense meant to Grove or her fine ship, but he didn’t want to die in space.

The thought, for some reason, horrified him. Ironic.

He, however, couldn’t do anything but watch as warnings and any number of displays beyond his comprehension were alight across the bridge, and still Grove tended to things with a calm nature. Amazing how she could do this, he knew he certainly couldn’t. Then again, he hadn’t lived for seventy years as a being capable of interfacing with any number of ships. Thus, he observed, silently wishing that there was something he could do to help avert her, or the ship’s, death.

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Wide eyes greeted Grove's as she offered him the brief glance before imparting her orders. Finally, something to do other than sit about like an idiot. It wasn't but a matter of moments before the Terran was out of his seat and beating feet for the hangar, following the line before him as best his frantic mind could. The long corridors passed quickly under the trained man's sprint, though, to be fair, mentally they seemed to drag by.

He arrived after a deal of some panicked minutes, and with some confusion as to just which drone to climb into finally decided on one and entered, if not with some difficulty due to his frantic state. He really picture things going like this, really didn't, but then, he probably should've thought these things out a bit more sooner. The metallic beast he'd settled in to seemed largely dead to him, though he probably knew such wasn't the case. Grove had sounded like she had a plan, that was certain, though he didn't like to consider just what it entailed.

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All the while Marcus was understandably nervous, strapped into a craft most foreign to him and stuck adrift in the black, or so it certainly seemed. For a man who had spent most, if not all, of his life on a single world, to be alone in a cramped craft such as this it damaged his morale quite significantly. In his fear and ignorance, however, he might’ve saved himself, as he feared to touch any of the instruments or panels present, knowing that, with his luck, if he hit anything it would be the ejection trigger. If there was a God out there, it certainly knew that Sheffield had a special fear of asphyxiation. The death he envisioned was quick and clean, not something slow or disturbing like this.

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Inside, of course, was Marcus, the Terran much more keen on acting than lying about for something to happen. This, of course, wasn’t what he planned on, but generally when one could see what he did, and the subsequent roll of his vessel, displayed by the moving stars, from the displacement caused by the explosion spurning him into action. With a confident air he struck out at the controls before him, though that likely did him little good as he soon felt the craft lurch and he pressed back for a moment. Little did he know that such a thing brought him out of harm’s way, or put him into much greater danger, it all depends entirely on one’s point of view.

All the time after his daring initiative he found himself trying to right whatever it was he did wrong, and probably made it seem like the AI managing the craft was rather crippled.

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For Marcus, however, this was a turn for the worse. Initially he had feared that the returning contacts, as his display alerted him to their presence, were here for him, and intended to do to him as they had the other drones. However, his thoughts and rather clumsy attempt to flee the Belkans was distracted by the flash that illuminated his rear flank, and he could only assume what such meant -- Grove was likely dead, and now it looked like he would be too. Well, that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? The Terran, however, by now realized the error in his thought process, much too late for Grove, and likely for his own sake as well. If there was one thing, however, that he didn’t expect, it was for the Imperial fighter to try and close with him. He knew little of vacuum based fighter combat, but he was fairly sure that, should they have wanted, they would’ve obliterated him from some distance, not close like this.

Thus continued his frantic and otherwise idiotic action of meandering about the controls of the drone trying to resist the fighter until he finally tired of it and left things to fate. With closed eyes he awaited whatever fate this new foe had in store for him, and he jumped at the rather loud and sudden connection, thinking, for a moment, that they had shot the drone. With a flex of his hand in the dark cockpit, he ascertained, or desperately hoped, that he was still alive before he opened his eyes, which soon showed him the scene that was before him. Witnessing, from the displays, the underbelly of the graceful fighter, he looked about with confusion. Why did they want him?... it was likely the drone, he figured, thinking on things for a moment before being overcome with the realization that he, for the moment, wasn’t going to die.

Marcus Sheffield, however, might’ve just been forced into something much, much worse.

The setting changes from The Razorbacks to Terra

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Some days had elapsed since their last visit to the Local Sector, at least in any official capacity. The battlegroup that established contact with the Azurian peoples still lay dormant in the oort cloud, content to prowl among the shadows as their superiors worked to further their own agendas. Their last experience in the system was enough to warrant the lurking predators, though it was most surprising then, even to some Belkans, that Imperial Command deemed the world a worthy enough of attention. Diplomatic attention at that.

It likely wasn't driven in any way of the several references to the planet in Erutin archives.

Thus there proved to be some reason for the Belkans to not only return, but stay. All territory of the Erutin Empire was legally theirs, and the Erutin holdings in the local system, if the Terran National Government proved to be less abrasive than their military, would soon be reclaimed by their proper owners. With a flash did the three ships arrive, the five kilometer cruiser broadcasting, with its escorts, a message of peace in the best English they knew. Still one could hear their accent seeping through their voice.

It wasn't to be a Belkan who would speak with the Terrans today, but rather one of their own number. Sheffield couldn't deny that the uniform granted to him by the organization known as the LandwĂ€chter, in return for his vows, was rather stylish. Militant as well, his trained figure still accented by the tailoring as he adjusted his collar one final time on the bridge. Odd how this insignia felt – woolen tabs dyed purple with a gilded triad on each – after wearing Terran fatigues for so long. They never bothered to issue him any such uniform on Terra.

Keeping his peaked cap atop his head, the Anglo-Turk stood at parade-rest, awaiting further orders as to how to proceed with this. He was their ambassador, if not a technologically impaired one.

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With curious eyes did he glance to his wife, if she could still be called that, as she conversed with their superiors in their own tongue. He was picking up on it here and there, though he still had a great deal to go before he garnered any sort of mastery over the language. The glance that the ship's political officer shot him told him all he needed to know. Soon enough he stepped forward, still adjusting to the feeling that the leather boots imparting upon his feet, and was instructed by the comms officer as to how the process would work in rather broken English.

From what he did understand this would be most interesting.

Jessica? Was that her name? As the image that filtered before him on one of the bridge's many holograms revealed the form of a woman not even a decade his senior. Oh, this would be interesting. No doubt. The Ministry of Defense...

"Good day, Jessica." Marcus spoke with a rather pleasant air to his voice, how it was he managed it escaped him for the moment. "I know that you and your colleagues must prefer to speak with someone fluent in our own tongue." Oh, but his name, how could he forget his name? The black-clad figure shifted on his feet, the violet trim of his uniform providing a barely noticeable accent to the garment. "... Marcus Sheffield, emissary of His Imperial Majesty."

How odd that introduction sounded in his mind, but how well it rolled off the lips... He couldn't place it, simply resolving to consolidate his stance, straightening his back by another degree or two. If anything he would make a good impression.

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Marcus barely had a moment to open his mouth to continue before it was practically forced shut by Monika's sudden interference. With worried eyes did his gaze shoot to her, hoping that he hadn't sad anything out of place as of yet. Surely not, he'd been conversing with those Belkans who could speak his own tongue and thought that he had attained a good enough grasp on his new comrades and his role in order to perform adequately.

But apparently not.

Her eyes bitterly stung him, the man recoiling a hair as she turned her attention back towards the terran with whom she soon made some odd request or another. He'd heard the name before, but was likely too inebriated to have absorbed any relevant details concerning Drulović. Instead Marcus fought back the hints of tears that had crept into his eyes as this continued. It was no trouble for him to blink them back, especially in his official capacity, but it hurt all the same.

To live so long without her, and now she was ashamed of him.

Sheffield soon relegated himself subtly to a much less central position, taking up his usual modest stance on the left flank of his wife with his hands clasped behind his back. Perhaps they would give him the chance to try again, as he certainly hoped they would. He knew not what they would do if he failed in this task, and he didn't think they would entertain his fantastical wish to serve on the frontlines against the Aschen.

The setting changes from Terra to Gambit's Bar

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Marcus had, after all, largely altered his appearance just for this reason. Of course, the most obvious and easiest reason was to elude capture and trace by the powers-that-be, but he held a much better reason tucked away where none could see. As keen as he was for his station-to-be and his lover, he still found himself compromised by the woman that he once called his wife. Given, it wasn't like they were opposed now, considering both served the Hegemony and its interests, but it didn't mean he had to like her.

Even if he still loved her.

Her arrival in the place didn't go unnoticed, cold eyes tossing her an alarmed glance before returning to what was before him, tucked quietly into one of the corner booths. The dull hum of music provided enough of a shield, or so he thought, to the comrade with whom he spoke.

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The duke-to-be ignored her, glancing back to the conversation he had while Monika stewed. It would likely irk her so, him actually showing a hint of backbone for the first time in quite a while. Too long, he spat in his mind, had he been subservient to her, always doting on her and the like - and for her to treat him like this. He decided he'd never stand for that again.

Never, and he was quite keen on the thought.

If she wished to speak, she'd have to come to him, no longer the other way around.

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"Pardon?" Came his question, glancing up to the woman that stood beside his booth, sighing as he did. The other occupant was wearing a look of bewilderment as well, save for a much more genuine one. The look worn on Marcus' face was one that almost claimed to have never seen the woman before, though the distasteful undertone betrayed otherwise.

He had met her before alright, and he held quite a grudge.

"... I don't think we've met."