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driftcompatible
Aug. 26th, 2013 09:59 amThere is absolutely no worse feeling than knowing that your child died from a direct result of your actions.
Herc had watched Chuck fall to his death screaming, Leatherback's angry roar not enough to drown out the terrified noise that ripped from his son's throat before the ocean swallowed him up and his armor dragged him down. It left Herc shell-shocked, useless even without his broken clavicle, and he was honestly surprised when Stacker left him in charge of the final mission.
He wouldn't have.
But somehow he managed, somehow he was able to stand there in the LOCCENT, was able to direct the last two Jaegers to finish the mission and seal the breach forever. They knew they were going to die. Every pilot does when they strap themselves in. Herc had stepped up to that microphone knowing that he would listen to the death of his best friend and his maybe-girlfriend, and it was only what he deserved for killing his son. He had to listen to Chuck die, too. It seems fitting.
Striker Eureka detonated in a giant nuclear explosion and Herc felt what was left of his heart shatter, leaving him a hollow man-shaped shell.
He was only able to get through the press dockets and the paperwork and ordering the decontamination protocols because he had done all this before and his autopilot instincts were good. But if anyone were to look at the footage, they would see a broken man, haggard and grieving, the light gone out of his eyes, every fiber screaming he'd given up.
Most days now, Herc drinks himself into oblivion with cheap moonshine, hoping to numb the agony he feels with every breath. It never works.
Herc had watched Chuck fall to his death screaming, Leatherback's angry roar not enough to drown out the terrified noise that ripped from his son's throat before the ocean swallowed him up and his armor dragged him down. It left Herc shell-shocked, useless even without his broken clavicle, and he was honestly surprised when Stacker left him in charge of the final mission.
He wouldn't have.
But somehow he managed, somehow he was able to stand there in the LOCCENT, was able to direct the last two Jaegers to finish the mission and seal the breach forever. They knew they were going to die. Every pilot does when they strap themselves in. Herc had stepped up to that microphone knowing that he would listen to the death of his best friend and his maybe-girlfriend, and it was only what he deserved for killing his son. He had to listen to Chuck die, too. It seems fitting.
Striker Eureka detonated in a giant nuclear explosion and Herc felt what was left of his heart shatter, leaving him a hollow man-shaped shell.
He was only able to get through the press dockets and the paperwork and ordering the decontamination protocols because he had done all this before and his autopilot instincts were good. But if anyone were to look at the footage, they would see a broken man, haggard and grieving, the light gone out of his eyes, every fiber screaming he'd given up.
Most days now, Herc drinks himself into oblivion with cheap moonshine, hoping to numb the agony he feels with every breath. It never works.
