Reaction
to Orithain's Mutuality.
July 2005
Dog tags.
He gave me dog tags.
Yes, that’s what they are: small rectangles of metal with the whole obligatory name, rank and serial number pressed in them. They even have the black rubber guard around them to keep them from jangling together.
But... dog tags.
It isn’t as if we haven’t discussed something like this as a way of identifying civilian members of off-world teams in case the worst happens and physical identification can’t be made.
He’s standing there, looking at me with that hopeful, little-boy grin on his face, and I can’t figure out why the hell he’s so excited about giving me a way to identify my dead body when...
Oh. Okay, for a genius I’m pretty damn dense. I’ve seen these before - no, not these exactly as there’s a small lump in the middle of his chest under his t-shirt. The lump that’s four inches below one made by the collar I gave him.
Sheppard, Jonathan M., USAF, and a series of numbers that’s actually close to the distance between the earth and the sun. I should have noticed this sooner; after all, I’ve had the originals hanging in my face often enough, though admittedly, I’m usually too distracted with the reason why they’re hanging there to concentrate on them.
He gave me dog tags. His smile grows as he recognizes my understanding. Now, no matter what happens, neither of us will be lost.
There’s really only one thing left to say, so I do.
"Put them on me, John. Please?"
since 02-04-07
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