Announcements: Cutting Costs (2024) » January 2024 Copyfraud Attack » Finding Universes to Join (and making yours more visible!) » Guide To Universes On RPG » Member Shoutout Thread » Starter Locations & Prompts for Newcomers » RPG Chat — the official app » Frequently Asked Questions » Suggestions & Requests: THE MASTER THREAD »

Latest Discussions: Adapa Adapa's for adapa » To the Rich Men North of Richmond » Shake Senora » Good Morning RPG! » Ramblings of a Madman: American History Unkempt » Site Revitalization » Map Making Resources » Lost Poetry » Wishes » Ring of Invisibility » Seeking Roleplayer for Rumple/Mr. Gold from Once Upon a Time » Some political parody for these trying times » What dinosaur are you? » So, I have an Etsy » Train Poetry I » Joker » D&D Alignment Chart: How To Get A Theorem Named After You » Dungeon23 : Creative Challenge » Returning User - Is it dead? » Twelve Days of Christmas »

Players Wanted: Long-term fantasy roleplay partners wanted » Serious Anime Crossover Roleplay (semi-literate) » Looking for a long term partner! » JoJo or Mha roleplay » Seeking long-term rp partners for MxM » [MxF] Ruining Beauty / Beauty x Bastard » Minecraft Rp Help Wanted » CALL FOR WITNESSES: The Public v Zosimos » Social Immortal: A Vampire Only Soiree [The Multiverse] » XENOMORPH EDM TOUR Feat. Synthe Gridd: Get Your Tickets! » Aishna: Tower of Desire » Looking for fellow RPGers/Characters » looking for a RP partner (ABO/BL) » Looking for a long term roleplay partner » Explore the World of Boruto with Our Roleplaying Group on FB » More Jedi, Sith, and Imperials needed! » Role-player's Wanted » OSR Armchair Warrior looking for Kin » Friday the 13th Fun, Anyone? » Writers Wanted! »

Contractor

The Milky Way Galaxy

0 INK

a part of Contractor, by Loxley.

None

Loxley holds sovereignty over The Milky Way Galaxy, giving them the ability to make limited changes.

270 readers have been here.

Setting

Default Location for Contractor
Create a Character Here »

Minimap

The Milky Way Galaxy is a part of Contractor.

5 Characters Here

Cody "Code" Coda [0] Helix Squad's Infiltrator.
Leiliana "Sparrow" Rothschild [0] Infiltrator for Gamma squadron, and not at all what she appears.
Lara Freeman [0] Gamma squadron's doctor and an expert in off-world physiology and emergency medicine
Jonathan Schaeffer [0] Captain in SG and commander of the SRC Gold Squadron
Darrel Williams [0] "They won't be commiting acts of evil with a gun in their face."

Start Character Here »


0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#, as written by Loxley
SGS Manitoba
PMC Space Station
SG Navy, 2nd Fleet

"This is SGV Maurateng, identification code X5930FDHG394, requesting permission to dock."

"SGV Maurateng, your identification code checks out. Permission granted. Proceed to docking bay 43."

"Roger that. Proceeding to docking bay 43."

The enormous space ship moved, as slowly as a giant whale at sea, through the pitch black darkness of space. Using only the core engines, the ship successfully maneuvered around the even more enormous space station, until it reached docking bay 43. The thought of a ship the size of the Maurateng docking on a space station as ludicrous - the sheer weight would have made her fall through the floor. However, the docking bays were exempt from the artificial gravity induced in the rest of the space station, and so, when the Maurateng was in position, she was locked down while still suspended in the void of space. Soon, the huge gates to the docking bay closed behind her, and a cylindrical tube was extended from the high walls that made up the Manitoba Space station's interior, locking hull with the Maurateng and providing a gangway for the passengers to board the station on.

In the passenger quarters of the Maurateng - and since she was a cruiser, designed mainly to carry the weight of SG's many legions of mercenaries, her passenger quarters made up almost 80 percent of her size - activity was bustling. Any man that had ever served in the military knew of the stress and pressure that hung in the air as the legionnaires were hurriedly packing their gear into bags in preparation for disembarking the ship. The next few days would be full of similar drills, as they would make themselves only moderately comfortable on SGS Manitoba, where they would be stationed only for a few days before being deployed to Guinam.

A voice in the speaker systems, an artificial intelligence that had become known to the soldiers on-board as Gilliam, during the last few days, monotonely drilled them on:

"SGV Maurateng have now docked at SGS Manitoba. Please check your locker for forgotten effects. Lost personal effects shall not be replaced, returned or reimbursed. Please be advised, the cost of any lost equipment will be deducted from your salary. Please make sure your barracks have been properly cleaned. Please make sure the bathrooms are properly cleaned. Please make sure to pick up all apparel and/or uniform details from cleaning. Apparel and/or uniform details forgotten at the cleaning bay will not be returned. The cost of replacement apparel will be deducted from your paycheck. All passengers are to be reminded, no pets are allowed on-board the SGV Maurateng. Please be advised, you have only four hours left before scheduled disembarking from SGV Maurateng."

Many of the soldiers shot the infernal speaker systems that transmitted the artificial intelligence's instructions hateful glares. One soldier even grabbed a kevlar helmet and tossed at one of the speaker in the ceiling, wrecking it permanently. A wave of cheers, applause, and laughters coursed through the corridors of Barrack Area 0448.

*****

Jonathan Schaeffer chewed on a bubblegum as he calmly packed what little personal equipment he had not turned in back on Camp Rome in Galzburg, Mars, into a small olive green military duffel bag. He, like many of the other soldiers on-board, wore civilian clothes currently, as he was not on duty. The rest of his small cabin had already been cleaned out. In a corner a used mop was placed, with which he had cleaned the floor meticulously. Military regs stated that any man who didn't clean his quarters after moving out was destined for an hour and a half of pure hell in being chewed out by his commanding officer. But Schaeffer had cleaned his quarters carefully, and the only thing left to do was to clean out his locker.

He tossed a couple of T-shirts into the bag, and began to pick up the minor effects that were now left in the almost empty locker. They were a wallet, a metal wristwatch, a passport, and a pair of sunglasses. Putting all of them in his pockets, he picked up his uniform jacket and tossed it over his shoulder along with his bag, as he stepped out of the quarters, closing the door behind him. He pulled the keycard over the lock, and a buzzing sound told him it was now locked. After this, he walked down the corridor towards Barrack 0448-34, which was where his squad were stationed.

Of course, Schaeffer was in command of an entire SRC squadron. But "an entire SRC squadron" consisted of, all in all, no more than eight four man squads at most, though it often depended on the specific units how many members the squadrons had. In Schaeffer's case, however, due to combat casualties from their latest mission, four original squads were reduced to two today. Eight men. That was one hell of a freightening squadron, he thought to himself with a shake of his head. Headquarters had promised reinforcements, but of course, reinforcements were always in short supply in the PMC business. And so Jonathan Schaeffer would have to make do with the eight soldiers he had, though admittedly, they were probably the best damn soldiers that the SRC had ever seen.

He stopped by Barrack 0448-34, where his two squads were bunked during their stay on the Maurateng, and knocked on the door as he stepped inside.

One of the soldiers, spotting him in the doorway, shouted:
"Officer on deck! Attention!"

0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Darrel packed his bags in a hurried fashion. He couldn't wait to meet the commander. He had only just gotten the post that was his right now. He was glad that some sort of army trusted him again. He could never forgive the commander who gave the wrong mission which is why he was here. He liked it here he supposed but then again his old job in the Martian Military was much friendlier. He picked up his glock and put in his holster and then took his bag and went of the room and toward the Barracks.


He made it just in time to see the helmet thrown at the speaker. He couldn't help but cheer for this guy. The man who did that had some balls. He wished everyone here was like that. He took out his canteen and sipped from it. That was some good water. He then saw his commanding officer in the door way behind him. The Speaker fell and he waved to the commander. At least he could say he met the dude.



He heard that the commander was South African. He didn't care about that too much. Racism had left it's peak nearly 400 years ago at the new millennium. Hell those where quite a interesting time according to what history books said about it. Terrorism was at it's peak. Or at least that was what was thought until the Mars Terrorism game opened up. He had to admit Mars took that cake as far as Terrorism went.

He wondered what the operation would look like. He knew it was a terrorism mission. He knew those involved a helluva fight and usually defusing bombs. But aside from his assumptions he didn't know what was happening. Darrel walked to the commander and spoke to him. " Hello sir, I am the leader of the Helix squad as you may know."



He turned and spoke to another Soldier who wasn't being sent on his mission. "Hey how you hanging big man?" . Darrel wanted to his steak but he knew he wouldn't. There was a lot things he wanted to do that he wouldn't do. Such was life in his career. He his job was to stop terrorism and in a way he supposed it required some acting. He had to act like a terrorist in his mind so he thought like one and made the busts. This was why he was put in charge of Helix.

0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Beyond the reinforced silicate glass of the little window beside Lara's bunk, the bulk of the SGS Manitoba loomed out of the blackness. From far away, it looked beautiful- the unshielded light of the system's star flamed off the titanium hull, brighter and more spectacularly than any of the specks of light that dusted its backdrop. As they came closer, it began to acquire a well-used ugliness that was peculiar to human-built space vessels. Here a part of the hull had been replaced, the new shell slightly less scuffed than the rest, there one of the docking lights flickered on and off to the tune of a faulty connection. Closer still and she could see tiny people passing back and forth past the observation windows. What had appeared to be serene and perfect from a distance was in fact hectic and dog-eared now it could be better examined.

Once Lara was aware of this, she lost interest in the view from the porthole. Turning to look sceptically at her sleeping area, she double-checked its appearance. The bed was pristine, the sheets folded with precision and the rough felt blanket turned over and tucked neatly into the end of the mattress. The floor and side-table was as spotless as an operating theatre. One of her two bags was packed. The first held her civilian clothes (the few that she had brought with her), toiletries and her uniform. The second was due to hold her surgical tools, sterilising equipment and vitals monitors which were arranged in order on her bed, ready to be packed. Undoubtedly SG would expect to provide her with such items from their own store but Lara would be declining. She knew this equipment, knew how it worked, knew it was the best money could buy, at least back on Earth. All of these things meant it was far more valuable to her in the field than some communal standard-issue device dished out unthinkingly by headquarters to all their medics. Smoothing down her skirt (unsurprisingly, after the first day on-ship none of the men had dared to comment on her civilian dress), she set to work.

She was in the middle of placing each of these items into her bag (in a precise order, with each in their own compartment) when she was interrupted by the proclamation that an officer was on deck.

With a brief glance of exasperation towards the ceiling, Lara stood up and turned to salute with only just enough rapidity not to be called out by whichever officer had decided to make such an ill-timed appearance. Adhering to rank was something she viewed as necessary but tiresome. Of course, it was needed for the proper functioning of any kind of paramilitary organisation but for the effective practice of medicine... It tended to get in the way.

From the stripes on his shoulder, Lara realised that the man who had entered the barracks must be Cpt. Schaeffer, the leader of her squadron and commanding officer of Team Nine. Turning her dark eyes to face the front, she waited for the order to stand down.

0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

SGS Manitoba
PMC Space Station
Barrack 0448-34


Sparrow's fingers curled slightly against the cool glass of her "windowpane," (little more than a circular hole in the hull) and she watched disinterestedly as her breath misted the synthetic glass, reinforced and strengthened by a silicon compound. Absently, she drew the molecular diagram of the material in the foggy spot with neat, sharp, minuscule strokes, dropping her hand when the image disappeared. Actually, she should probably clean her window again, but she wasn't going to bother. If she had to be here, it was going to be on her own terms as much as possible.

Hence the fact that the solitary uniform she owned was currently in the bottom of her rucksack, and probably would spend the remainder of the mission at the bottom of her footlocker. She heard the sound of a great crash from beyond her wall, accompanied by raucous cheers. "Lovely. I'm surrounded by ingrates." She hoped that guy made the same amount of money she did, because that meant it would take him a while to pay off whatever damage he'd just done. Didn't people understand that they'd be completely lost without technology like that? Sparrow wouldn't trust most to tie their own shoes without it, let alone run a sting successfully.

Steely eyes scanned the room for a few seconds, trying to pick out anything she might have missed. The recent transfer had been done packing hours ago, as was her wont. Despite the fact that she generally disliked excessive regulation from others, she knew how to clean a room to a military standard of spotlessness and efficiency; that habit had been ingrained into her from childhood.

Nothing else to do; might as well head out. Brushing invisible dirt from sturdy dark green cargo pants, she straightened the long-sleeved black shirt and tucked her most decidedly non-regulation necklace beneath it.

The hallways were about as chaotic as she would have expected out of this lot; didn't anyone bother to do things ahead of time? Even as she emerged into one of the large common areas, someone shouted about there being an officer around even as a tall (but then, to Sparrow, everyone was tall) man with a mark near his eye entered the room, carrying a duffel. The others around snapped to attention, and she did the same, though much less abruptly. Smoothly straightening, she saluted. Personally, the salute was one thing about militaries she'd never really understood. If you knew who was in charge, why waste his time making him tell you to stand down? Just do your job, and do it well.

0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#, as written by Loxley
As Schaeffer entered the barrack, the soldiers stood at attention, saluting him. He spoke:
"Stand by for cleaning inspection." He placed his duffel bag on the floor, and looked around the barrack. He spent the next few minutes making sure the entire room was completely cleaned. The floor had been mopped, and the lockers were cleaned out, of that he made sure. Even the top of the lockers had been dusted off. He wandered up to the window, which, too, was spotlessly cleaned. After the few minutes of inspections, he nodded to himself, satisfied. It was his job to make sure his soldiers had cleaned out their quarters properly before leaving, because if they hadn't, it was he who would have to answer for it. "Good." He said to the soldiers, finally satisfied. "At ease." The SRC-operators moved down from attention stand as one body.

Schaeffer spoke again.
"Everyone here knows what we have ahead of us. We're being deployed to Guinam for counter-insurgency operations against a movement called the Lord's Revolutionary Front. The details will be given to you during a briefing onboard the Manitoba. For now, know that you will be expected to fight your own species, humans, to defend extraterrestrials. I expect you all to act with the professionalism and detachment that we SRC operators pride ourselves in, even though this is the case. I trust this won't be a problem, will it, Sergeant Rothschild?" He stopped, and looked the female infiltrator straight in the eyes.

He continued.
"If you are all ready to leave, you are to disembark the Maurateng within thirty minutes. Make your last-minute cleaning and packing, lock down the barracks, and turn in your keycards. You will then proceed to the reception areas of the Maurateng, where you will receive new keycards to your quarters onboard the space station. Don't make yourselves too comfortable. We will only stay here for a couple of days before we are deployed to Guinam. I suggest you use the time wisely. You are to check out your combat gear at the 45G Military Storage Facility onboard the Manitoba, so my advise is to prepare that for the operations. Study up on the planet, as the Manitoba have an excellent library. And they have shooting ranges where you may adjust the sights of your weapons. Make sure you are ready when the order to deploy comes."

He looked at Gamma Squad's medic.
"Sergeant Freeman, you are to report to Doctor Altriste at Military Clinic 2B on-board the Manitoba. They have a medical equipment warehouse there, and you will be issued with all that you need to fullfil your duties as team medic. I also suggest that you study up on alien physiology on Guinam, as you will quite possibly need it. There will, after all, be times when we're working as mentors to the Guinamese Defense Army, and so we will be working and fighting closely with non-human Guinamese citizens. Oh, and try not to give Doctor Altriste frostbite." He added, hinting at her cold personality. "Understood?"

"We're still awaiting reinforcements from Command. That last battle on Rhedonia cost a lot of lives. A lot of good SRC operators died there." His voice didn't reveal any of the guilt that he felt, having led them into a battle where most of his squadron would be wiped out. "Until that time, Gold Squadron will be operating as a modular fighting force. Until that time, Sergeant Williams, your Helix squad will be operating tightly with Gamma Squad. I know you're new to the SRC. Our regulations might be a bit different than those in the Martian military. However, I expect you to fullfil your duties to my satisfaction, regardless. Meet my expectations, and you'll find that I am not unreasonable."

He looked around at the squad.
"That's all for now. As I said, do your last-minute cleaning and packing, and then transfer to your new quarters onboard the Manitoba. Any questions, you may contact me on my communicator, or in my quarters on-board the Manitoba. That's all." With that, he turned around, and walked out of the barrack.

A few minutes later, he turned in his keycard to one of the crew members of the Maurateng, and walked through the large cylindrical tube extending from the ship's hull, that would take him onboard the SGS Manitoba.

0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Sgt. Darrel nodded to show he was listening. " Yes sir. Thank you for filling me in." He said to Schaeffer and he walked away to do what he was commanded. He picked up few articles of clothing and he put them away in his knapsack. He shut is foot locker and wondered why no aliens in were the group. He hated fighting Human's because they had a thought process just like his.


He walked up to a soldier and asked him something. "Do you think we are doomed to hell? From what I have heard this terrorist organization is pretty good at what they do. We wouldn't have been called in." He said to the other man smiling and putting out his hand to shake.

" Well to be honest I don't give a damn. I am not on the group of people going. I am here to play guard duty to our current destination. But your probably right. The only call in Sgt. Schaeffer when the problem's serious." The man said shaking Darrel's hand. He walked away leaving Darrell to his own devices. He went and got a mop to clean the barrack. He scrubbed the floors twice and closed down his barrack and went to go turn his keycard.

" Here you go. I hope I come out of this alive." He whispered under his breath and now went back to return to Schaeffer. " I am done with the objectives you have set forth." Williams said in a monotone.

0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

"I expect you all to act with the professionalism and detachment that we SRC operators pride ourselves in, even though this is the case. I trust this won't be a problem, will it, Sergeant Rothschild?" Damn. The Captain had apparently heard something of the circumstances of her transfer. Well, she wasn't going to bother correcting what was probably a gross misinterpretation of the facts. That wasn't her job, and frankly she didn't give a shit what anyone thought about her, mistaken or not.

One corner of her mouth twitched upward, just slightly, though she held the gaze steadily. Regardless of the circumstances, it wasn't too often anyone bothered to call her out on anything. It was actually a little bit amusing. "Of course not, Sir," she replied with an almost-undetectable twinge of irony in her otherwise flat, uncaring tone. Ah, if only they'd told him the whole story. Then maybe he'd know she was the last person that needed to be warned about professionalism.

But all of that was inconsequential. Sparrow was the sort of person who let her actions speak or themselves. Fewer annoying conversations that way. As soon as they were dismissed, she hefted her bag over her shoulder once more and followed the steady stream of people transferring vessels. Making a quick stop to hand over her keycard to the large (again, maybe not really, but it wasn't like 5'10" and 6'1" were all that different to her) man who stood like an only occasionally-moving statue. He looked at her with a hint of speculation, and Sparrow frowned. Really, was it so hard to believe that she did this for a living? She rolled her eyes to herself and kept moving.

After disembarking through one of those long tubes, Sparrow flicked her eyes about the space station and appraised the engineering mentally. Not bad, all things considered, but it wasn't top-of-the-line exactly, and she was glad she knew how to work machines that had been standard-issue before she was even born. There was bound to be at least some piece of equipment that bordered on Windows, but most of it likely wouldn't be quite so prehistoric.

She received her new card in much the same way as she'd gotten rid of the old one, only this time, the soldier at the counter was better about hiding his skepticism. Maybe that was because she'd shoved all the official documentation straight at him as soon as it was her turn, who could say?

0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#, as written by Loxley
Schaeffer went to the central area of the Manitoba. There were many others like him, soldiers carrying their equipment while waiting in line to receive the keycards for their new quarters. Most of them were 4th Auxiliary Legion soldiers, but some were from SRC Team Nine. Officially and according to SG hierarchy, SRC Team Nine was part of the 4th Auxiliary Legion's power structure and made up it's special operations capability.

However, in all but name, all SRC teams were independent entities and could operate outside the jurisdiction of their mother-unit. This was why many 4th Legionnaires looked sourly at any SRC operators that walked past them, though admittedly, there were few as it was on the Manitoba. The Gold Squadron itself was supposed to consist of up to twenty operators. However, due to financial constraints, battlefield casualties and failing replacements, an entire SRC squadron under Schaeffer was now made up of eight men. He wasn't certain how the other squadrons had fared, but it meant that SRC operators were hard to come by, and there were only few of them being seen on the Manitoba today.

The lines to the reception counters were long, but Schaeffer, as a captain, could bypass the lines and walk right up to one of the reception counters, where he showed his SG identity and identified himself: "SG Captain Jonathan Schaeffer, number 439479, SRC Team Nine." He said. The NCO by the computer typed in his name, and soon, the same computer spat out a key card which the man handed over to Schaeffer.

"Thumbprint here, please." The man said, shooting him a thumbprint scanner pad the size of Schaeffer's hand. The Captain placed his thumb there until the pad lit up green, and then shot it back to the NCO, having signed for the keycard. He picked it up, made a sloppy salute to the soldier, and left.

He wandered through the spacestation's long corridors. He was in no rush, and so he took his time, looking out the windows at the vast blackness of space separated from him by only a window. Other soldiers and officers who were more used to space commodations than him didn't even stop to look. But Schaeffer was a ground fighter, a soldier trained to fight planetside. He had never liked being stationed on spacestations. Fortunately, it wouldn't be for too long. He left the windows and proceeded to his quarters. Flashing the keycard in front of the scanner, he stepped inside and enjoyed the feeling of complete silence when the soundproof door was closed behind him again.

His quarters were, of course, small. Manitoba or no, it was still a spacestation, with limited space. Even officer quarters were only ten by ten meters in size, and contained a double-level bed, though the first level was occupied by a desk, chair and floor locker rather than a bed, and a machine to order processed food. A small bathroom with a combination of toilet and shower, and a sink, covered the most basic needs he had. Even so, there were some benefits compared to the eight-man barracks that regular soldiers slept in. For example, the speakers in the ceiling could connect not only to the ship's various intercom systems, but also to a music player placed on the wall.

For now, though, Schaeffer threw his duffel bag in the locker, lay down on the bed, closed his eyes, and soon after fell asleep.

When he woke up several hours later, he took a quick shower and shaved. He then proceeded to dress in his uniform, and finally, grabbed his communicator. He contacted all seven soldiers within Gold Squadron.

"This is Captain Schaeffer speaking." He said. "I take it you are all settled in onboard the Manitoba now and have checked out your equipment. If not, do that now. Rendezvous at shooting range 3 in training block 42 of the Manitoba, where we will go through a quick repetition of basic combat training, as well as line up the sights of your personal weapons. There will also be physical training, so bring suitable clothes. And make sure to eat something beforehand. That is all. Over and out." He closed the communications channel without bothering to listen for their confirmations.

Then he stood up, and left to go check out his own equipment.

0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

SGS Manitoba
PMC Space Station


If anyone was familiar with the standard regulations of the SRC and observed the interaction between Leiliana and the man at the desk, they might have wondered why nobody ever asked Sparrow for her fingerprint, or even her number. The reason was evident, however, in a particular piece of documentation with a very important signature at the end, which had the bureaucrat at the counter raising his eyebrows so high they disappeared beneath the line of his non-crew cut (he wasn't a combat agent, thank you very much) hair.

The truth of the matter was a rather complicated one, but luckily this guy knew his job well enough not to ask questions, and so when he entered in the alternate information the document provided, a standard-issue keycard appeared, swiftly disappearing somewhere in Sparrow's pockets. Nodding to the man, she passed by him and traversed the several hallways necessary to reach her particular barrack.

It seemed that she was the first person there, which suited her just fine. If she could unpack quickly enough, she might not have to meet her bunkmates anytime soon. Four two-tiered beds were the main feature of the room, and each unit had a footlocker at either end for storage. A spartan bathroom was her best guess for what lay beyond the second and final door in the room, but his she ignored for the moment, instead depositing her bag on the top bunk of the set pressed against the wall. It seemed most people preferred bottom bunk for whatever reason, but Sparrow liked to think that she might have some modicum of privacy above the typical line of vision.

Clambering up (rather gracefully, all things considered), she reflected that it might actually just be her own line of vision, and not for the first time, she decided that it was rather disadvantageous to be short in most circumstances. A person could get a complex about that, if they went in for such frivolities as hurt feelings. Sparrow did not. She spent the next few minutes delicately unpacking the majority of her homemade devices, some which functioned the way she had designed them, and some which weren't quite there yet. Either way, she wasn't going to just throw fragile tech in with the rest of her things, though 'throw' probably wasn't the right word either.

That done, and conveniently enough, her claim also staked on that particular bed, she stowed the rest of her meager belongings in her footlocker. Well, that was that done, and it had probably taken no more than fifteen minutes. Technically, she supposed that meant she should go get her equipment now...

Sparrow's lips pressed into a thin line, displeasure evident. 'Equipment' was what lay on her bed. What she was really supposed to obtain was her gun, and that she did not want. Still this was something that her superiors insisted upon, and given the other concessions they were willing to make, she supposed it shouldn't be too much to expect her to at least carry a firearm around.

It wasn't as though she was a horrible shot; she just really, really, hated guns. Every time she shot one, the same image replayed in her head, and she couldn't help but find their use a little gratuitous. So many soldiers carried around the biggest guns they could get their hands on and fired them all too easily. Hell, that was probably a complex, too, now that she got to thinking about it. Even so, she made her way to the armory, ignoring everyone she passed, as they tended to ignore her as well.

"A Glock, if you please," she told the issuing officer without preamble. The woman, stern of countenance and perhaps a bit advanced in years for direct field combat, nodded just as succinctly and retrieved one of the weapons.

"You'll need to adjust the sight manually, of course," she told Sparrow, then filled out the issuance paperwork, again writing something else in the margin instead of asking for a fingerprint. Sparrow simply holstered the weapon and left. There'd be time for that later. Right now, she needed something to eat.

About fifteen minutes into her partially-dehydrated space food (sometimes she wished she'd not been exposed to actual food; maybe this stuff would have tasted better) she received a communication from Schaeffer, at which point she abruptly stood and disposed of the rest. Glancing down at her clothes, she decided they'd be good enough; not as comfortable as they could be, but then who ever went into a combat situation in sweat pants and a t-shirt?

Block 42, here I come, she thought laconically.

0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Lara took the Captain's jibe without any sign she had heard it except for a certain hardness that immediately came over her gaze.

"Of course, sir," she said. She had two degrees and a PhD; checking her understanding was superfluous and patronising. She decided she did not like her new commanding officer, but then that hardly mattered. As long as he didn't interfere with her clinical judgement, he could throw all the insults he liked her way. The next time he required morphine for a field wound, she might just inject saline instead.

Once they were left alone, she packed her equipment away in its proper places and left the barracks.


The inside of the Manitoba was much like the outside. From a distance, slick and striking but closer up the wear from years of operation showed. Lara walked down the bustling corridors ignoring the double-takes from passers-by; it was obvious who the new recruits were on a ship like this and the existing personnel would relish the opportunity to inject a little much-needed gossip into their social lives. The ship was larger than any Lara had been on before but there could be no more than a thousand people living on it permanently.

After stopping briefly to bring up a map of the station on a nearby information screen, she found Clinic 2B. Pushing through the swing-doors, she went inside. It consisted of a small complex of consultation rooms around a central waiting area. Undoubtedly this was where the residents of the ship attended as out-patients for their more minor ailments or for monitoring and routine assessments. Somewhere else in the medical centre would be a ward where the most serious cases- field trauma or otherwise- were cared for.

A man, in his late forties with wiry grey hair, looked up from where he consulted with a secretary at the far end of the waiting area.

"Ah, you must be Dr Freeman," he said, extending a hand and smiling. Lara shouldered her bag and shook it. "Reggie Altriste, as I'm sure you know. Now, come with me and we'll sign out your standard issue-"

"I won't be requiring any," said Lara shortly. "I already have my own and there are certainly more advanced than anything you have here. Any information files on Guinamese physiology would be useful, however..."

Dr Altriste waved a hand in placation. "Don't worry, we'll get to that. And yes, I realise you've brought your own stuff, everybody does. In fact, I'd think less of you if you hadn't. But the thing is, the SRC like to think they're being useful in issuing outdated vitals monitors and insist that we all carry them around with us like teddy bears. So let me come and get your signature and they can stay exactly where they are in the storeroom until you sign them back in again and no one will be the wiser."

For the first time in days, Lara smiled. It seemed that not everyone in the SRC were unimaginative thugs with a penchant for power-play like her newly assigned captain.

"I know," said Dr Altriste sympathetically. "It's a relief, isn't it? Find a medic who says he truly fits in with a military organisation and I'll show you a liar."



A little while later, Lara had left her bags in her locker next to her new bunk (one of the other recruits had already been and gone, leaving their belongings on the bed one over), she took a few minutes to eat an uninspired lunch of rehydrated chicken salad. She had almost finished when the voice of her commander crackled over the intercom. With an exasperated look at her plate, she finished, changed into a more practical outfit of leggings, t-shirt and slim-fitting finned jacket and found her pistol. Deftly checking its machinery and putting a few boxes of ammunition into her pocket, she tucked the pistol into her waistband at the small of her back and left to find Block 42.

0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#, as written by Loxley
Jonathan arrived to Block 42 ten minutes before the outset time. The shooting range was under control of a range master, a sergeant who surrendered the range to Schaeffer as an SRC officer. Schaeffer locked away his own weapons in one of the many secure lockers, and then proceeded to look around the range and begin preparations. It went fairly quickly. The regular ranges - one for the pistol and one for long weapons - were easy to set up, as they only consisted of silhouette target boards turning to face the shooting booths at the press of buttons.

The next part took a bit longer to set up - a "shooting house" of sorts, to train urban warfare and building-clearing drills. Here, too, however, Schaeffer worked quickly in setting up the equipment. Afterwards, he brought his own weapons back out and placed them on a table along with most of the rest of the equipment. He, then, waited for the soldiers to arrive. They all knew the equipment already, but one of the reasons SRC were the best were that they always kept their skills and knowledge fresh by repeating even the most basic military knowledge and drills.

When the soldiers finally arrived, they lined up in attention, and Schaeffer looked at them.
"At ease." He said. "Alrighty. Looks like y'all have made yourselves comfortable onboard the Manitoba. We'll stay here for now, but as always, be ready to head out at short notice. We'll be going through the equipment soon, and after that we'll get to some good old fashioned ammo wasting on the ranges. I know you're all eager to get to that part." He smiled a little as he said that with wry sarcasm. Then he continued:

"We also need to check out your gas masks in the gas chamber, to make sure they're sealed properly. Last order of the day goes for specialization training - I'm going to do some quick repetitions with each of you in regard to your specialist skills as medic, infiltrator or alien languages translator. It's all pretty basic stuff, so no reason to sweat it." He looked at the Gamma Squad's medic:

"Sergeant Freeman, how did the chat with Doctor Altriste go? Did you get the equipment you needed?" He added: "Don't sweat it, even if you signed for it. I've worked in the SRC for a little over ten years, and I know every SRC-medic I've worked with so far has preferred to bring their own stuff rather than rely on SG logistics. As long as you feel you can do your job properly, with SG tools or your own, I'm not going to ask you to drag around any extra weight."

He continued, looking at another of the female soldiers. Leliana "Sparrow" Rothschild, Gamma squad's infiltrator.
"Sergeant Rothschild." He said. "I've heard you don't particularly like guns. I'd tell you you've picked the wrong job, that being the case. However, if I said that, I'd be lying. SRC relies more on brains than brawns, though we have more than enough brawns to back it up with when we have to. You still have to carry a gun, of course, and you still have to participate in tactical firearms training - but you don't have to like it. Remember - when it's your life or your enemy's on the line, you've got your team backing you up. I recruited you fully aware of your dislike for weapons. As a team, we'll work around it."

He looked around again, done with his sermons, and said:
"Alright, soldiers, let's warm up a bit with some workout before the shooting session. Let's start with ten laps around the training block. That should be about five kilometers of running. Get going!"

0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Sparrow listened halfheartedly to the basic speech; it was nothing she hadn't heard before. Gray eyes snapped to the Captain's, though, when he mentioned knowing about her hatred of guns. She had never explicitly told anyone that- though she supposed she had made it abundantly clear through her actions in the past. Who was this man speaking to, that presumed to know so much about her and then tell anyone who asked?

She knew who, of course, but she wasn't about to dwell on it. Instead, she simply nodded in stony silence, a distinctly non-military gesture. If he knew she hated things with bullets, he probably also knew that the SRC had been her first military employer, though she was damn certain he wouldn't know where she'd been before that. Only one person in the entire world knew sparrow's whole story, and that was Sparrow herself. Anyone else who could have claimed that knowledge was dead and in the dirt on some distant, unimportant planet.

He mentioned the run, and she simply shrugged to herself. She doubted she'd have much trouble beating anyone here at the 100 meter dash. Heck, she'd probably still have the three hundred. Speed was kind of her thing. It had to be, when you had little muscle to speak of. That said, endurance was not so much within her realm of expertise. She was used to taking people down in as few seconds as possible. Still, she'd probably finish the run somewhere in the middle of the group, and certainly not last. Sparrow made a habit of being good enough at anything she considered relevant so as to at least not humiliate herself.

Without complaint, then, she set off down the track, keeping at a pace that would hopefully eat the ground (as much as was possible at her height, anyway) without tiring her out prematurely. She'd have quite the surprise for anyone running beside her at the last half of the last kilometer, though, and would be off like a jackrabbit about then, to finish much more quickly than she'd started.