Freedom's Blade Operations Deck

Marshall strode down the main hall of the Operations Deck, taking in his new command. The ship was a gleaming example of Black Star shipbuilding, from the crisp white bulkheads to the glowing blue light of the haptic interfaces. You could clearly see the holdovers from the Executive Cutter that had spawned it, but the Blade Class was still very much a military ship. The crew too reflected this, their Union Flight Specialist uniforms almost all bore the white and purple badge of Taskforce Zorah veterans. Marshall had seen Zorah operatives in the field during his time as an N7, and he knew the ship was safe in their hands. The elevator doors parted as he entered, and the lift descended to the Crew Deck.

Exiting the elevator, he made his way past the Crew Mess, and into the armory. It was a well equipped, open room, with locker suites lining the walls and armory tables in the center. A couple of techs were working on the tables, cleaning and maintaining a Liberator rifle and an LX-666 medium machinegun. They straightened and saluted, returning to their work as Marshall nodded, and stepped over to his suite. Tapping a haptic switch on one of the racks, he unslung his own Liberator and slipped it into its cradle as the rack slid out. Tapping the switch again, he turned to the suit cradle as the rack slid back flush with the wall. His Paladin armor had already been delivered, and was lying in the charging cradle. Packing the ammo he had brought into the shelves next to the suit, he considered storing his sidearm as well, but decided to keep it. He liked the feeling of the heavy pistol on his hip. It was good to be back in uniform again.

With his weapons packed away safely, he returned to the elevator, riding it up to the command deck. The CIC was different from the Alliance ships he had served on before. Marshall had never served on a Normandy Class, but he had seen their layout, and this was different. Where the Normandy took its CIC design from Turian tradition, with the Commander's station high above the others, this Blade had her commander's station set low, with a Captain's chair at the head of a long trench containing the galaxy map and the other officer's stations, ringed by terminals and screens. Marshall walked along the left side, where flight officers were busy at their terminals, leaving the CIC and passing through the conference room on his way to his cabin.

The cabin was large, but stark and utilitarian, with a bed, desk and table in the main room against the backdrop of the Rannoch Orbital Shipyards visible through the panoramic window at the back of the ship. He tossed the bag onto the bed, and returned to the conference room, taking a seat at the head of the table, and waiting for the others to assemble.

He had some misgivings about this mission, this crew. He knew the purpose of it, of course. And he believed in the necessity of it, of the Union, even if he had his doubts about Xander O'Tarin. Marshall had never really agreed with Black Star, with their propensity for taking the law into their own hands, and O'Tarin in particular had always seemed far to cavalier about the power he held. But Xander had given him an argument he couldn't deny: nobody else was doing anything. And after seeing the horrors of Black Tuesday, Marshall knew something had to be done. Even if he couldn't entirely trust the people doing it. The crew, too. Some of them were professionals. Tarchus, despite her cold demeanor, could be trusted. She might be gruff and abrasive, but her loyalty was unquestionable. The Geth, the old Quarian, the Asari pilot and the other Turian, too, seemed like they would fit in well. The others were more questionable. One of the Quarians, in particular, could be a major problem. And there was something shifty about that Drell. Only time would tell.

---

Major Tarchus was not pleased. She trusted Xander's judgement, but still, this crew was... Well, rag-tag would be the least one could say. Some of them had military background, according to their dossiers, but the others were far too close to the sort of people she had spend the last few years hunting down during her service with Taskforce Vakarian. She would have vastly preferred to work with real soldiers, Black Star veterans who she knew she could trust. But to Kyrinne Tarchus, it was not her's to question why. She respected O'Tarin, and she respected Marshall, and that was all she needed to know. She would do her duty. If her subordinates did not do theirs... Well, she had not spent most of her life as an MP for nothing, and the Blade class had an excellent brig.

After stowing her kit in the armory, she made her way to the Officers' quarters, and entered the XO's cabin. While smaller than the Captain's, it was still larger than the other Officers' quarters, with a full desk and bed. She stashed her clothes in the wall closet, neatly stowing her belongings with a carefulness that bordered on OCD. Tarchus liked order. Control over her personal life and her surroundings was a comfort. She might not be able to control the world around her, but as long as she could control her self, she could deal with the chaos of others.

Entering the Conference room, she found Marshall already waiting. Giving him a silent nod, she seated herself next to him at the table.

---

Kai'Saaya was beyond excited. This opportunity, this chance to prove herself as more than just "Black Star's Princess", and the chance to actually fly a Blade in combat? A dream come true for the little Quarian. She took in the ship around her with awe. It was a beautiful craft, looking more like a large fighter than a frigate. Kai couldn't wait to get her hands on the controls. But first, she had to get her stuff taken care of.

Her quarters were snug, but Kai didn't mind. She'd be spending most of her time in the cockpit anyway. She unpacked her clothes, an extra flight suit, and her personal effects, and stowed them, before turning to the final item. The hood. She held it in her hands, felt the fabric, the stitching, every little wear and tear. Xander's words still ran through her mind. She knew the old Human had been a friend to her family for a long time, but looking at this object from before the Reaper War... She didn't quite know what to think. She placed the ancient hood on her fold-out desk, taking one last look at it before heading out the door.

Walking quickly, she exited the lift, made her way down the hall and pushed the haptic switch on the cockpit doors. As they slid open, she hopped down into pilot's seat, pulling down the control screens with one hand while the other adjusted the seat. It was nice, having this full seat. She was used to the control cradles of fighters, and the big, wraparound seat was far more comfortable. Her feet finding the peddles, she tapped a switch, bringing the controls out of the main console. The sticks were familiar, she'd had the same arrangement on everything from shuttles to fighters, and she knew every haptic, button and trigger by heart.

"Sabre 1 to Royal Control, Sabre 1 to Royal Control, requesting launch status, over" She called the Queen's launch control as she settled the headset over her ears.

"Sabre 1, this is Royal Control, awaiting your flight plan, over"

"Roger, Royal Control, this is Sabre 1, uploading flight plan now, over"

"....Roger, Sabre 1, we have your flight plan, stand by for launch vector, over"

"OK, Royal Control, I'm receiving your vector..." Kai responded, syncing the data sent from the Queen with her systems "Awaiting launch clearance, over"

"Roger, Sabre 1, Royal Control is clearing you for launch. Good luck and happy flying, over"

"Thanks Control, we're heading out. Releasing docking clamps and exiting the bay now, over"

Kai switched to the ship's intercom.

"Alright, boys and girls, this is your pilot speaking. We've been cleared for launch, and we're about to leave the bay. Inertial dampeners are on line, so carry on as usual. We're going to be pulling out from the shipyards, and making a run for the Tikkun relay, where we'll be receiving instruction as to our final destination. Thank you for flying with Union Airlines, and let's kick some ass!"

A few more switches, and the docking clamps released, allowing the Freedom's Blade to drift slowly out of the dock. Once the screens informed her that they had cleared the Queen's bump zone, Kai pulled back on the sticks, gently arching down and out, bringing the two ships in parallel with eachother. A quick tap on the thrusters, and the Blade was on her way, soaring past the shipyards, towards the Tikkun Relay and her destiny.

She’d seen a few ships in her time, of course, but none of them had been as impressive as this. That rumination came almost immediately, at her first cursory glance about the Operations Deck; it didn’t take an especially scrutinous eye to tell that the Blade would have been quite the investment for Black Star. Everything about its design exuded an air of ultramodern impeccability, and Akaya found the aesthetic quite agreeable, personally: sleek and refined and dangerous, a subtle sense of power underlying its futuristic poise. It fit, aptly, to the ship’s intended purpose. What she found funny about that whole affair, as she readjusted her grip on her bag and stepped into the elevator, was the sheer incongruity between the frigate itself and the ragtag collective that had been chosen to inhabit it.

She’d let herself fall back to the end of the line as the lot of them had filtered in through the airlock, giving herself another brief opportunity to observe the individuals she’d be serving with for the duration of the mission. There would be plenty more chances to do so, she reasoned, but there’d been no reason not to while she’d had the time. Besides, some of the others in that lineup had seized her attention—and Akaya’s curiosity was quite the impellent force. The volus, for one, had caught her eye, if only because she’d never really interacted with many of them. They were hard to read, given the exo-suits, and she admittedly didn’t know much about their psychology. She’d be watching him… her… it—she couldn’t exactly tell. The batarian and krogan, too, were intriguing, and as she’d carefully swept her gaze over each, she’d found herself wondering just who they were—something she’d have to look into soon. The young female quarian she’d seen talking to O’Tarin had also been of interest, if only because of the relationship between them. The affection in the human’s tone and gesturing had been evident. What was the connection between them?

And then there was that other quarian, the one who she’d heard hissing to himself under his breath. Akaya was getting a definite sense of instability from him; not just from the whispering, but from the way he carried himself, the way he moved… twitchy, almost. She found herself alternately interested in his demeanor and unnerved by it. Someone to keep track of, definitely… but from a nice, safe distance.

The elevator’s doors slid open. Akaya stepped out, moving for the armory, and took a few minutes to get her kit sorted. A quick once-over of her armor, to ensure everything was in its proper place (it was). Its fresh coat of matte-black looked impressive now, she mused, as she stood back and admired it for a moment, but that wouldn’t last for long. Prior to its last upholstering, the set had been covered in chips and scratches just as palpable as her own scars. She’d liked it, in a way. The blemishes on her armor had served as clear indications that despite the inevitable mishaps that came with mercenary work, she’d made it out alive every time. Buffing out that record of triumph had been a shame, yes, but necessary. For this assignment, she was no longer the mercenary she had been a few months before. She was a different person entirely, and thus had erased all tangible record of who she’d previously been—any armor damage that showed up now would be a result of the shitstorm O’Tarin was sending them into, a silent testimony writ in blood.

Akaya picked up her bag, noticeably lighter now in the absence of her combat equipment, and left the room. Now it was to the crew quarters, which she found were slightly too claustrophobic for her liking, but not objectionably so. Ideally, she’d only be spending minimal stretches there, anyway, the rest of her time spent either occupied with the mission or stalking about the rest of the ship. She didn’t need much space, either. Akaya had brought no personal belongings, no trinkets or mementos; only the bare necessities, a consequence of the thorough identity-scrubbing she’d engaged in after her flight from Omega. Indeed, all she needed to unpack now were her clothes, which she folded precisely and stowed in the little closet that had been provided. A few sweaters in varying shades of dark grey, some pants (black), and underclothes. Apart from her kit, she thought suddenly, that was literally everything she owned. The realization felt… liberating. She reveled in it, silently, as she shut the door behind her, catching the elevator up to the command deck.

She padded out of the elevator just as the pilot’s voice came over the intercom. Its inflections sounded vaguely quarian, and after a moment Akaya placed it as belonging to O’Tarin’s apparent ward. Sort of young to be piloting this thing, aren’t you? was her initial reaction, but then again, given that the personnel here had been hand-picked specifically for their aptitude, there had to be some talent there. Whether that talent would be an acceptable stand-in for hard experience was another question entirely, and one that she figured would be answered in fairly short order, as the deck plates beneath her feet began to hum steadily with the acceleration of the thrusters.

Marshall and his turian tagalong were already seated when she slipped into the conference room. Akaya nodded once in acknowledgment of their presence and pulled out a chair, perching sedately at the edge of it and crossing her legs, waiting. She turned her head toward the door, feigning interest in whoever would come through it next, but in actuality studying the pair at the head of the table in her peripheral vision. She’d long since worked out that the female turian must be Marshall’s second; that much was obvious. What Akaya had seen of her more or less confirmed the customary turian temperament that she’d come to expect from the species. Marshall, by contrast, was more of an unknown quantity; humans were much more difficult to get a read on, she’d found. Akaya studied him, quietly: his features, his posture, his attire; taking in details as she awaited the rest of the team to come in. From what she’d already seen of them, she was vividly getting the impression that the coming meet-and-greet was going to be pretty interesting.

Char's first order of business was to unpack his items from his quarters and leave exploring the rest of the ship for later on. With that already done he headed straight for the armory to check over his gear. The door shifted closed quietly as he set foot inside. It was mostly unpopulated for a few unknown crew members and that female Drell. He walked past them without acknowledgement, to focused on the task at hand to socialize. He stood before his designated supply locker. He punched in it's combination only to find nothing inside it.

Char had planned to put everything he needed into his locker himself. He didnt trust anyone with his belongings. He layed a duffel bag out on the work bench to his right. He zipped it open to remove some of its contents. His protective fibers layed sectioned off from the rest of the bench in one corner. He pulled out a pitch black visor from the bag and inspected it for a second before setting it aside along with his fibers. He removes a folded black fabric square with a blue stripe going down the middle of the square. Char unfolded it. It was the cloak he had made for himself when decided to accept this mission. It was composed of tear resistant fabric with nylon lining surrounding. He fold it back to how it was and put it with the rest of his combat gear. He was half tempted to try all of it on, but quickly expelled the idea from his head.

He placed the gear into his supply locker and dug into his bag again. This time he pulled out tools for fixed and modifying weapons in a variety of ways. Char didnt bring a firearm with him aboard the ship. He seldom ever had to rely on one. Despite this, he walked to one of the supply racks and grabbed a Stalwart off of it. Char frowned.

'I've never liked the Stalwart. Its never had enough stopping power for me. Although... I do have the means to fix this problem.' He brought the handgun to the bench and immediately deconstructed it. "Tug a few internal firing mechanisms here... now it can fire in a 3-round burst." He said to himself. He switches on a sparkless precision welding torch to attach a rail system on the top of the gun. He just began contruction on a handgun optical sight, but then Char notices a human walk in.

Char's focus shattered like glass when he realized who it was that walked in. 'Captain Marshall? Thats the last person I'd expect to be walking in here right now! If he sees me tampering with union issued equipment he's going to have my head!' He thought. The human didnt seem to notice Char standing akwardly still. 'What's he doing? Checking his amor?'. Marshall soon walks out. Char louldy sighs in relief. 'Ok Char. Back to work.'

Char had been making a few finishing touches on the weapon's barrel before the ship's intercom came to live. What sounded like a female quarian began to talk through it. As the pilot had been going through her speech, Char had retrieved a metal etcher from his suit's pouch. He used the etcher to carve in ancient quarian dialect in what can be roughly translated as "Plan B" on the left side of the pistol's frame. He holstered the newly modified Stalwart in his suit's waist strap and packed his tools back into the duffel bag. He heard the pilot exclaim "Lets kick some ass!" As he walked out of the armory. He started back for the elevator, now awaiting orders.

Doctor Heuran gathered his supplies and began the short walk onto the Freedom's Blade. He had read about the Normandy class before - every kid on Horizon had, their home had been saved twice by her and her crew. But finally being aboard one, hearing the hum of the drive core, seeing the ubiquitous galaxy map made him realise he was at last, finally here and ready.

The short lift down to the operations deck put paid to those thoughts, this crew was under his care and he had to prove himself to them. Powerful strides belayed the lack of confidence he felt in himself, the threshold of the medical bay passed over him and relaxation returned. This would be his command deck. In this medical bay he was fine. The medical bay was a standard Chakwas affair, a desk at the entrance that allowed total vision over the 8 or so beds, there was highly engineered storage lockers and equipment all packed away so as to maximise space. Heuran took a deep breath, and then flew into work.

Heuran's combat gear had already been unpacked for him - standard medics fayre, white Janissary armour with a red cross emblazoned on the front and a Shrike submachine gun. Heuran bought up his sentry interface again and did a rapid equipment check of the room, everything was well stocked both for dextro, levo and surprisingly geth crew members. The note taking process started again, although this time he was assisted:

"Panacea, are you installed?", there was a slight delay before the female VI appeared in front of him.
"Welcome doctor, I am online and fully operational, is there anything I can assist you with?", Heuran looked around,
"Panacea, open journal, entry: personal: revise knowledge on geth platforms, what is a medical officers role? close entry"
"Acknowledged", Heuran continued, opening the crew notes on the display on his desk. "Panacea, make appointments with following crew members re: health. Zaan'Shiro, Hatjan'Reegar and Dara'Shal" Heuran hesitated for a second, did he feel confident enough to order the Commander down to the medbay? "Panacea, Commander Marshall should also be booked in, end entry".

Panacea acknowledged the order and Heuran closed her down. If Heuran was to assert himself in this crew he would have to stop second guessing himself. He was the medical officer of this crew, and he needed their respect, and with this in mind he headed towards the conference room, he sat directly in the middle of the table, he closed his sentry interface, brushed off his uniform and assessed his charges as they filed into the room. He met their gaze and didn't flinch, their health was in his hands, and they were going to respect him for that.

Caibus followed the others down to the armory to stash his gear. After finding an unused locker, he placed his armour inside, and walked over to the nearby weapons bench to inspect his weapons. He removed his Black Widow from it's case and gave it a once over to check if it had been damaged during transit, and, much to his relief, it had no damage beyond what was there already from prior usage.

His Boltru however, refused to extend from its stowing mode, but after a brief scan with his Omni-Tool found that it was only a minor software glitch that was easily fixed. He then placed both his weapons in his locker and headed towards the conference room for the briefing, as he was walking, the voice of their pilot, one of the quarians he saw earlier if the voice was anything to go by, came over the ships intercom announcing that they were departing from dock. As Caibus felt the ship come to life around him, and the thud as the docking clamps disengaged, he continued towards the conference room and the briefing that awaited.

Arintha followed the others through the ship, belongings held closely at her side. She found a locker and started to put her things away, mostly clothes and the like. Looking around most of her other crew mates were storing away armor and weaponry galore, and she reached for where her gun was stored. It felt heavy in her hand. She hardly ever used it, she didn't get into many firefights (on the ground anyway), and yet she kept it anyway. For emergencies, was her logic, but even still it was mostly wasted on her, as she didn't have much skill with it. She sighed, no... guns were definitely not her forte. She set the shrike at the back of her locker and shut the door. She grabbed the rest of her things - her tools mostly - and went to find the shuttle bay.

She stepped into the room and saw the two ships, looking pretty dressed in black. She dropped her tools, and walked over to one of them, running her hand across the side. The US/VIP... so much better than the shuttles she was used to. She climbed in, going over the controls and basically getting a feel for the ship. She hadn't yet had a chance to fly one of these, but she'd gone over the schematics and from what she saw it would be child's play for her.

Just then she heard the pilot's, or who she assumed was the pilot's, voice come over the intercom, which brought her back into the moment. She had nearly forgotten the task at hand, she quickly exited the shuttle, stowed her tools by a work bench in the Shuttle bay, and made her way to Conference room. As she entered, she took one of the many empty seats, nodding or smiling at the people already seated. She sat back and waited, hands folded in her lap, for the conference to begin.