10-31-2017, 06:52 PM
The cyborg ran a hand down the front of his coat. He’d summoned the trench coat just a few days ago, because the weather reporters had mentioned the possibility of some more rain-filled days up on Tier 1. The rain had been the result of some inept weather forecasts, but Seventeen had kept the piece of outerwear nevertheless. After all, it was the same coat he’d worn for years during the interstellar swashbuckling phase of his life. All he was missing now was a scouter and a pair of epaulette-less Saiyan battle armor.
About five minutes ago, a notification had arrived from Trixie informing him that he would be placed in the leadership role for fireteam Alpha. Which meant he was responsible for making sure a pair of rookies didn’t get themselves blown to piece or thrown in the gulag for accidentally knifing someone in the field. Furthermore, he would also be the senior noncom in the field, which would make him responsible for coordinating with the other teams.
While it was only a text message, Seventeen couldn’t help but feel like Trixie had amused herself by making him the team leader.
As top-ranking noncommissioned officer on this mission, you are also to coordinate with other fire teams for non-mission essential inquiries and field responses.
It wasn’t a grotesque amount of additional duties, but in the worst case it meant that Trixie could opt to have him run the whole thing if she felt like watching him squirm. If the operation went south, he could be thrown into that position regardless of her intentions—it’s harder to lead from the office than the front. Best-case scenario was that this whole field operation went over without a hitch and all of them could celebrate in the Venator’s cantina later this evening.
As he tightened the katchin bracers beneath his long white sleeves, Seventeen glanced over at the Power Sword. The weapon was upright and leaned against the wall of his quarters. While he would normally have it with him, he had nowhere to properly conceal the weapon, and if he wanted to pass himself off as a civilian of Tier 1, he wasn’t going to stroll around with a sword on his shoulder or dangling from his waist.
So, with a faint scowl on his face, he slipped the blaster pistol into its holster and eased it into place. The trooper greaves were many things, but the model designed for field recon was excellent in that they provided a spot to perfectly conceal one of the smaller side arms. He’d cut a hole in the right pocket of his jeans to make it easy enough to quickdraw the weapon and put a few rounds into anyone who got too frisky with him.
On his way out of the room, Seventeen snatched his bandana off its little hanger near the front door. By the time he reached his destination, he had tied it snug against his neck and managed to press out the wrinkles in his ‘civvies.’ When he finally reached the hanger bay that served as a glorified garage for the unit’s vehicles, he caught sight of his two team members standing silently near the exit. Their target was less than a mile away, which meant they weren’t able to take transit. As Trixie had explained, the only way they would have to travel at least 10 miles before command would reimburse them for fuel expenditures.
Without bothering for an icebreaker, Seventeen walked over to Private Stone and Corporal Harbaugh. “Ready?”
Corporal Harbaugh snapped off a quick salute. “Sir, yes, sir!” A beat later, Stone repeated the gesture and the shout, perhaps not wanting to feel inferior after his partner’s exuberance.
“This is covert ops recon,” Seventeen muttered, his expression about as neutral as he could muster. He had wanted to laugh in the young woman’s face given how ridiculous her serious face made her look. From a glimpse at her file, he knew she was one of those by-the-books military lifers. She was one of the types who had already laid out a five-year plan that would end with a senior commission in an office somewhere, likely some cushy job on Tier 2. While Tier 1 was the opulent gemstone of Coruscant, Tier 2 was the quietest part of the verse, because no renegade or freshly arrived primes ever went bonkers on the second level.
“We’re going to be looking into Jagiellonian Pharmaceuticals. It’s not a terrible distance from here, but the intel is that they may be selling a little more than just headache medicine to their patrons.”
Harbaugh lifted a hand.
Seventeen gestured for them to follow him, and the woman started to speak once they were at the bottom of the ramp. “Any idea what they are smuggling up here?”
“Slo-Mo,” the cyborg replied after glancing at the screen of his Capsulebook. “It’s a narcotic that supposedly slows your perception of time.”
It was then that Private Heinrich interjected his first words of the afternoon. “So, it’s like super speed?”
The cyborg shrugged his shoulders before giving a more authoritative nod of his head. “Seems like most people who take it experience the opposite. Stoned out of their ever-loving minds.”
Corporal Harbaugh’s disdain was thick in her voice. “Who would ever want to do something like that to their bodies?”
“Everyone has their vices, Corporal,” Seventeen replied. The cyborg wasn’t huge into drugs, but he sure as hell could sling back shots of vodka and down snifters of scotch with the best of them. Corporal Harbaugh probably saw sleeping in until 0600 hours as ‘a vice,’ let alone taking a hit off of synthetic narcotics.
“I… see,” she muttered before falling silent.
About five minutes ago, a notification had arrived from Trixie informing him that he would be placed in the leadership role for fireteam Alpha. Which meant he was responsible for making sure a pair of rookies didn’t get themselves blown to piece or thrown in the gulag for accidentally knifing someone in the field. Furthermore, he would also be the senior noncom in the field, which would make him responsible for coordinating with the other teams.
While it was only a text message, Seventeen couldn’t help but feel like Trixie had amused herself by making him the team leader.
As top-ranking noncommissioned officer on this mission, you are also to coordinate with other fire teams for non-mission essential inquiries and field responses.
It wasn’t a grotesque amount of additional duties, but in the worst case it meant that Trixie could opt to have him run the whole thing if she felt like watching him squirm. If the operation went south, he could be thrown into that position regardless of her intentions—it’s harder to lead from the office than the front. Best-case scenario was that this whole field operation went over without a hitch and all of them could celebrate in the Venator’s cantina later this evening.
As he tightened the katchin bracers beneath his long white sleeves, Seventeen glanced over at the Power Sword. The weapon was upright and leaned against the wall of his quarters. While he would normally have it with him, he had nowhere to properly conceal the weapon, and if he wanted to pass himself off as a civilian of Tier 1, he wasn’t going to stroll around with a sword on his shoulder or dangling from his waist.
So, with a faint scowl on his face, he slipped the blaster pistol into its holster and eased it into place. The trooper greaves were many things, but the model designed for field recon was excellent in that they provided a spot to perfectly conceal one of the smaller side arms. He’d cut a hole in the right pocket of his jeans to make it easy enough to quickdraw the weapon and put a few rounds into anyone who got too frisky with him.
On his way out of the room, Seventeen snatched his bandana off its little hanger near the front door. By the time he reached his destination, he had tied it snug against his neck and managed to press out the wrinkles in his ‘civvies.’ When he finally reached the hanger bay that served as a glorified garage for the unit’s vehicles, he caught sight of his two team members standing silently near the exit. Their target was less than a mile away, which meant they weren’t able to take transit. As Trixie had explained, the only way they would have to travel at least 10 miles before command would reimburse them for fuel expenditures.
Without bothering for an icebreaker, Seventeen walked over to Private Stone and Corporal Harbaugh. “Ready?”
Corporal Harbaugh snapped off a quick salute. “Sir, yes, sir!” A beat later, Stone repeated the gesture and the shout, perhaps not wanting to feel inferior after his partner’s exuberance.
“This is covert ops recon,” Seventeen muttered, his expression about as neutral as he could muster. He had wanted to laugh in the young woman’s face given how ridiculous her serious face made her look. From a glimpse at her file, he knew she was one of those by-the-books military lifers. She was one of the types who had already laid out a five-year plan that would end with a senior commission in an office somewhere, likely some cushy job on Tier 2. While Tier 1 was the opulent gemstone of Coruscant, Tier 2 was the quietest part of the verse, because no renegade or freshly arrived primes ever went bonkers on the second level.
“We’re going to be looking into Jagiellonian Pharmaceuticals. It’s not a terrible distance from here, but the intel is that they may be selling a little more than just headache medicine to their patrons.”
Harbaugh lifted a hand.
Seventeen gestured for them to follow him, and the woman started to speak once they were at the bottom of the ramp. “Any idea what they are smuggling up here?”
“Slo-Mo,” the cyborg replied after glancing at the screen of his Capsulebook. “It’s a narcotic that supposedly slows your perception of time.”
It was then that Private Heinrich interjected his first words of the afternoon. “So, it’s like super speed?”
The cyborg shrugged his shoulders before giving a more authoritative nod of his head. “Seems like most people who take it experience the opposite. Stoned out of their ever-loving minds.”
Corporal Harbaugh’s disdain was thick in her voice. “Who would ever want to do something like that to their bodies?”
“Everyone has their vices, Corporal,” Seventeen replied. The cyborg wasn’t huge into drugs, but he sure as hell could sling back shots of vodka and down snifters of scotch with the best of them. Corporal Harbaugh probably saw sleeping in until 0600 hours as ‘a vice,’ let alone taking a hit off of synthetic narcotics.
“I… see,” she muttered before falling silent.
![[Image: 17.jpg]](http://omniverse-rpg.com/images/17.jpg)