[EF91 N-D Frigate]
[Silent Running Protocols: Engaged]
“Second Lieutenant Ashga, please report to Hangar One. Second Lieutenant Ashga, please report to Hanger One.”
A flight group in Incom flight-suits, some applying last-second cosmetic touches to crash helmets and affixing life-support link-in harnesses, bustled past without apology. ‘Bells’ had sounded, changing out the watch, replacing grey-faced crewmen with fresher replacements while the mess halls readied steady protein-gruel helpings and tasteless, recycled water. Resupply was due in six hours, approximate. Though with only half the requesitioned rations, fuel cells, parts, kit and gear, and personnel, contentious details only the command staff and select RESINT were privy to.
Cato Fett adjusted the collapsible straw, sipping cold brackish tea from a battered thermos. Save for his ever-present helm, he worked in surplus fatigues and web-gear. The rifle was a second-hand rescue, a worn Type-03 manufactured for fighting across Saijo, utilitarian but damage resistant, reliably accurate, ease of machine maintenance and slotting to inexpensive slug-ammunition. The Resistance ran on shoe-string budgetary measures and the Quartermaster appreciated the Mandalorian’s requests for ammo not siphoning limited Tabana-gas resources.
He walked past the Communications module, hopping the walkway bridging the long ship umbilical between the fore and aft super-structures. He was due for an informal debriefing, carrying a selected mission profile on his wrist-pad. A phantom ache twinged the servos in his left wrist, thinking on Laira Darkhold. Her dossier was scant; young, technically able, noted fighting skills, aptitude for covert parameters and held little reservation for deception, subterfuge, and commando duplicity. Elsewise, there were no parents, no extended family or relatives available for emergency contact, blacked out save for physical characteristics. Fit, trim, red hair, grey eyes. Unknown quantity. Volunteer fighter.
Finishing the last tea gulp, he secured the thermos off his web-gear and dismounted the running walkway. They’d been allotted a converted janitorial break room for debriefing and their own impromptu mission planning. RESINT, Cato noted, allowed some spare latitude for their personnel. We’ve no budget, materiel is scant, every body pulls double if not triple duty, and all we want… Cato paused in thought. What do you want?
“Not the pay,” he growled.
The rec room wasn’t totally refurbished. It was still someone’s bunk; hammock tarp was bungie strapped along one length of panelling, laundry sprawled in an rancid heap beside a small fusion-cooker and unopened noodle-broth packets. A combat jacked with armoured sleeving dried over a tin bucket. Cato swept the single, fixed table free of scattered flimsiplast and activated the mounted holo-emitter, slotting his wrist-pad in. He salvaged a pair of chairs, borrowed a pair of holo-ink pens, waited on Laira Darkhold to make her entrance.
Again, the question tossed itself forward through his thoughts: what do you want?
Edited by Cato Fett, 09 January 2018 - 02:25 AM.