Razelle Breuner
Rogue Element
Office of Intelligence, Dosuun
CG-2118, Razelle Breuner, walked through the halls of what had been established as the intelligence and information hub of the First Order with only mild reservation. There wasn't anything here she hadn't seen thrice before, and no one here was doing anything she hadn't done at some point in a previous life, years away. She could make out the frenzied junior agents' stress as they scurried about like courier droids. She could taste the tension of a meeting being held in a very locked room simply by the posture of the guards posted outside. She could hear the oppressive silence of the local adjutant glaring at the infodrones plugging away at their computers.
The think-tank of military intelligence was as elegant as it was stifling. Unlike in the infantry, a single life often mattered a great deal, even in the office, but personal suffering held even less importance. You worked, no matter the hours, the stress, the workload, or the morality of your actions. You followed orders to the letter and the spirit, and gods help you if you ever confused either of them. This was made even more dangerous by the general lack forthrightness of certain officers. "Need to know" got thrown around far too much by low- to mid-level overseers.
And CG-2118, head concealed behind a white helmet and body covered in plastoid armor, stood out like a sore thumb. There were guards here, of course, but they were never seen walking alone, or indeed walking much at all. Escorts, interrogations, "debriefing," guard duty...a stormtrooper had no reason to simply wander about the intelligence department. Razelle was an oddity, and she likely would have been confronted if she hadn't been sent for.
By name.
Her boots clicked into a steady, silent attention as she knocked on the door of an office labeled "Director Liet." Quick, clear statement of intent, but not a shout. This was the information capital of the First Order. People did not yell here. "CG-2118, reported as requested, ma'am."
[member="Inkara Liet"]
CG-2118, Razelle Breuner, walked through the halls of what had been established as the intelligence and information hub of the First Order with only mild reservation. There wasn't anything here she hadn't seen thrice before, and no one here was doing anything she hadn't done at some point in a previous life, years away. She could make out the frenzied junior agents' stress as they scurried about like courier droids. She could taste the tension of a meeting being held in a very locked room simply by the posture of the guards posted outside. She could hear the oppressive silence of the local adjutant glaring at the infodrones plugging away at their computers.
The think-tank of military intelligence was as elegant as it was stifling. Unlike in the infantry, a single life often mattered a great deal, even in the office, but personal suffering held even less importance. You worked, no matter the hours, the stress, the workload, or the morality of your actions. You followed orders to the letter and the spirit, and gods help you if you ever confused either of them. This was made even more dangerous by the general lack forthrightness of certain officers. "Need to know" got thrown around far too much by low- to mid-level overseers.
And CG-2118, head concealed behind a white helmet and body covered in plastoid armor, stood out like a sore thumb. There were guards here, of course, but they were never seen walking alone, or indeed walking much at all. Escorts, interrogations, "debriefing," guard duty...a stormtrooper had no reason to simply wander about the intelligence department. Razelle was an oddity, and she likely would have been confronted if she hadn't been sent for.
By name.
Her boots clicked into a steady, silent attention as she knocked on the door of an office labeled "Director Liet." Quick, clear statement of intent, but not a shout. This was the information capital of the First Order. People did not yell here. "CG-2118, reported as requested, ma'am."
[member="Inkara Liet"]
