RP: 4th Fleet (NSN) [Mission 4.2] Back to the Fleet

Click sounded the door's knob, a mere two seconds after the order. Bastilen stuck opened the door to reveal him pinching out the life of his cigarette again, and tucking it quickly behind his ear. With the loose grace of an average male, he closed the door behind him and strode up beside Private Karrelik. Bastilen tapped his boots together and saluted the Captain sharply before putting both of his arms to his sides.

"Sir." reported the Private 4th Class, staring straight forward. His only overtly noticeable movements was him rubbing his cigarette-killing fingers after their slight burns.

John kept a straight face. Not a good start, but then, he'd prove himself. He always had in the past. People assume the goatee means 'useless' when in fact he only ever had it because it allowed him to look normal and still have a beard. He'd probably grow out the rest, now that he was among preferable company.

Suddenly, he realized that quiet didn't work. Instead of controlling himself, he should be showing how hard he can push, his 'spirit' as it were. Good thing he could give speeches on demand, because if he couldn't then the torrent of words that he felt bubbling up inside of him would have simply been pure, babbling rage. This man was just doing his job, separating the wheat from the chaff, but John would step out of an airlock without a suit before he allowed himself to go down that easily.

So, he went for broke. Screw it - if his captain didn't like him, it would make life 100% harder over his entire posting. If he appreciated pushback, he'd get pushback. In front of the strange, rankless man he opened his mouth and saw what would come out.

"Sir, I get it. You see me in a military outfit, goatee, yadda yadda freakin' yadda, and you think 'ponce'. You think 'This man will drop his gun when a bullet hits the other side of the couch he's hiding behind'. Above all you think 'insolent' because you pretty much blatantly asked for pushback and pressured me to give it, and got apathy instead. But you weren't going to let me talk for any extended period, and we both know that. 'Yes, sir' was the best possible answer, because you don't know me.

"The fact of the matter is that I'm here to fight. If necessary, I'm here to die. Before you write me off as 'useless', consider that not every noble on Neplesia is a poncy bastard with no fashion sense. This?" he stroked his goatee, "This was to fit in in high society. I'll shave it if you want. I don't care. But don't insult my intelligence by presuming that I'm going to take this lying down just because my bio says 'quiet'.

"I'm here to be a soldier, and a soldier is what I'll be. I will follow any order you give me efficiently and I will kill anyone I need to in the line of duty. I am here to do a job and I will do that job. And I will follow you, without any backtalk or insolence, despite all appearances to the contrary. Let me be a soldier, and I will be a paragon. Make me a pariah, and you'll have a meatbag who never did anything useful in his whole damn life."

He saluted, in all earnestness, and finished with a "Am I dismissed, sir?" in a voice suddenly dead calm. He couldn't tell if Murdoch's look was enraged disbelief or disbelieving rage, and he wasn't even looking at Bastilen. He imagined he'd just effectively condemned himself to permanent guard duty, 24/7. Good thing he could control his hormones, the adrenaline would be knocking him over if he allowed himself to feel it now. He had never allowed his stance to change and never once looked at the captain during his speech - straight forward, chin up, the soldier posture. He hoped that he wasn't about to be crushed. If he was honest, he would probably wet himself if he had to keep up this act much longer.

It occurred to him, far too late, that that babbling torrent of words was only going to make things worse. Still, he'd said his piece. If he was going to consign himself to the death of a useless meatbag, he may as well do so in style.

Darryl Murdoch, known to his staff as Captain Murder, picked up John Karrelik by the scruff of his uniform with a single arm until they were eye to eye. "You are not dismissed until I dismiss you, do I make myself clear?"

Murdoch tossed John so that he landed next to Bastilen. The contempt on his face revealed just how much he appreciated John's speech. "Leave your pretty philosophies behind. All the Admiral wants is a man of fighting ability. Private Wreno, take this man and report to Chief Santiago. He should be in the mess. And make sure Santiago knows that Private Karrelik here is on two weeks midnight guard. You're both dismissed."

Bastilen kept his gaze forward, despite the man being thrown around the room. Even as John was thrown downwind at him, the Tech Expert tried to keep a stiff stance, tugging to the side just a bit in an effort not to get knocked over. To the Private Fourth Class, it seemed that his fellow enlistee was just doing all the wrong things with the wrong person. Still, he wasn't in there to offer his opinion, so he kept it to himself. His only response was when he was ordered to get John out the room and then report to the Chief.

After an affirming salute, he squatted down to help John to his feet before coaxing him out of the office. He urged him out as quickly as possible, or at least before the man could work another response out.

John sighed. Well, what the hell, he gave it a shot. All he could do now is fight, and fight well. He saluted and followed Bastilen out of the room, making a mental note to go to the toilet so he could vent all the adrenaline. He'd fought his way up from the bottom before, in worse situations with considerably worse people, though they admittedly didn't have cybernetic arms. This Murdoch guy was stubborn. He'd decided John was useless, and he'd have to be beyond useful to disprove that concept.

Well, whatever. Keep your nose clean from here on in, and kill as many of... who were we at war with again? He added that to the reminder list. These aliens all looked the same to him - too Nepleslian for comfort. He allowed himself to shake slightly as he followed Bastilen down whatever hall they were going. Less adrenaline to vent later.

"Thanks for not laughing. I guess I took it too far, huh?" he remarked to Bastilen, who, to his credit, didn't answer. Feeling the uncharacteristic need to say something left over from his useless little speech earlier, he announced to the back of the man's head "I'm John. Karrelik. Though you'll probably not want to get to know me that well, it'll be going around any minute now what a worm I am. Dunno how many I'm gonna have to kill to fix that one." The scary part was, John didn't know if he himself was joking. Waiting for Bastilen to speak was... unnerving. The man had an air of complete patience that somehow didn't negate the feeling that he was about to kill you at the request of your captain. Which wouldn't be a surprise at this point.

He thought back to the beginning of that all-essential meeting. Murdoch called him 'Average'. Screw that. They wanted a killer? Fine, he'd be a killer. And he'd put everyone else here out of business while being the best one they've ever had.

Wulfe fumbled with his duffel bag to get a better grip on it, leaving him standing alone in front of the Nepleslian HQ to be in awe by its sheer size as the other recruits went to wherever they were supposed to go. Afterwards, the shuttle that had taken him in took off again, most likely to bring more of the recruits and have them assigned for their own units to fight their own battles. That’s one hell of a way to start your career, Wulfe, he thought, late and apparently lost in a military complex larger than the very boot-camp he was trained on, if not for his Mindware, which quickly synchronized with the Headquarters’ as soon as he left the shuttle. Wulfe took the first step towards the large structure in front of him, looking for the captain he was supposed to report to, and followed the trail his Mindware showed him. He also wondered why his beret didn’t have a red shield on it.

He thought for a moment what his younger brother might have been doing with the money he inherited, inherited what was rightfully Wulfe’s; probably doing whatever his mother wanted, that was for sure, since the whelp didn’t have enough autonomy to think for himself, apparently. The very thought of his family made Wulfe scowl. That old witch, he thought, but then quickly shook it off, no, that’s just history now, it became history the moment I joined the military, so it’s best just to leave it like that, he assured himself as he walked inside the headquarters. None of that would matter after he was shipped out, he would have to make his own history.

Wulfe followed the trail that his Mindware showed, going past all sorts of hallways and stairs to find the person he was supposed to report to, all the while getting the feeling that somehow he had already missed most of the party trying to claw its way up his throat. The sooner this was done the merrier. He eventually reached a reception desk, wondered for a second if that was the place he was supposed to be, but then discarded the possibility. No, why would they give such clearance to a jarhead like him?

He stood in front of the receptionist’s table and gave the cadet a crisp salute, “Private Wulfe Stones, 3rd class. I’m supposed to report to captain Murdoch for orders.” He said, dropping the salute and procuring his standard-issued datajockey and showing it to the cadet.

Bastilen eyed John for that moment. His gaze rang similar to an idle interest, like someone watching a baseball game. Still this other fellow was too wordy for his own good. People who talked too much thought too much, was what the Private Fourth Class, believed. They had so much building in their brains that they give no thought to what comes rolling out. Perhaps he was the same way, as he didn't quite know, himself. Three years in that slammer doubling as a lunatic asylum made you quiet.

"Bastilen." replied the Tech Expert, patting Karrelik on the back, before making his way down the hall. He plucked the cigarette off the back of his ear before lighting it again with a lighter from his pocket. His head tilted forward a slight bit to look behind himself at John.

"You talk too much."

"Mindware, huh?" the Cadet manning the front desk said as he handed the datajockey back to Wulfe. "I've sent a message notifying the Captain. You'll know how to find. He should be in his office."

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Captain Murdoch's datajockey beeped as another message arrived. He picked it up and hung his head in exasperation. Why couldn't they be notified a little farther in advance about incoming replacements? Especially ones with such an unfortunate name.

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The two Privates found their way to enlisted mess fairly easily. It was even easier finding the Marine Chief they were to report to. Firstly, he was the only Marine around. Secondly, and more obviously, he was also the only Marine engaged in an eating contest with an Navy ID-SOL Petty Officer. Surrounding the two competitors were a gaggle of male and female Navy Cadets egging on their branch's representative. "Five plates, sucker, and still going strong!" Bastilen and John heard the Marine chief yell as he finished a dish. From where they were, it was difficult to tell what exactly was being eaten.

“Thanks, much appreciated, sir.” Wulfe said casually, not sure if the ‘sir’ was mandatory or not as he took the datajockey back and grabbed his belongings. He gave a short salute and to the cadet and then proceeded to leave the room and head to where this captain Murdoch was. Wait, how was he supposed to know that, he thought? Too late now, he would only look like an idiot if he went back and asked, so he simply shifted his duffel bag from one shoulder to the other and kept on walking.

Eventually finding his way, several minutes later, Wulfe stood in front of the door. He hesitated, his mental scales weighting the implications behind the simple act of knocking on the door and walking inside, how he would have to be fully committed to his job to the point of dying for it, but then quickly shrugging off the thought and knocking twice on the door. It wasn’t that he didn’t think about things like that, it was just that the very thought of facing it was simply too much for him at that time, and so he simply coped with it by not caring or forgetting.

He waited for a few seconds and then stepped inside the room, staring at the man with the two bionic arms inside of it. Alright, Wulfe, time to put your professional soldier hat on, rang his conscience. Wulfe dropped his duffel bag andgave the captain a firm salute, staying at attention afterwards, “Privated 3rd Class Wulfe Stones, reporting for orders, captain.” He said, not relaxing until he was ordered to do so.

"Private..." Murdoch struggled to keep the imagery out of his head, "Stones."

A ne'er do-well Marine. But he wasn't the same as Wreno or that turd Karrelik so no need to throw him overboard. Yet. "It would be an understatement to say how unimpressed I am by your history and skills. Most Marines in 4th Fleet are able to do, to a greater or lesser degree, a specialist skill. You seem to be a simple trigger puller better off in 1st Fleet. Convince me why you're worthy of 4th Fleet's elite."

Bastilen puffed his cigarette before this little 'contest', before throwing an idle glance at John. He wanted to say something like, 'Try your luck', or 'Don't try your luck', but felt there was something more appropriate for the situation.

"Looks like we're waiting." noted the dour 4th Class before striding up to the front of the table, standing across from the only Marine there. The former-prisoner simply fell at attention and watched as it they carried on. He couldn't help but have a mild respect for the man as he continued to show the other one up. Though, even as it was interesting to watch, Bastilen was ready to get his position solidified.

John had control of himself again. It was unusual, realizing that you're babbling. It as still more unusual to realize that you'd been doing it for over an hour. Still, he could talk if he needed to and that usually led to more talking. Usually being quiet wasn't a concrete guarantee of silence. Maybe just because it was his first day. Midnight guard wouldn't be a problem - he could just keep giving himself shots of leftover adrenaline - but the impact of it on his future career would be noticeably stunting.

He made a point of stopping thinking for a while and looked at the amazing bottomless pit before him. So this was his chief. Or maybe it wasn't. Whatever he was, he had a helluva stomach. John strode up behind Bastilen and stood beside him, standing at attention, usual deal. It was something he did without thinking at this point. "Yeah. He's good at this," he noted in an amused tone of voice, forgetting momentarily that this would probably be the point in the chain of command where he got thrown out an airlock.

Wulfe stood at attention. He felt cornered for a second, unsure of how to properly answer something he knew that there was no right answer for, only the wrong ones. It took his mind a fraction to think of the less damaging one. “Sir, I cannot prove such thing by words, but if you were to give me a chance to do so by actions, I would be happy to oblige you.” He said, this time stopping from looking at the wall behind the captain and instead looking at him.
Good job, Wulfe, you’ll be cleaning latrines or peeling potatoes for eternity, rang his conscience.

As the two Marines drew closer, they could see that Chief Santiago and his opponent were chowing down on Yamataian-style hotdogs loaded with chilis and other heart-busting, delicious condiments. "Six, boyo! Marines can eat all day, Navy!" Santiago declared loudly to the boos of his crowd.

The ID-SOL guffawed, "Seven, Mud-Pup! Anything the Marines can do, the Navy has already done!" He then started on his eighth dog.

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Another twit who thought his mouth was smarter than his brain. Murdoch grabbed Wulfe and threw him against the wall. "I asked you a question, Marine! Your answer is a means of avoiding my question! Answer me or I will make sure you are transferred to a labor unit!" Murdoch stood before the disheveled private, a sneer on his face and his cybernetic arms twitching as he tensed the mechanical muscles.

What did he just say? Bastilen's eyes whirred into narrows slits, the lens' glow permeating sharply under his lids. The Navy, made into their own branch four years ago, always steered him the wrong way. Officers in the Navy had their own purpose, but the enlarged sense of self amongst the ratings, just grated his nerves. He couldn't bring himself to hate a fellow sibling of the Imperium, but he could show his distaste in the same way siblings did.

"Yeah, like the Assault on Planet X, the Defense of the Orbital Nepleslian Ship-Yards, The Free-Spacer Contact, The Real Kennewes Offensive, The Fall of Rok'Veru, and The Fall of the Senate." listed Bastilen, staring square at the Naval man with an even squarer look on his face, "It's good to know you Space-Fish are at the fore-front of something."

It would’ve been an awesome sight to have seen the 165lbs man being thrown across the room onto a wall, hitting it and landing on the floor with the same effect of a sack of potatoes. Wulfe did his best to pick himself up although his brain hadn’t done as much as to emotionally acknowledge the fact that the whole event had happened. He couldn’t feel anything broken, to which he was sure that the captain would’ve done if his intent was to do so, only reinforcing the possibility of him testing the P3C to see whether he would shatter under pressure or not. Assuming you’re right, of course, Wulfe, rang his conscience again, with the same disposition to rain on his parade as always.

He got up, his mind running the involuntary fight-or-flight check. The thought of hitting an officer surely had crossed his mind then, but the implications and consequences of doing so along with Wulfe’s good sense of things quickly set the idea aside. He straightened himself up and realigned his green beret, standing at attention again. This is going to be basic training all over again, he thought. “I meant no disrespect, Captain.” He said, scowling at the last word. “All I ask is for a chance to prove that I am capable of carrying out my duties.”

Bastilen's words killed the festive, competitive atmosphere. Even the two opponents had stopped their eating to see who had decided to be a killjoy. "Say that again, Marine," an ID-SOL from the crowd said menacingly.

The ID-SOL who had been competing with Santiago glared darkly at Bastilen. Chief Santiago looked from his Naval colleagues to his brother Marines and sighed. "Aiyaa. I give up. You win."

Santiago stood and excused himself from the group, who were still deciding whether to strangle Bastilen or not. He joined the two Marines put his arms around them and led them out with a serious, "Follow me."

Once outside in the hallway, he faced the two of them. "Names, now," he ordered sternly.

Probably not my best decision.

That was what Bastilen thought as he was ushered away by the Chief. A certain anxiety perpetuated under the base of his throat, wondering if this guy had the right to send him back to prison, too. He tried not to let it bug his demeanor too much, as showing it wasn't the way to go. At the very least he needed to stick behind his actions, which was why he stood straight and square at attention in the face of the chief.

"Private Fourth-Class Bastilen Dieudonné Wreno, sir." he said with a sharp salute. Still, Bastilen reasoned, he was successful at stealing the Chief's attention.

God dammit. Bastilen, what have you done? Karrelik stood straight and looked straight ahead, not at the chief. When the man looked to him, he saluted and gave his name. What else could he do? He hoped there would be time to tell the chief about his punishment before Bastilen did. Damage control and all.

He briefly wondered if this man was capable of having him executed. Ever since he was thrown across the room, oh, it must have been half an hour ago now, he'd had a stronger feeling of mortality. It didn't help that the other two men towered over him. His father had had to pull in favors to get him into the army at all despite his height. If he'd been within requirements, he'd probably have gone further.

He quietly sent a message to Bastilen with his Mindware. Chances are it'd be recorded somewhere, but he figured a discreet request to be the one to tell the chief about his own punishment wouldn't be considered a waste of military time.

Santiago looked at Bastilen and then at John. "Walk with me, Private Wreno, so we can set some things straight." He guided Bastilen down the hall with him.

"You need to lighten more, Private. I'm a Chief - I should be more stuck up than you in public. That, in there, was for fun. Let them chest-pound, say what they like, there's no need to start causing bad feelings cos at the end of the day, it's all in the name of good fun and friendly rivalry. We're Marines, we don't need to prove anything though it's always fun to accept a friendly challenge," Santiago spoke conversationally, in a quiet reflective mood.

"We rely on them to support us and destroy the big bad squiddy ships, they rely on us to take and hold ground. No need to cause bad feelings, yeah?"