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Carter and Popov give you a quick introduction to their men. It was a surprisingly eclectic group. In contrast to the taciturn atmosphere that surrounded lambda-null-null, most of them are eager to meet you. They weren’t familiar with your face, but they knew your gunship quite well. Even with your recent promotion, a level of trust was still there.
You spend several minutes trading anecdotes with a pair of hard-faced veterans who complain loudly and surprisingly openly about the moral degradation of the bureau. There was once a time when this organization had real principles and real respect. Personally, you find the idea a little hard to believe. But after pointing out a few gripes of your own, they grin and clap you on the back a few times.
A sharp-eyed assault-specialist jogs over between combat drills, thanking you for running air support during a particularly chaotic suppression mission three months ago. With a degree of guilt, you see that her body is extensively scarred. Yet her combat knife still whisks elegantly through the air once she resumes her exercises.
An affable medic shows you pictures of a stray cat he picked up several months ago. He was keeping it in his quarters, inside a nest made from old blankets and tattered clothing. Carefully – and with a degree of embarrassment - he asks you about the possibility of adding in some extra requisition items under your name.
Eventually, one of the younger men – probably a more recent recruit – rounds out the hour by reaching into his duffel bag back to retrieve bottles filled with golden cider. Popov grimaces at the sight while Carter shrugs.
“Closest we could get to real alcohol, Ivan.”
“Disgusting.” Evidently, tasting the cider hasn’t changed Popov’s opinion.
“Better than losing your edge before a mission. Besides, if OPS ever found out about this particular tradition of ours…”
"Yes, I know," sighs the sergeant.
After everyone has a shot glass in hand, Carter slaps his hand on the table for attention. He raises his hand up and bellows a warcry.
“Never on record…”
The rest of the men knock their drinks before chorusing back:
“But always remembered!”
Carter’s shotglass shatters against the ground with a deafening crack. Shards of glass skitter across concrete. A few members of QRF-5A break out in a poor rendition of some foreign folk song.
“Stay sharp people! We board in fifteen!”
Just as you prepare to board your own craft, Carter stops you with a smile.
“PILOT-17 is a bit of a mouthful, no? Now that you know the crew, maybe you could share your old callsign with us”
Ah yes. That. You haven’t used it for quite some time for various reasons – most of them amnesiatic-related, but it was something you used to go by.
>Write in a callsign.
>Not now. Maybe you’ll think of something after this mission?
