If you have not submitted an application form (character sheet) for approval into Mobile Task Force O-23, but would like to participate in the RP, or if you are a participant with questions and concerns about the RP, please go the Out of Character thread located here. If you would like to express interest before doing so, visit the Interest Check located here.
The scar over his eye twitched at the word as he rose from the chair, directing his attention to some menial worker in the facility. He looked tired; more than anything else, but he kept awake, despite no longer knowing what time it was. The worker across the room paused in the doorway, taking note of the officer's beard and how scraggly it had become since the first clashes with the Chaos Insurgency.
His voice was deep and gravelly, and seemed weary of the world as he heaved a sigh of contention and false hope. Bravado soon overtook him, and he, once again adopted his signature steeled resolve. Stoic expression fixed to his face, he turned toward the door and followed the worker out of the room, down a long and brightly lit hallway that measured at least fourteen feet in width. Various passersby and workers of the facility greeted him with a wave and hello, to which he replied with a simple nod.
The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, and it gave him time to reflect upon his service to the Foundation, and his many encounters with the paranormal entities that gave the Foundation its name. The moment he came across the existence of the one they called "682", he knew there was no greater hell than the things that could be found in the darkest corners of the world. It took time and many efforts to bring the monstrosity under control, but it was not without casualties in the slightest, one such being the person who initially recommended him for this line of work. Before he became the leader of Mobile Task Force O-23, he was but a simple peon that took orders, followed through, and simply tried his hardest. Then, "682" came around, and he was here, without his men, alone.
That sole thought was enough to bring him back to reality, focusing on the task at hand. The person who led him down the hallway handed over the clipboard and diverted her path down a hallway to the left, pointing down the hallway the officer was already walking through. He continued down until he came to an intersection that led off into three different paths.
In the intersection stood a line of six people, all facing the officer. They were uniformally dressed in the same gear which, at the present time, was nothing but the standard navy blue jumpsuit, adorned with an embroidered logo denoting the Foundation. The grizzled veteran flipped through the pages, calmly and briskly skimming through various notes and pieces of knowledge he felt necessary to remember. After doing so, he let the pages fall back into place, his eyes looking up to what looked to be his new recruits.
"Welcome to Mobile Task Force O-23, people," he started to address, walking back and forth in front of the recruits. "My name is Commander Michael Cross, but, for the duration of your enrollment into this unit, you will address me as 'Commander' or 'Sir'; if we happen to become good friends, 'Cross'. You are here because you've been recommended by some of the most capable minds in the Foundation, and I can sincerely hope to trust their word.
"As long as you remain in this unit, you will speak when spoken to, unless I give you permission to speak. You will do what I say, when I say it, however I wish for you to do it. I do not tell you this to reinforce my reputation as a hard-ass. This, quite to the contrary, is as much to ensure your survival as it is to make sure that we all function and coordinate perfectly not only as a team, but as a well-oiled machine. Over the course of your stay, you will learn about each other, inside and out. You will know how your teammates tick and how to exploit their strengths to benefit the team. I do not tolerate insubordination, and that is because we do not have the capacity to let insubordination infect our ranks. The last time someone was careless, they brought in the six of you to take their places. I suggest you don't become another casualty."
Cross' eyes moved back down to the paper, reading over the various pieces of information from the first page, taking a deep breath before reading aloud.
"Christopher... Graves. Thirty-two years old from New York, New York."
The 44-year-old shook his head before muttering something about Frank Sinatra, after which was followed by more reading aloud.
"Graves... says here that you were in the army. Rank of... Captain in 12 years' time. Impressive. Why don't you sound off and tell us a little about yourself, but keep it short and sweet. You've got plenty of time to tell your life story to your new friends here in the future."