@Tojin, @Tergonaut
I'm just going to tell you that you're accepted. The last of the batch to be, hopefully.
I'm just going to tell you that you're accepted. The last of the batch to be, hopefully.
Gowi
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@Gowi
Guess who did a thing finally. Probably sucks but you know.
!!!?!!?
Smith's Rest, New Anchorage | Convention Center
March 26th, 2677
As far as parties went this was probably the worst possible one Kathryn Dradht could imagine; in fact, per her perspective it was the definition of boring and lacking anything of interest — even with the vendors and canteen taken into consideration. Nonetheless, it was part of her job and she knew it was something she had to deal with. With that in mind, the orange-haired girl took a light sigh as she stood up from her seat, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her hooded jacket, as she made for the podium as Celina motioned for the pilots to take some initiative and begin the whole public interview.
That’s what this is, right? An interview?
In the last half-decade of working around North America she had done a long list of applications for independents and even corporate sponsors but she had never dealt with a kind of gig like New Anchorage. As strange as the contract and her situation currently was she had a very good reason to not just flip her shit and tell Commander Graham and the new Minister-Mayor-Leader person to fuck off. The thought had crossed her mind a few times and this whole interview was just another annoyance that she felt wasn’t important. It wasn’t like it was her fault that New Anchorage got attacked by a task force from out of nowhere. She may had been a freelancer, but she wasn’t a traitor.
As she moved her tongue in-between her teeth she thought about the question that had been asked from the woman in charge as soon as Ryn reached the podium. It wasn’t a large question to answer or a pointless one for an interview and even with Ryn’s level of knowledge she knew that much—but there was a lot of ways to tell people her story in a brief answer. There was an amount of things that per her perspective wasn’t information they needed to know. There were things that she had never told anyone before, after all. Even people who were what she considered friends were in the dark about Ryn’s “origin story”. The most she had ever told people before this interview was that her mother died and she took over. She wasn’t sure what New Anchorage’s “dossier file” had on her, but it couldn’t have been much considering the mundanity of who she was before she was a pilot and what led up to it. It was a story people in her neck of the woods had heard a thousand times before.
“I became a pilot ‘cuz someone died that wasn’t supposed to.” She admitted, the memory coming back to her for a moment.
When the moment had passed, she clenched the podium. “But yeah, isn’t like anybody forced me to do it. I wanted it, so I took it even with all of the risks.”
The crowd muttered among themselves. the same to see her standing on stage, ready to answer questions as a pilot, seemed to surprise them. Ryn wasn’t surprised they were shocked about her presence and abillity to take initiative considering how she had been treated by “adults” for the entirety of her career as a neural combatant. It was a tick of hers, as some of her comrades had learned when she confronted one of them for having an issue that New Anchorage was hiring children the day of her arrival at the military base. In her mind, it wasn’t special she was a kid and she didn’t need anyone to “parent” her—she was the equal of any of the other pilots and was intent to prove it; and if it made people think she was a little bitch or a reckless hire that was their problem.
It didn’t take long for one of the members of the crowd to raise their hand and speaking the first question not uttered by Celina herself. It was a question Ryn had been asked many times before, though it did not make it any the less frustrating to hear again. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen.” Ryn remarked nonchalantly, as she stood front and center albeit in her slouched casual approach. “I think it’ll be five years in a few months.”
Ryn moved her tongue against her uppermost canines, as she sported a look of someone who was unimpressed by the comments. It made her upset that they were doing the same old song and dance that she had heard before but then again she expected them to. With the two of the people who actually paid her looking over her actions in answering the questions of a bunch of idiots who couldn’t even defend themselves she actually, in a fit of surprise appeared to remain largely civil of what she was hearing.
There were a few emotional whispers in the crowd that weren’t out of Ryn’s earshot—concerns about her as a child, how terrible it was that she was “alone”, and how “brave” she was. At least the thought that she was a brave child was better than the other descriptors that had been used to define her in the past. She remembered all of the labels, insults, and remarks. They didn’t hurt her; they weren’t sharp enough to pierce her armor.
“Where are your parents?”
Of course they want to know my parents, because I'm a 'kid'. Assholes.
“Not in the picture.”
It was a bit blunt, but it wasn’t wrong — her mother had died at the hands of another neural combatant several years ago and she had never known her father. As such the concept of a male role model in her life was something she never had and did not really think about too much. The emotions still triggered from the earlier questions still persisted in her mind and had Ryn been more sensitive of a person they probably would have made the armor she fashioned crack. She was too stubborn to show people that they was feeling upset.
“How long do you expect to stay on as a pilot here?”
The question of her staying as a pilot in New Anchorage was a smart one and one that Ryn hadn’t really thought about too hard beyond her original intentions of signing on. If the credits were good and the people weren’t intolerable she could see herself making this a new home for her, or at least for a time. Her feelings in her gut aside, there were times she missed Blackstone Harbor and the violent waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Whilst she had told herself she would never go back to her hometown she had never particularly vowed to never find a new home.
“As long as I need to be here or I guess as long as you guys want me here, right?”
Another question from the crowd, this time from a woman. “What does it feel like knowing that you've killed people at such a young age?”
For her entire life she had killed out of necessity but even before that she had never been told that it was irregular; her mother was a pilot of a literal war machine and she lived in a small independent settlement in the Atlantic Territories that had to deal with dangerous wildlife, mutants, pirates, raiders, slavers, rival settlements, and all sorts of problems. It came with the territory.
“What do you mean?” She asked, curious about specifics. “Like do you mean the act of or in general? In or out of suit?”
The woman took a step back—not immediately having an answer. However, the man next to her didn’t hesitate to inquire. “You’ve killed out of your NC?”
“Yep.” She nodded, “Sometimes people think they can beat up and rob you because you’re a kid, so sometimes you have to draw a knife into their throat and kill them before they kill you. Dog eat dog world and all.”
Silence, a terribly awkward silence.
Guess that was too real for ‘em, huh?
“Thank you, Miss Drahdt, that will be all. Next.”
Ryn nodded in recognition as she walked away from the podium and returned to her seat, not thinking much about how the public “received” her interview. Removing her hands from her jacket she grabbed the cup of water she had left at the table and downed it; her brows narrowing as she realized there was nothing alcoholic in arms reach and let out a light sigh. The emotions she had buried weren’t supposed to come back after a stupid question — they weren’t supposed to come back ever. She reached into the bag she had placed in front of her and retrieved a dried piece of jerky before splitting it between her teeth.
How long was all of this going to take before she could just head off to the canteen for a flask or two?
That’s what this is, right? An interview?
In the last half-decade of working around North America she had done a long list of applications for independents and even corporate sponsors but she had never dealt with a kind of gig like New Anchorage. As strange as the contract and her situation currently was she had a very good reason to not just flip her shit and tell Commander Graham and the new Minister-Mayor-Leader person to fuck off. The thought had crossed her mind a few times and this whole interview was just another annoyance that she felt wasn’t important. It wasn’t like it was her fault that New Anchorage got attacked by a task force from out of nowhere. She may had been a freelancer, but she wasn’t a traitor.
As she moved her tongue in-between her teeth she thought about the question that had been asked from the woman in charge as soon as Ryn reached the podium. It wasn’t a large question to answer or a pointless one for an interview and even with Ryn’s level of knowledge she knew that much—but there was a lot of ways to tell people her story in a brief answer. There was an amount of things that per her perspective wasn’t information they needed to know. There were things that she had never told anyone before, after all. Even people who were what she considered friends were in the dark about Ryn’s “origin story”. The most she had ever told people before this interview was that her mother died and she took over. She wasn’t sure what New Anchorage’s “dossier file” had on her, but it couldn’t have been much considering the mundanity of who she was before she was a pilot and what led up to it. It was a story people in her neck of the woods had heard a thousand times before.
“I became a pilot ‘cuz someone died that wasn’t supposed to.” She admitted, the memory coming back to her for a moment.
It was five, maybe six years ago — and the last time she remembered being happy. It was before she lived a life of a neural combatant and before she drove a knife into a man for the first time. She didn’t think about it often but the question brought it back to the forefront of her mind. It brought back the emotions she thought she had locked away and removed from her mind. It brought her back to Blackstone Harbor, her mother, and the day she stopped being a dumb little kid at nine years old.
Her mother’s hair was tucked back, held by a tightly wrapped bandanna, as she dropped to her knees and embraced her in a hug, and spoke the words that she now believed as the worst things to say to anyone.
“I love you.”
She remembered what she told her mother in reply—the last words she would say to her.
“Pfft! You say that all the time, mom! Go kick their ass! I’ll make dinner to celebrate. I’m a great cook now, you’ll see!”
She never came home.
Her mother’s hair was tucked back, held by a tightly wrapped bandanna, as she dropped to her knees and embraced her in a hug, and spoke the words that she now believed as the worst things to say to anyone.
“I love you.”
She remembered what she told her mother in reply—the last words she would say to her.
“Pfft! You say that all the time, mom! Go kick their ass! I’ll make dinner to celebrate. I’m a great cook now, you’ll see!”
She never came home.
When the moment had passed, she clenched the podium. “But yeah, isn’t like anybody forced me to do it. I wanted it, so I took it even with all of the risks.”
The crowd muttered among themselves. the same to see her standing on stage, ready to answer questions as a pilot, seemed to surprise them. Ryn wasn’t surprised they were shocked about her presence and abillity to take initiative considering how she had been treated by “adults” for the entirety of her career as a neural combatant. It was a tick of hers, as some of her comrades had learned when she confronted one of them for having an issue that New Anchorage was hiring children the day of her arrival at the military base. In her mind, it wasn’t special she was a kid and she didn’t need anyone to “parent” her—she was the equal of any of the other pilots and was intent to prove it; and if it made people think she was a little bitch or a reckless hire that was their problem.
It didn’t take long for one of the members of the crowd to raise their hand and speaking the first question not uttered by Celina herself. It was a question Ryn had been asked many times before, though it did not make it any the less frustrating to hear again. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen.” Ryn remarked nonchalantly, as she stood front and center albeit in her slouched casual approach. “I think it’ll be five years in a few months.”
Ryn moved her tongue against her uppermost canines, as she sported a look of someone who was unimpressed by the comments. It made her upset that they were doing the same old song and dance that she had heard before but then again she expected them to. With the two of the people who actually paid her looking over her actions in answering the questions of a bunch of idiots who couldn’t even defend themselves she actually, in a fit of surprise appeared to remain largely civil of what she was hearing.
There were a few emotional whispers in the crowd that weren’t out of Ryn’s earshot—concerns about her as a child, how terrible it was that she was “alone”, and how “brave” she was. At least the thought that she was a brave child was better than the other descriptors that had been used to define her in the past. She remembered all of the labels, insults, and remarks. They didn’t hurt her; they weren’t sharp enough to pierce her armor.
“Where are your parents?”
Of course they want to know my parents, because I'm a 'kid'. Assholes.
“Not in the picture.”
It was a bit blunt, but it wasn’t wrong — her mother had died at the hands of another neural combatant several years ago and she had never known her father. As such the concept of a male role model in her life was something she never had and did not really think about too much. The emotions still triggered from the earlier questions still persisted in her mind and had Ryn been more sensitive of a person they probably would have made the armor she fashioned crack. She was too stubborn to show people that they was feeling upset.
“How long do you expect to stay on as a pilot here?”
The question of her staying as a pilot in New Anchorage was a smart one and one that Ryn hadn’t really thought about too hard beyond her original intentions of signing on. If the credits were good and the people weren’t intolerable she could see herself making this a new home for her, or at least for a time. Her feelings in her gut aside, there were times she missed Blackstone Harbor and the violent waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Whilst she had told herself she would never go back to her hometown she had never particularly vowed to never find a new home.
“As long as I need to be here or I guess as long as you guys want me here, right?”
Another question from the crowd, this time from a woman. “What does it feel like knowing that you've killed people at such a young age?”
For her entire life she had killed out of necessity but even before that she had never been told that it was irregular; her mother was a pilot of a literal war machine and she lived in a small independent settlement in the Atlantic Territories that had to deal with dangerous wildlife, mutants, pirates, raiders, slavers, rival settlements, and all sorts of problems. It came with the territory.
“What do you mean?” She asked, curious about specifics. “Like do you mean the act of or in general? In or out of suit?”
The woman took a step back—not immediately having an answer. However, the man next to her didn’t hesitate to inquire. “You’ve killed out of your NC?”
“Yep.” She nodded, “Sometimes people think they can beat up and rob you because you’re a kid, so sometimes you have to draw a knife into their throat and kill them before they kill you. Dog eat dog world and all.”
Silence, a terribly awkward silence.
Guess that was too real for ‘em, huh?
“Thank you, Miss Drahdt, that will be all. Next.”
Ryn nodded in recognition as she walked away from the podium and returned to her seat, not thinking much about how the public “received” her interview. Removing her hands from her jacket she grabbed the cup of water she had left at the table and downed it; her brows narrowing as she realized there was nothing alcoholic in arms reach and let out a light sigh. The emotions she had buried weren’t supposed to come back after a stupid question — they weren’t supposed to come back ever. She reached into the bag she had placed in front of her and retrieved a dried piece of jerky before splitting it between her teeth.
How long was all of this going to take before she could just head off to the canteen for a flask or two?
Gowi likes uniformity:
Also, please follow these rules as well as they make me very happy:
- Colored Quoted Bold: Speech ("I like everyone in this RP!")
- Colored Non-Quoted Italics: Thoughts (I hope they do not think me a tyrant.)
Also, please follow these rules as well as they make me very happy:
- Colored Quoted Bold: Speech ("I like everyone in this RP!")
- Colored Non-Quoted Italics: Thoughts (I hope they do not think me a tyrant.)
Smith's Rest, New Anchorage | Convention Center
March 26th, 2677
It had been an exhausting month, that much was for sure.
Following the infiltration of New Anchorage by forces unknown and a siege that came at the cost of several deaths and internal damage to essential facilities, Commander Michael Graham wasn’t sure what to think. He had done like the people of Smith’s Rest asked of him when they recruited him several months prior—he had reorganized the defense forces, financed several repairs and upgrades, arranged a recruitment drive for capable pilots, and brought on staff that worked with their allocated budget as well as held no real loyalties to the corporations who may have seen New Anchorage as a threat. But after doing that and preparing the pilots to start working in the field he never would’ve suspected the destructive onslaught that came from what appeared to be nowhere. It nearly drove him into a fit of madness; a reaction that while understandable still had shaken things up on base after he personally interrogated every single pilot, soldier, engineer, and scientist. The most frustrating thing about such ruthless questioning was the fact that every single person checked out and at the end of it Graham just felt like a complete asshole who had only achieved making his pilots think he was unreasonable and delusional.
A thought that he couldn’t blame them for in the slightest. Though it wouldn’t be the last time they’d be put under a magnifying glass. This was all the more obvious when Celina Jackspar appeared in Graham’s office the week after the attack. She was just like a ravenous vulture; ready to pick the meat off the bones of the wounded... or at least that is how Graham percieved it. Celina offered a solution to reaffirming the people’s confidence in Graham’s leadership—New Anchorage was going to hold a Press Conference and the chief staff were invited; including the NC pilots.
Whilst Graham wished he had a choice in the matter he knew that the idea was sensible from a business perspective. However, if Graham could have he would’ve stayed at the operations headquarters and ordered his pilots to ignore Celina’s request for their appearance at the to-be conference. He knew as soon as Celina came into his office how it was going to go down. Once his background checks were over with and the repairs were done they were to do as she recommended. She branded it as a way to make the raid on the base seem like a minor inconvenience — a open-invite press conference so to speak.
The location for this event?
The founding site of Smith’s Rest.
If Graham had a sense of humor he would’ve laughed at how clichéd and blasé it was to host the chief minister’s big conference at such a location. He wasn’t a bleeding heart or attached to a name of a fading colony named after a waster who left the Burrow of Calgary to stake out his own claim a millennia ago. Though he could easily see why retrofitting the old building that was the centerpiece of the settlement into a city hall and conference center was a good move for Celina. It was certainly a step up from the pre-war library she had pretty much lived for her entire life. But to go to this kind of extent? It was just so overblown and self-congratulatory to him.
The date?
Today.
Michael Graham let out a heavy sigh as he exited the transport, his chief staff, pilots, and personal retinue in tow. With his hands buried in his pockets he looked at the building in front of him and gave a brief comment to the men and women behind him.
“Keep your wits about you. We’re about to enter a den of vipers. Let’s get to it.”
In the back, Graham could hear Joshua Ray remark to his fellow pilots about the situation; Graham didn’t need to reply but mentally he was smirking from the remark. “I prefer a den of wolves, personally. Wolves are a lot less... I don’t know — virulent?”
Wouldn’t be politics if you couldn’t get poisoned.
Once he entered the building, he was unsurprisingly met with the presence of the woman who organized all of it: Chief Minister Celina Jackspar.
Of course.
“Ah, Commander Graham. You’re early, that’s good.”
He nodded. “Yes. How long until you want to begin?”
“Whenever you and the pilots are ready, of course.”
Graham’s reply ended with a smile—harmless and polite enough yet he knew it; he had seen a thousand of smirks, grins, and smiles like it before during his time with Denver-Vegas and he knew it well. It was a expression that was fake and ultimately a front for the truth. He had become accustomed to it being Celina’s favored weapon.
As he nodded he took the next few minutes to acquaint himself with the functions of the conference—a canteen, trade vendor, and other features littered the conference hall before leading to an open platform with two rows of desks with names written on it with a podium and microphone at center stage. Graham let out a light breath of disapproval as he swiped a drink from the canteen to the back before deciding to meet up with Alvarez in the back near the platform and their assigned seats.
Celebratory grandstanding, political intrigue, militarized politeness, snake-like maneuvering, arrogant posturing. It was all something Graham had seen before and his time away from Denver-Vegas had not changed his opinion on it. Whilst he didn’t believe in the concept of morals, it was this anfractuous behavior that made him sometimes question that belief. It was the work of executive arrogance. However, Celina Jackspar had been elected as the chief minister of New Anchorage by her peers and fellows, so it wasn’t exactly that absurd that it led to this. Regardless of that fact, Graham would’ve preferred not to have a front row seat to the newly appointed minister making games with his pilots and possibly opening them up to a public interrogation in the guise of a press conference and banquet.
All ego and leash holding—just like Vegas.
Graham crossed his arms as he leaned against the wall behind him as his right hand held a metallic container with a blue-green colored liquid that was alcoholic in origin. The forty-three year old military combatant had never been one for alcoholic concoctions but for an occasion like this he was happy to oblige.
His eyes moved from person-to-person; the pilots, some of his essential staff, his personal retinue, and denizens of New Anchorage who held comfortable positions in the settlement. Based on the dossiers he read and the people he had met in his first week he recognized a few noteworthy individuals that were invited to this little party of Celina’s—all of them with the biggest shit-eating grin curled on their lips like they had gotten the best payout in their lives. Graham had a lot of experience with reading people, though he admitted he was always more soldier than administrator, and these were the sort of looks people who were promised profitable insurance policies gave; it was that combined with Graham’s experience in DV territories that made him believe Celina had played every card she had in her deck.
Graham rose the container of alcoholic liquid to his lips, taking a slow but steady drink as his eyes stayed on the audience.
The executives back home would be impressed that a waster organized and played the game as well as this.
That thought aside, Graham felt like an idle compliment is all they would’ve given and the nature of it would be backhanded. He knew the corporate types, they believed that the best weapon wasn’t neural combatants but ratherlanguage and influence. If their success and Celina’s rise to power were anything to go by, Graham really couldn’t contest the belief.
“Alvarez, do make sure that Minister Jackspar knows that the facility is secure and we may begin this conference of hers when she is ready to and the pilots have taken their seats with the rest of us.”
The dark-haired administrator nodded, “Of course, Commander.”
He had a feeling not one of the pilots knew what they were about to be subject to. Despite some of his opinions about the less qualified pilots, he hoped they had their wits about them tonight; they were going to need it.
Atoms be damned, I hope they can handle this.
Once the pilots took their seats, Graham could feel it. Something was coming.
As Celina tapped the microphone on the podium he could see it—the entire audience jerking their heads and moving their feet towards the stage like trained lab rats. He took a light breath, though he contained himself — he couldn’t give off the composure of an incapable. His eyes moved to Celina, as the woman began her speech.
“Welcome. We’ve a lot to address tonight, but we’re going to begin things a bit unorthodox—” She said, before gesturing behind the podium and towards the pilots who had taken their seats at the long table reserved for them that was positioned parallel to that of the table that Graham himself had been placed at alongside his chief staff barring Rebecca Marek who took his responsibilities back at operational headquarters in his absence. Graham took another drink of the alcoholic liquid in front of him. It was times like this that he was reminded of his previous employment; a sentiment that he did not look at favorably. “—Our pilots, the dutiful men and women, and even children, who have and will risk their lives to protect this settlement, and see it into a prosperous future. They have so graciously joined me this evening, and so I think it’s only fair that the people they defend her from them. The floor is now open.”
One of the pilots inched forward and Celina asked the first question of the night.
“How did you become a pilot?”
Following the infiltration of New Anchorage by forces unknown and a siege that came at the cost of several deaths and internal damage to essential facilities, Commander Michael Graham wasn’t sure what to think. He had done like the people of Smith’s Rest asked of him when they recruited him several months prior—he had reorganized the defense forces, financed several repairs and upgrades, arranged a recruitment drive for capable pilots, and brought on staff that worked with their allocated budget as well as held no real loyalties to the corporations who may have seen New Anchorage as a threat. But after doing that and preparing the pilots to start working in the field he never would’ve suspected the destructive onslaught that came from what appeared to be nowhere. It nearly drove him into a fit of madness; a reaction that while understandable still had shaken things up on base after he personally interrogated every single pilot, soldier, engineer, and scientist. The most frustrating thing about such ruthless questioning was the fact that every single person checked out and at the end of it Graham just felt like a complete asshole who had only achieved making his pilots think he was unreasonable and delusional.
A thought that he couldn’t blame them for in the slightest. Though it wouldn’t be the last time they’d be put under a magnifying glass. This was all the more obvious when Celina Jackspar appeared in Graham’s office the week after the attack. She was just like a ravenous vulture; ready to pick the meat off the bones of the wounded... or at least that is how Graham percieved it. Celina offered a solution to reaffirming the people’s confidence in Graham’s leadership—New Anchorage was going to hold a Press Conference and the chief staff were invited; including the NC pilots.
Whilst Graham wished he had a choice in the matter he knew that the idea was sensible from a business perspective. However, if Graham could have he would’ve stayed at the operations headquarters and ordered his pilots to ignore Celina’s request for their appearance at the to-be conference. He knew as soon as Celina came into his office how it was going to go down. Once his background checks were over with and the repairs were done they were to do as she recommended. She branded it as a way to make the raid on the base seem like a minor inconvenience — a open-invite press conference so to speak.
The location for this event?
The founding site of Smith’s Rest.
If Graham had a sense of humor he would’ve laughed at how clichéd and blasé it was to host the chief minister’s big conference at such a location. He wasn’t a bleeding heart or attached to a name of a fading colony named after a waster who left the Burrow of Calgary to stake out his own claim a millennia ago. Though he could easily see why retrofitting the old building that was the centerpiece of the settlement into a city hall and conference center was a good move for Celina. It was certainly a step up from the pre-war library she had pretty much lived for her entire life. But to go to this kind of extent? It was just so overblown and self-congratulatory to him.
The date?
Today.
Michael Graham let out a heavy sigh as he exited the transport, his chief staff, pilots, and personal retinue in tow. With his hands buried in his pockets he looked at the building in front of him and gave a brief comment to the men and women behind him.
“Keep your wits about you. We’re about to enter a den of vipers. Let’s get to it.”
In the back, Graham could hear Joshua Ray remark to his fellow pilots about the situation; Graham didn’t need to reply but mentally he was smirking from the remark. “I prefer a den of wolves, personally. Wolves are a lot less... I don’t know — virulent?”
Wouldn’t be politics if you couldn’t get poisoned.
Once he entered the building, he was unsurprisingly met with the presence of the woman who organized all of it: Chief Minister Celina Jackspar.
Of course.
“Ah, Commander Graham. You’re early, that’s good.”
He nodded. “Yes. How long until you want to begin?”
“Whenever you and the pilots are ready, of course.”
Graham’s reply ended with a smile—harmless and polite enough yet he knew it; he had seen a thousand of smirks, grins, and smiles like it before during his time with Denver-Vegas and he knew it well. It was a expression that was fake and ultimately a front for the truth. He had become accustomed to it being Celina’s favored weapon.
As he nodded he took the next few minutes to acquaint himself with the functions of the conference—a canteen, trade vendor, and other features littered the conference hall before leading to an open platform with two rows of desks with names written on it with a podium and microphone at center stage. Graham let out a light breath of disapproval as he swiped a drink from the canteen to the back before deciding to meet up with Alvarez in the back near the platform and their assigned seats.
Celebratory grandstanding, political intrigue, militarized politeness, snake-like maneuvering, arrogant posturing. It was all something Graham had seen before and his time away from Denver-Vegas had not changed his opinion on it. Whilst he didn’t believe in the concept of morals, it was this anfractuous behavior that made him sometimes question that belief. It was the work of executive arrogance. However, Celina Jackspar had been elected as the chief minister of New Anchorage by her peers and fellows, so it wasn’t exactly that absurd that it led to this. Regardless of that fact, Graham would’ve preferred not to have a front row seat to the newly appointed minister making games with his pilots and possibly opening them up to a public interrogation in the guise of a press conference and banquet.
All ego and leash holding—just like Vegas.
Graham crossed his arms as he leaned against the wall behind him as his right hand held a metallic container with a blue-green colored liquid that was alcoholic in origin. The forty-three year old military combatant had never been one for alcoholic concoctions but for an occasion like this he was happy to oblige.
His eyes moved from person-to-person; the pilots, some of his essential staff, his personal retinue, and denizens of New Anchorage who held comfortable positions in the settlement. Based on the dossiers he read and the people he had met in his first week he recognized a few noteworthy individuals that were invited to this little party of Celina’s—all of them with the biggest shit-eating grin curled on their lips like they had gotten the best payout in their lives. Graham had a lot of experience with reading people, though he admitted he was always more soldier than administrator, and these were the sort of looks people who were promised profitable insurance policies gave; it was that combined with Graham’s experience in DV territories that made him believe Celina had played every card she had in her deck.
Graham rose the container of alcoholic liquid to his lips, taking a slow but steady drink as his eyes stayed on the audience.
The executives back home would be impressed that a waster organized and played the game as well as this.
That thought aside, Graham felt like an idle compliment is all they would’ve given and the nature of it would be backhanded. He knew the corporate types, they believed that the best weapon wasn’t neural combatants but ratherlanguage and influence. If their success and Celina’s rise to power were anything to go by, Graham really couldn’t contest the belief.
“Alvarez, do make sure that Minister Jackspar knows that the facility is secure and we may begin this conference of hers when she is ready to and the pilots have taken their seats with the rest of us.”
The dark-haired administrator nodded, “Of course, Commander.”
He had a feeling not one of the pilots knew what they were about to be subject to. Despite some of his opinions about the less qualified pilots, he hoped they had their wits about them tonight; they were going to need it.
Atoms be damned, I hope they can handle this.
Once the pilots took their seats, Graham could feel it. Something was coming.
As Celina tapped the microphone on the podium he could see it—the entire audience jerking their heads and moving their feet towards the stage like trained lab rats. He took a light breath, though he contained himself — he couldn’t give off the composure of an incapable. His eyes moved to Celina, as the woman began her speech.
“Welcome. We’ve a lot to address tonight, but we’re going to begin things a bit unorthodox—” She said, before gesturing behind the podium and towards the pilots who had taken their seats at the long table reserved for them that was positioned parallel to that of the table that Graham himself had been placed at alongside his chief staff barring Rebecca Marek who took his responsibilities back at operational headquarters in his absence. Graham took another drink of the alcoholic liquid in front of him. It was times like this that he was reminded of his previous employment; a sentiment that he did not look at favorably. “—Our pilots, the dutiful men and women, and even children, who have and will risk their lives to protect this settlement, and see it into a prosperous future. They have so graciously joined me this evening, and so I think it’s only fair that the people they defend her from them. The floor is now open.”
One of the pilots inched forward and Celina asked the first question of the night.
“How did you become a pilot?”
@Indra
◈ Fixed some formatting of hiders and paragraphs. Inconsequential, but I am pedantic with this kind of thing.
◈ There are a lot of difficult bits here coming from a language perspective— awkward phrasing, spelling issues, grammatical inconsistencies. I’ve correct and suggested some changes, though this does make me concerned if communicative consistency in your posts can be kept. But I’m going to look at this with a constructive and open-minded outlook. Keep these suggestions and corrections in mind when adjusting your CS, because it will need adjustment to be acceptable for me.
◈ I really don’t see justification for giving genin nicknames like “The Silver Comet”— to me, those kind of names are earned by reputation which a genin really does not have. Eccentricity aside, the alias is probably a no go for me.
◈ Ryo made a good point on this— the whole description of the whodunit feels very odd and I’m not sure what to make of it. I’m not sure if it needs to be removed, but rephrased and developed.
◈ I think I have an issue in a twin because it serves as a background character I personally have to account for since they are Ria’s twin. If this was a younger sibling I might be more open to NPC development, but unless someone were to pick up Kanade as a character I feel really hesitant on their inclusion. In the current build of this profile it seems like Kanade doesn’t serve much of a purpose outside of sibling rivalry mentions.
◈ Pretty much what Ryo stated about the adoption angle. A large functioning clan like the Uchiha would definitely have the resources and manpower to educate Ria and Kanade following the dubious murder of one of their own by one of their own. I could see the Senju being part of their life but outright raising them is unlikely— they would probably be fostered by a sibling of her mother’s, a cousin, or even a distant kinsman. I would need a compelling reason for the Uchiha to hand over guardianship to another clan, especially one they have had back-and-forth relationships with since their formation over two centuries ago.
◈ Is Mi-enshin Kaiho her only special trait? At any rate, if it is, I’d like it outlined a bit better— at least similarly to how Ryo detailed Murakumo Ninpo. I’d ask them for advice if this proves a challenge.
◈ I agree with Ryo on the jutsu stuff.
◈ Ultimately, this needs quite a bit of work but I am confident you will give it your best.
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+1 Water
It returns!
It returns!
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