jbeil Member
STATUS: I just want someone to play Cyberpunk with ;_; 6 yrs ago
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- jbeil 11 yrs ago
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I just want someone to play Cyberpunk with ;_;
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6 yrs ago
the spookiest soccer coach
7 yrs ago
In the sort of mood to hack my wrists open and paint the walls
7 yrs ago
#FREEDANKULA
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Hurt me.
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Most Recent Posts
Just a notice - I think Phalanx went off at the end of his part of the joint post - could Leo please edit a wee bit?
Returning the salute to the Creator, Phalanx watched as the male Quarian left before stepping into the ship. "It appears joke was successful. Initiate laughter. Ha. Ha. Ha." the Geth unit said, though it's laughter didn't really sound like a laugh with its synthetic voice and wording the way to laugh. Still, the synthetic ship AI known as SADI responded in what one may assume to be a playful manner.
"Sheer luck was in your favor." she spoke mildly.
Deciding to set a place for itself, Phalanx took the ship elevator to the Crews Quarters. All the while it examined what the Normandy SR3 had to offer. One would expect a Geth to head to the engine or the AI core, but instead Phalanx went to the Starboard Observation. A giant wall sized window being the single thing separating Phalanx from the voids of space. Beside the window was a sofa and a desk, in which Phalanx gingerly set the box it had been carrying on top of it.
"I thought the Geth had no use for windows?" Came the synthetic female voice of SADI as the ship AI questioned the choice of room.
Pondering this for a moment, Phalanx only gave a nod. "Affirmative. Geth do not find use of windows. Organics seem to find it interesting however, so investigation is in order." came the brief reply from the mobile platform! though there was slightly more to it. There was that reason, and there was the reason with a old friend. It was illogical, but she would have wanted to be in this particular room out of any other.
After setting down one of the few personal items Phalanx had, the Geth unit decided to resume examination of the ship, as well as perhaps greet its fellow Spectres. Best place to meet was the Command Center, considering most of the organics would be around there for any further command by Galen-Commander. Making its way to the Command Center, Phalanx briefly paused as it watched the crew hurriedly get to work. Most avoiding the Geth unit all together. Well, mostly the humans really.
It then spotted one of the human female Spectre's named Major Claire Moore. Phalanx found itself not really wishing to say the name... It sounded too much like another but it ignored any silly illogical misgivings and walked up to her. Giving a human salute before bowing politely. Without waiting for a response, Claire turned hard on her heels and returned the salute, in almost mechanical fashion. The irony was not lost on her.
"Greetings Major Claire Moore, Alias Flatcap." Phalanx greeted as friendly as a synthetic could sound. Deciding to with hold information of her other nickname and age. Female organics don't seem to like to mention age, so it kept with name only.
"I am Phalanx. Status acknowledged. It is pleasant to be working with a capable soldier." Receiving praise like that was a pleasant change in pace from dealing with an alcoholic turian who was intent on letting his crew die rather than deal with his own personal problems, though staring into that flashlight was harsh on Claire's eyes. If she was honest with herself, she probably had about a thousand questions to ask, but time wasn't going to stretch to allow all of them.
"I appreciate t' complement. I've never met a Geth before - are y'familiar with t'concept of 'Executive Officer'? If y'eve any sort of problem, logistical, issues w' yer commanding officer, or emotional, y'can come t'me w'it and we'll sort t'out. In return, follow y'orders to best of y'ability an' we'll get on fine." Claire paused for a moment, before letting her natural curiosity get the better of her. "Do geth - I mean, t'geth in front o'me - experience emotion?"
Listening to the human woman speaking, Phalanx noticed the slight trouble the human had making eye contact so it silently lowered the brightness function in its glass eye so it was comfortably dim. At the question about if the Geth unit had knowledge on what a Executive Officer is, it nodded in the organic manner to show that it understood. "Affirmative. Executive Officers are ones holding the position in second-command next to the Commander. Studies on human culture has been made.. Quite interesting." It spoke to show that it was knowledgable before pausing at the next question. So far, this human did not seem to realize the difference with the I, so she probably truly didn't know much about the Geth. Not too surprising, humans knew that the Geth once did quite horrible things to the organic humans over fifty years ago during the time Shepard-Commander discovered the Reapers, but little of the culture.Though the question Claire-Major decided to ask was a common question asked by organics. Sadly, it was a question Phalanx couldn't quite accurately respond. "I understand organic emotions and how organics respond to them, but I lack proper knowledge of natural experience. This one wishes it so, but the opinion is for others to decide. Other Geth find the notion illogical and organics fear the idea," it answered as best as it could, but it probably didn't answer the question fully.Deciding that it would ask its own question, the mobile AI looked at the Major. "Claire-Major, a question. What do human organic emotions feel like in your natural experience?" It asked, having tended to ask human organics this question mostly. Humans tended to be more of the emotional part of organics, so perhaps they had a better grasp on it.
"That's...that's a broad question, lad." Claire brought up a hand to scratch the burnt side of her face before folding them back across her chest, leaning back a little, looking into the distance, weighing up the question and the possible answers. "I can' only speak t'my own experience, but...I don' know how t'answer ye, lad. I assume y'see t'world as information, like a computer or summat? I...I don'. T'human experience is more analog than owt else - we still get t'same input as y' - heat, light, an' such - but we don' think of it in terms o' raw data. S'more like we...compare everything we receive t'what we've already experienced, an' based on 'at, w' come t'conclusion. F'example, I see you, bu' I don' think of y' just as 'Phalanx', a body wit' a series o' statistics. Yer taller than I am, I've no idea how old y'are, an' a thousand other little things affect m'emotional analysis of y' - I'm a bit scared, 'cause peo- organics, sorry - they're generally scared o' unknown. M'a bit sad, 'cause y' can' feel in t'same way as t'rest o' crew, which y'know, seems unfortunate. Overall, I'm interested in y' more than anythin' else - do y' see? There's lots o' little emotions, which add up t'an overall picture. Sometimes that picture's agreeable. Other times, I...well, t'aint always rosy. D'you understand? M'afraid I'm no' terrible articulate-like."
Silently, Phalanx listened to the Major's words as the organic attempted to explain what human emotions were like. It was a hard question it knew, but it was interested in the field. As Claire-Major finished, the Geth unit paused as it processed the information it received. "I believe I understand. Emotions are complicated, difficult to replicate by mere synthetic use. I have a better understanding now then went online during the Geth War. The events that transpired, I didn't react... but now this unit believes in trying to understand. Calculations on what emotions are like to a synthetic like me. Gratitude is offered and appreciation for your wise words. Perhaps we could learn from one another as we work together?" Phalanx spoke, revealing when its memories started and how old it truly was. It did hope to learn to be a bit like a organic, and be friends with its fellow crewmates. They said the best way to learn was through comrades, in which Phalanx had lacked for many years.
Claire couldn't stop herself from laughing - nobody had described her as 'wise' yet, and with a friendly slap of Phalanx's shoulder, the clang of metal on metal followed by another laugh, before she coughed herself back into sensibility and shot a look at the few crewmen who thought it clever to look over towards the chortling officer. "If y'like, lad, if y'like." Had her grasp of history been a little better, she might have raised an eyebrow at just how old Phalanx was, but scholarship was a poor choice of weapon. "I suppose I'll not see y'in t'officer's mess? I'd suggest y'come even if y'don't eat - espirit de corps an' all that." At the laughter and friendly smack the Geth platform tilted its head to the right ever so slightly. The metal flaps surrounding the glass eye parting slightly upward. Perhaps a little attempt to a expresion of a smile. It didn't quite understand what was funny, it had thought it made a compliment but it was satisfied that it could make the Major laugh. At the mention of the mess hall, Phalanx slowly nodded again.
"Acknowledged. I will take your advice and attend there. I understand that in human culture, it is rude to not eat while others are consuming. I shall attempt this to settle organic nerves. Much appreciated. Hope we speak once more." Phalanx spoke before seeing the other Turian Spectre approach. "Greetings." It greeted before saluting then bowing to the two of them politely before making its way to the mess hall. Eyebrow raised, the Major turned to face Harken, the turian wearing her home's colours. He had a fair approximation of her own accent, which must have been hard, given the alien nature of his face - still, she was hardly going to take cheek like that from anyone - Spectres they might be, and so they were equals, but she was probably old enough to be his mother. Maybe. Depends if turians produce sprogs as quickly as we do. Certainly wouldn't be old enough to be a very well-prepared mother, though. "Less o' t' 'love', yer cheeky sod," she half-joked, "or I might 'ave t' come oop there an' give y' a firm telling off!" Despite herself, Claire found herself smirking - compared to Galen, this turian was a saint, and infinitely more likeable. "Where y'off to?"
"Sheer luck was in your favor." she spoke mildly.
Deciding to set a place for itself, Phalanx took the ship elevator to the Crews Quarters. All the while it examined what the Normandy SR3 had to offer. One would expect a Geth to head to the engine or the AI core, but instead Phalanx went to the Starboard Observation. A giant wall sized window being the single thing separating Phalanx from the voids of space. Beside the window was a sofa and a desk, in which Phalanx gingerly set the box it had been carrying on top of it.
"I thought the Geth had no use for windows?" Came the synthetic female voice of SADI as the ship AI questioned the choice of room.
Pondering this for a moment, Phalanx only gave a nod. "Affirmative. Geth do not find use of windows. Organics seem to find it interesting however, so investigation is in order." came the brief reply from the mobile platform! though there was slightly more to it. There was that reason, and there was the reason with a old friend. It was illogical, but she would have wanted to be in this particular room out of any other.
After setting down one of the few personal items Phalanx had, the Geth unit decided to resume examination of the ship, as well as perhaps greet its fellow Spectres. Best place to meet was the Command Center, considering most of the organics would be around there for any further command by Galen-Commander. Making its way to the Command Center, Phalanx briefly paused as it watched the crew hurriedly get to work. Most avoiding the Geth unit all together. Well, mostly the humans really.
It then spotted one of the human female Spectre's named Major Claire Moore. Phalanx found itself not really wishing to say the name... It sounded too much like another but it ignored any silly illogical misgivings and walked up to her. Giving a human salute before bowing politely. Without waiting for a response, Claire turned hard on her heels and returned the salute, in almost mechanical fashion. The irony was not lost on her.
"Greetings Major Claire Moore, Alias Flatcap." Phalanx greeted as friendly as a synthetic could sound. Deciding to with hold information of her other nickname and age. Female organics don't seem to like to mention age, so it kept with name only.
"I am Phalanx. Status acknowledged. It is pleasant to be working with a capable soldier." Receiving praise like that was a pleasant change in pace from dealing with an alcoholic turian who was intent on letting his crew die rather than deal with his own personal problems, though staring into that flashlight was harsh on Claire's eyes. If she was honest with herself, she probably had about a thousand questions to ask, but time wasn't going to stretch to allow all of them.
"I appreciate t' complement. I've never met a Geth before - are y'familiar with t'concept of 'Executive Officer'? If y'eve any sort of problem, logistical, issues w' yer commanding officer, or emotional, y'can come t'me w'it and we'll sort t'out. In return, follow y'orders to best of y'ability an' we'll get on fine." Claire paused for a moment, before letting her natural curiosity get the better of her. "Do geth - I mean, t'geth in front o'me - experience emotion?"
Listening to the human woman speaking, Phalanx noticed the slight trouble the human had making eye contact so it silently lowered the brightness function in its glass eye so it was comfortably dim. At the question about if the Geth unit had knowledge on what a Executive Officer is, it nodded in the organic manner to show that it understood. "Affirmative. Executive Officers are ones holding the position in second-command next to the Commander. Studies on human culture has been made.. Quite interesting." It spoke to show that it was knowledgable before pausing at the next question. So far, this human did not seem to realize the difference with the I, so she probably truly didn't know much about the Geth. Not too surprising, humans knew that the Geth once did quite horrible things to the organic humans over fifty years ago during the time Shepard-Commander discovered the Reapers, but little of the culture.Though the question Claire-Major decided to ask was a common question asked by organics. Sadly, it was a question Phalanx couldn't quite accurately respond. "I understand organic emotions and how organics respond to them, but I lack proper knowledge of natural experience. This one wishes it so, but the opinion is for others to decide. Other Geth find the notion illogical and organics fear the idea," it answered as best as it could, but it probably didn't answer the question fully.Deciding that it would ask its own question, the mobile AI looked at the Major. "Claire-Major, a question. What do human organic emotions feel like in your natural experience?" It asked, having tended to ask human organics this question mostly. Humans tended to be more of the emotional part of organics, so perhaps they had a better grasp on it.
"That's...that's a broad question, lad." Claire brought up a hand to scratch the burnt side of her face before folding them back across her chest, leaning back a little, looking into the distance, weighing up the question and the possible answers. "I can' only speak t'my own experience, but...I don' know how t'answer ye, lad. I assume y'see t'world as information, like a computer or summat? I...I don'. T'human experience is more analog than owt else - we still get t'same input as y' - heat, light, an' such - but we don' think of it in terms o' raw data. S'more like we...compare everything we receive t'what we've already experienced, an' based on 'at, w' come t'conclusion. F'example, I see you, bu' I don' think of y' just as 'Phalanx', a body wit' a series o' statistics. Yer taller than I am, I've no idea how old y'are, an' a thousand other little things affect m'emotional analysis of y' - I'm a bit scared, 'cause peo- organics, sorry - they're generally scared o' unknown. M'a bit sad, 'cause y' can' feel in t'same way as t'rest o' crew, which y'know, seems unfortunate. Overall, I'm interested in y' more than anythin' else - do y' see? There's lots o' little emotions, which add up t'an overall picture. Sometimes that picture's agreeable. Other times, I...well, t'aint always rosy. D'you understand? M'afraid I'm no' terrible articulate-like."
Silently, Phalanx listened to the Major's words as the organic attempted to explain what human emotions were like. It was a hard question it knew, but it was interested in the field. As Claire-Major finished, the Geth unit paused as it processed the information it received. "I believe I understand. Emotions are complicated, difficult to replicate by mere synthetic use. I have a better understanding now then went online during the Geth War. The events that transpired, I didn't react... but now this unit believes in trying to understand. Calculations on what emotions are like to a synthetic like me. Gratitude is offered and appreciation for your wise words. Perhaps we could learn from one another as we work together?" Phalanx spoke, revealing when its memories started and how old it truly was. It did hope to learn to be a bit like a organic, and be friends with its fellow crewmates. They said the best way to learn was through comrades, in which Phalanx had lacked for many years.
Claire couldn't stop herself from laughing - nobody had described her as 'wise' yet, and with a friendly slap of Phalanx's shoulder, the clang of metal on metal followed by another laugh, before she coughed herself back into sensibility and shot a look at the few crewmen who thought it clever to look over towards the chortling officer. "If y'like, lad, if y'like." Had her grasp of history been a little better, she might have raised an eyebrow at just how old Phalanx was, but scholarship was a poor choice of weapon. "I suppose I'll not see y'in t'officer's mess? I'd suggest y'come even if y'don't eat - espirit de corps an' all that." At the laughter and friendly smack the Geth platform tilted its head to the right ever so slightly. The metal flaps surrounding the glass eye parting slightly upward. Perhaps a little attempt to a expresion of a smile. It didn't quite understand what was funny, it had thought it made a compliment but it was satisfied that it could make the Major laugh. At the mention of the mess hall, Phalanx slowly nodded again.
"Acknowledged. I will take your advice and attend there. I understand that in human culture, it is rude to not eat while others are consuming. I shall attempt this to settle organic nerves. Much appreciated. Hope we speak once more." Phalanx spoke before seeing the other Turian Spectre approach. "Greetings." It greeted before saluting then bowing to the two of them politely before making its way to the mess hall. Eyebrow raised, the Major turned to face Harken, the turian wearing her home's colours. He had a fair approximation of her own accent, which must have been hard, given the alien nature of his face - still, she was hardly going to take cheek like that from anyone - Spectres they might be, and so they were equals, but she was probably old enough to be his mother. Maybe. Depends if turians produce sprogs as quickly as we do. Certainly wouldn't be old enough to be a very well-prepared mother, though. "Less o' t' 'love', yer cheeky sod," she half-joked, "or I might 'ave t' come oop there an' give y' a firm telling off!" Despite herself, Claire found herself smirking - compared to Galen, this turian was a saint, and infinitely more likeable. "Where y'off to?"
It was fun writing with you Vandy - I don't know if you're trying to put me in two minds about Galen, but if you are it's working! I can't decide whether to slap him or give him a hug!
Also, Phalanx, if you wanted to send me a PM about that I'd be really happy to do a collab again!
Also, Phalanx, if you wanted to send me a PM about that I'd be really happy to do a collab again!
It seems our XO and our gallant hero don't get on terribly well. All will be revealed!
I'm trying to get our esteemed leader on board for a collab post but if everyone is eager to move on I'll just do it solo?++
Might be waiting a while for my post - I'm waiting to see if Leo wants to do a collab.
Can't wait to see how Claire and Harken get on - I imagine wearing the Union Flag on his face might need some explaining...:D
There's my post - I could do better but it's gone midnight and it's been a stressful few days. Hopefully it'll improve once Claire gets to start barking orders at grumbling at recruits!
When the message had arrived a few days ago, Claire had, above all else, been surprised. Being chosen to join the Spectres was a high honour, even though her gut knew it was going to mean killing more humans, but to be the XO for the Normandy - that was frankly ludicrous. Everyone and their dog had heard of the Normandy and their crew's vital role in the Reaper War, but the thought of being tasked with having to match the XO aboard the Normandy - Presley? - was a daunting prospect. When the fateful morning came, Claire had been grateful for a night of uninterrupted sleep; when she stirred, Claire was pleased to find herself rested and warm for a change. Tossing back a thin grey blanket, she pressed her right hand against the side of the metal cot and swung her weight around until she was sitting with her leg reaching down to the floor. Beside a dark blue-grey bedside table, her leg sat, folded up against itself, with the curved foot-plate slotted into a recess in the back of the thigh, the inner workings shining from the light of the glow-tubes embedded in the ceiling, while her hand sat on top of the desk next to a dog-eared notebook about two palms' width apart.That notebook. For a moment, Claire thought she might read through it, but as she reached out she changed her mind and instead went for the metal skeletal hand, alloy bones surrounded by myomer fibres, with a circular section almost like a bracelet at the base of the hand, matching a similar plate on Claire's left wrist. Grabbing the cool prosthesis, Claire held it by the middle of the palm and held it near the wrist-plate, before several metal fibres shot out from the hand and linked in to the interface ports on her wrist. snapping down hard onto her wrist with a series of electrical whirring noises before she flexed her digits, servos whirring as the fingers rolled back and forth. It was a bizarre sensation - the Major couldn't feel the fingers, but they moved exactly as those on her right hand; seeing the two clench into fists side-by-side without having any sort of sensory feedback from the mechanical one was almost otherworldly, and she still doubted she was ever going to get used to it.
Sticking on the leg was a less dignified procedure; she had left it just out of her reach, and so was forced to balance on one leg and hop over in a seriously undignified set of moves until the same wire-inject system fired in control cables into the interface, which connected the limb to her nervous system, clamped shut, and the workings behind the clear plastic began to work their mechanical magic. After a minute or so, she stood up, feeling the balance of weight on each leg, testing the feel and reaction from the limb. "Still works," she muttered, before turning around the room looking for her fatigues. It was silly, really - they were always in the same place, in the footlocker at the base of her bed, but that early in the morning, even Shepard would have had a hard time getting dressed. It occurred to Claire, as she was straightening the beret with her rank pin in the mirror, that she probably should have been in her dress uniform, before an acerbic "Bugger that" passed her lips and she turned to face the door. "Not getting tarted oop fer some bloody interview panel." The door hissed open, and Claire looked over her shoulder - she'd probably never be back here. The Citadel's barracks for Alliance soldiers weren't exactly salubrious, but they were the last Alliance digs she would be staying in for some time. Maybe ever. Engine could go during the first run and I could get spaced. With that cheerful thought in mind, she grabbed the bag she had prepared the night before, with just the bare essentials, scooped up the notebook and turned her back on twenty years of service. In half an hour you're going to be a Spectre. Looking forward to being the Council's bitch yet?
The journey was pretty uneventful - one last chance to shoot a dread gaze at a pair of corporals who seemed to be doing rather less than they should have been - before the Galactic Museum of Stairs loomed into view, stretching over the Presidium like some over-polished monolith. Hopping out of the transport, she gave her thanks to the salarian pilot and started the long march up towards the Council chamber, starting to question the wisdom of bringing her crap in a bag slung over her shoulder to an official assembly, as well as turning up out of dress uniform. I told you, Claire, but you'll never learn, moaned a sort of internal matronly voice in her head, as she took a few tentative steps towards the long arm extending over a chasm before the Councillors; as yet, very few of the prospective Spectres had arrived, but that didn't stop the 'esteemed' Councillors from beginning their little show. As soon as the Salarian started talking, Claire was immediately reminded of why she had such a deep-seated dislike for political authority; the exact mechanics of how the Council was chosen was a mystery to the Major, but she was certain that none of these people - with the possible exception of the Turian - had ever seen military service, except perhaps to brown-nose the right defence officials.
"Major Moore?" probed the human, sitting to the far left, with a dark beard and less hair on top of his head than a 20th-century chemo patient. Her first instinct was to salute, but there was no way in hell that she was going to give a salute to a pencil-pushing bureaucrat.
"Aye," she replied, with her hands held together behind her back, holding herself as high as she could.
"You are aware of your appointment as executive officer, should we choose to endorse your nomination?"
"Aye," came the same flat response.
"Would you care to explain why we should allow someone with a physical impairment to serve as a Spectre, Major?" growled the Turian, those damn silly-looking flaps at the side of his mouth waving like the wings of a distressed gull. Gritting her teeth, Claire did her best to remain diplomatic for all of half a millisecond, before her plain-speaking bluntness came to the fore. "I am not bloody impaired, you cu-" A pause. A breath. "Councillor. I have spent nearly ten year in field operations with prosthetics and at no point ha' any of my superiors, or more importantly, t'men and women under my command complained that they lack confidence in my ability t'command or fight. If this Council was of the opinion that I could not perform my duties adequately I wouldn't be 'ere, so can we please stop larkin' aboot an' stop wasting time?" Moore didn't have enough experience with Turians and their flappy faces to tell when she'd pissed one off, but she felt that she had struck a nerve there - and too bloody right. Cheeky bugger.
"Ahem, Major, your record doesn't indicate any experience working with non-humans," interrupted an Asari. "How do you think this will affect your performance as part of a diverse team?"
"I don' think it will t'all," replied Claire, but the silence left after she was finished suggested they wanted more from her than a statement of fact. "Any soldier who performs their duties in a professional manner will get all t'respect they deserve. Don' see why it makes any difference what they 'appen a be, so long as they work as I'd expect from any other soldier." That seemed to placate them a little - or perhaps they were just eager to be rid of her. Secretly, Claire hoped it was the latter; the thought that she'd got under that Turian's skin brought a barely concealed smirk to the good side of her face, and a sort of twitch to the roasted half. "Very well. Major Claire Moore," began the Asari, before rattling off a lot of propaganda about the privilege of the position and protecting the Council - all that hung in Claire's mind, as the other Spectres arrived, was the grim question of just how many more people she was going to have to kill - and how many of those she was responsible for wouldn't be going home at the end of whatever mission this little soiree had been prepped for. There's always more room in the book, and there's always more names, Claire.
Always more names.
Sticking on the leg was a less dignified procedure; she had left it just out of her reach, and so was forced to balance on one leg and hop over in a seriously undignified set of moves until the same wire-inject system fired in control cables into the interface, which connected the limb to her nervous system, clamped shut, and the workings behind the clear plastic began to work their mechanical magic. After a minute or so, she stood up, feeling the balance of weight on each leg, testing the feel and reaction from the limb. "Still works," she muttered, before turning around the room looking for her fatigues. It was silly, really - they were always in the same place, in the footlocker at the base of her bed, but that early in the morning, even Shepard would have had a hard time getting dressed. It occurred to Claire, as she was straightening the beret with her rank pin in the mirror, that she probably should have been in her dress uniform, before an acerbic "Bugger that" passed her lips and she turned to face the door. "Not getting tarted oop fer some bloody interview panel." The door hissed open, and Claire looked over her shoulder - she'd probably never be back here. The Citadel's barracks for Alliance soldiers weren't exactly salubrious, but they were the last Alliance digs she would be staying in for some time. Maybe ever. Engine could go during the first run and I could get spaced. With that cheerful thought in mind, she grabbed the bag she had prepared the night before, with just the bare essentials, scooped up the notebook and turned her back on twenty years of service. In half an hour you're going to be a Spectre. Looking forward to being the Council's bitch yet?
The journey was pretty uneventful - one last chance to shoot a dread gaze at a pair of corporals who seemed to be doing rather less than they should have been - before the Galactic Museum of Stairs loomed into view, stretching over the Presidium like some over-polished monolith. Hopping out of the transport, she gave her thanks to the salarian pilot and started the long march up towards the Council chamber, starting to question the wisdom of bringing her crap in a bag slung over her shoulder to an official assembly, as well as turning up out of dress uniform. I told you, Claire, but you'll never learn, moaned a sort of internal matronly voice in her head, as she took a few tentative steps towards the long arm extending over a chasm before the Councillors; as yet, very few of the prospective Spectres had arrived, but that didn't stop the 'esteemed' Councillors from beginning their little show. As soon as the Salarian started talking, Claire was immediately reminded of why she had such a deep-seated dislike for political authority; the exact mechanics of how the Council was chosen was a mystery to the Major, but she was certain that none of these people - with the possible exception of the Turian - had ever seen military service, except perhaps to brown-nose the right defence officials.
"Major Moore?" probed the human, sitting to the far left, with a dark beard and less hair on top of his head than a 20th-century chemo patient. Her first instinct was to salute, but there was no way in hell that she was going to give a salute to a pencil-pushing bureaucrat.
"Aye," she replied, with her hands held together behind her back, holding herself as high as she could.
"You are aware of your appointment as executive officer, should we choose to endorse your nomination?"
"Aye," came the same flat response.
"Would you care to explain why we should allow someone with a physical impairment to serve as a Spectre, Major?" growled the Turian, those damn silly-looking flaps at the side of his mouth waving like the wings of a distressed gull. Gritting her teeth, Claire did her best to remain diplomatic for all of half a millisecond, before her plain-speaking bluntness came to the fore. "I am not bloody impaired, you cu-" A pause. A breath. "Councillor. I have spent nearly ten year in field operations with prosthetics and at no point ha' any of my superiors, or more importantly, t'men and women under my command complained that they lack confidence in my ability t'command or fight. If this Council was of the opinion that I could not perform my duties adequately I wouldn't be 'ere, so can we please stop larkin' aboot an' stop wasting time?" Moore didn't have enough experience with Turians and their flappy faces to tell when she'd pissed one off, but she felt that she had struck a nerve there - and too bloody right. Cheeky bugger.
"Ahem, Major, your record doesn't indicate any experience working with non-humans," interrupted an Asari. "How do you think this will affect your performance as part of a diverse team?"
"I don' think it will t'all," replied Claire, but the silence left after she was finished suggested they wanted more from her than a statement of fact. "Any soldier who performs their duties in a professional manner will get all t'respect they deserve. Don' see why it makes any difference what they 'appen a be, so long as they work as I'd expect from any other soldier." That seemed to placate them a little - or perhaps they were just eager to be rid of her. Secretly, Claire hoped it was the latter; the thought that she'd got under that Turian's skin brought a barely concealed smirk to the good side of her face, and a sort of twitch to the roasted half. "Very well. Major Claire Moore," began the Asari, before rattling off a lot of propaganda about the privilege of the position and protecting the Council - all that hung in Claire's mind, as the other Spectres arrived, was the grim question of just how many more people she was going to have to kill - and how many of those she was responsible for wouldn't be going home at the end of whatever mission this little soiree had been prepped for. There's always more room in the book, and there's always more names, Claire.
Always more names.
Well spotted! Thanks for taking her aboard - I've got no huge feelings about her being XO either way, but if everyone else is okay with it I can imagine her growling and pressing buttons on the bridge just like she knows what she's doing!
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