Log:Of Reassignment and Reality
Of Reassignment and Reality[Ambrosia Greystorm]
OOC Date: April 7, 2019
Location: RAF Renegade
Participants: Ambrosia Greystorm, Merek
Conference Room - RAF Renegade
This room is, perhaps, the most luxuriously appointed aboard the ship. A number of priceless trophies, from the head of a prime kath hound to a pair of Jarrek dueling swords, are placed in large cases that ring the room. The room itself is dominated by rich bantha hide seats around the conference table that takes the form of a grand octagon cut as a cross section near the top of a Kashyykian sapling.
In the center of this conference table is a holoterminal and hyperwave transcievers and serves as the main communications link for the ship. It is also equipped for presentations on a slightly more intimate scale than the briefing room closer toward the stern.
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
The dust has settled and one remains...
Brigadier General Greystorm is seated at the far side of the spacious conference table, surrounded by empty cups, half full water pitchers, caf thermos, and other scattered remains of assembly. Her uniform has a particularly starched look today and it defies her slouch as she awaits the summoned party (that's you!) to arrive. The end of a stylus in slowly ground between idle teeth, datapad long since gone to sleep upon the table. Her stare still burns a steady hole through the set of blast doors, the one sign of life on a visage turned to stone. Well, that and the twitching jaw muscle. Gnaw, gnaw.
[Merek]
Merek has come at the call, and steps into the conference room. He looks like he hasn't slept a lot, and he's dressed in his usual black attire with his belt on his hips roguishly, though somehow within the dress code. He's a master with that sort of thing, kind of like with things that go boom. Which is why he's here. So there's that. He salutes firmly, "General," he offers.
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
"Private," Ambrosia returns the greeting sans salute and tosses the stylus aside in favor of folding hands together and leaning forward on the table. Her green gazers take a long look up and down his choice of attire and cheeks suck inward while tongue wipes the last taste of that sithspit caf brew she'd ordered from the Mess. "I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and presume you've an inkling of why we've summoned you here. But, in case you've forgotten..." She releases Merek from her stern-eyed stare and turns to activate the central projector unit. At first it's a hazy glow of blue - a blank while the system uploads - then the zoomed-in snippet of holonet news footage appears. A snapshot in time of a very familiar face.
"We've really gotta address your 'undercover' game." A slow nod, still looking at the holographic version of Merek for a few more moments before she tilts her face to resume eye contact with the real form through that wraithlike projection.
[Merek]
Merek's attentive stance is shifted as he considers the words from the Brig. General. He then offers a polite nod to her, "I figured that was why, General, and I understand," he says. He seems to be quite aware from what she can note, even as he looks to the holonet posting which has his face on it. At least it looks like him and didn't tell his name outright, but all considered with the Order knowing about him... "I was looking for a quicker method, but I was pressed, and well. My method drew more attention than I liked."
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
"Y'know what works well in a pinch at a party? Drunk stumbler. Charity auctioneers love to get their attendees plenty basted, surefire way to get the credits flowing. Bump the wrong fella then watch the chaos unfold, disappear through the resulting brawl. Easy as pie." The graying femme fatale takes a beat to scoot her chair sideways a few inches to get the hologram out of her line of sight. It's a stubborn chair, but she gets it there.
"We all have to make choices in the heat of the moment, kid, and sometimes the results aren't what we'd intended. But this here's come with a hefty price attached. Between you and me, I don't care whose gem-studded gown your little parting gift set on fire. I /do/ mind the bits of fallout endangering som /very/ important ties. Any First Order operative or merc on their cred worth his/her salt won't take long to link /that/ face," she points for emphasis "with /us/. Dig a little deeper, find out what 'special' item the Iron Fist was really auctioning off and where they sourced it from. Just one little blink of a neuron later and they'll hedge bets on what /we/ doing there, the do-gooders that we are. That Coaxium was a favor, paid to Capt Aeron Garn...Azzameen's matriarch, if you will. Her family provided the Rebellion iwth invaluable assistance during the war against the Empire and this job was meant to secure the same for /us/. That old smuggler broad and I have a bit of history, and if the Order uses this link to rain hellfire down upon them....we lose a damn fine asset. At the very least, it'll earn her wrath and that's a bigger pain in the arse than I feel up to handling. SO."
Tirade at end, she takes a deep breath, returns to a lower volume of voice. "Black Squadron's Commanders have expressed their concern in person. Perhaps we threw you into the SpecOps unit too hastily. As we've established, mistakes do happen." One hand lights upon her breast and head bows a little too stiffly to be courteous. "After much deliberation, we've come to agree upon a solution, please," she motions to a chair, "sit if you'd like. Sip of water? I don't recommend the caf."
[Merek]
Merek listens to the whole conversation for a while, then when Amber notes for him to sit, he does that. He thinks for a moment, only to offer, "I will admit, I'm good at just about everything except masking who I am, General." He then waits to hear what it is she has to say on the solution. It's clear for all his skill he has the subtlety of the grenades he uses also.
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
"I've no doubt that there's the making of a skilled trooper behind your blunder, Black. Else you wouldn't be here." Ambrosia's chin tucks into neck a moment, checking an inner pocket of her jacket's front after a glance at her chronometer reminds her she's an hour overdue...
Pills. One shakes out into palm and gets crunched between teeth. Its bitterness mingles well with the taste of her own sour mood, so why bother wasting the water? "Effective immediately," the BG continues on, "you're being recalled from Black Squadron and reassigned to Nexxu Squad, Vorskyr Platoon. Back with the Army proper, for all field assignments. You can report to Lt Quish at this meeting's end." The pills are disappeared again and she tucks an errant wisp of hair back over her ear. "In addition to body conditioning, combat drills, and scheduled patrol, your new routine will include lessons in identity falsification and concealment. This reassignment is meant to strengthen your weaknesses. I encourage you to take advantage of the knowledge your instructors possess. It might better prepare you, for the possibility of re entry." A resolute nod, then she reaches to deactivate the projector. "With this assignment comes the expectation that you will adhere to uniform protocol. By wearing your uniform, unless specified otherwise by your commanding officers, or while on leave. And on the topic of 'leave', personnel are only permitted to wander from fleet when permission is sought and granted. Security is a fragile thing, now more than ever. And if I were in /your/ shoes, wearing /that/ face so recently on the radar, I wouldn't dare to wander far. You, like any soldier of mine, are an extension of this Army. Of the Resistance. When you are exposed so, too, are we."
Ambrosia pushes back a few degrees from her forward lean and sits up straight in the leather chair. Her fingers graze the curvacious arms idly. "Have you questions for me, Private Black?"
[Merek]
Merek's gaze turns to a squint with wild emotions constrained behind it. He doesn't take his time to speak any word besides, "Understood, General, no questions." It looks like it's taking all his will to hold back on anything else he might say to her.
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
Grumpy Greystorm's face - like much of her body - tells a long story, mapped by fine lines, memorable scars, and weathered creases. It's a map drawn by cumulative years of abuse, war, and the curse of age. The little crow's feet in her eyes' corners deepen ever so slightly in study of the young man's terse reply. A subtle transformation takes shape - hard lines soften, flatlined mouth draws upward into the tiniest of lopsided smiles.
"No questions, maybe..." Her fingers cease their mindless strokes on the chair and take up a quiet, drumming rhythm together. "But I'll wager there's something more you'd like to say to me, trooper." Her head tips back a few degrees as if to survey him from new angle while both brows go aloft, the right side moreso than left. Just like her lips. The fancy nest of braids encasing her skull pushes back into the leather as she leans. Hands fold casually into lap.
"I imagine this feels like an insult to you. I was young and reckless once, too. The difference in this situation, now, is that we are offering to invest more time in your training while you continue to serve this fight, rather than chuck you into the brig for your own 'protection'. *My* commander just threw me into walls." A half shrug and glance up to the ceiling, "Leia wasn't keen on me bringing /all/ elements of my expertise and experience into training up her new Army, so...consider this a blessing. No doubt more merciful than what /your/ former commanders in the Order would have decree. Now. If it would ease your troubled heart, Private, I grant you this moment in private to speak freely. You're no good to me if your blood pressure gets /too/ high."
[Merek]
Merek looks back to the General when she speaks to him, and doesn't seem to put much study into the lines of her face. He thinks about her words, while he lifts his shoulders to a shrug, "My whole goal in joining Black Squadron, is the hope that I can actually get to fly a ship into battle, and fight on the ground, to be where I'm needed. But no one cares to mention what we army folk do, even when I was with them, where were all the mentions of what I did? All it ever is, is how the fly boys get awards and kill counts, how wonderful they are, meanwhile the boots on the ground get forgotten."
The man motions a bit with a palm, "When our Agent almost got slaves killed and decided abandoning her whole prospect was a reasonable thing to do, I stood up amidst the Order and Hutts to save them. I've done nothing but serve the cause, and the ONE TIME you all find it in you to talk to us that are just boots on the ground, it's to chastise. I... You're the only one that seems to understand, and I know why you make these decisions. But it wouldn't really hurt to boost Army morale once in a while. We are just as important as the pilots. I've given you entire parts of my body in service. Do you... Do you even know why I came to the Resistance? Am I only worth speaking to when I screw up? Ya, it was quite a screw-up, but you think I didn't know the moment I saw the holonet post I knew how bad I screwed up? I don't even manage sleep at night, for the sake of protecting the people, only to have some Queen come back who wishes to undermine us and, forget some of us have trained in diplomacy most our lives, ya she only wants to speak with the best of the best. I don't want glory, I don't even need recognition, I just want. Acknowledgement, that I did something, instead of jokes said in the back of the bars about me." Merek adds, respectfully, to that, "General." Because if you are going to throw yourself into this, might as well do it with some respect.
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
Ambrosia doesn't bat a lash for the duration of his honest meltdown. In fact, there's not a trace of emotion mirrored back to him as she listens. Silent. Patient. These are the traits of a mother. And an efficient killer.
But then he's done. The residual water in cups upon the table tremors oh so slightly under the weight of her palms pushing down while the rest of her rises into the full, upright position. She's not exceptionally tall, but falls just a couple inches shy of his own stature. Her walk around the table's perimeter is neatly measured and unhurried. Unmanicured hands clasp one another at the low of her spine, temporarily disarming herself of those fists whilst she comes to stand at parade rest in front of him. So close, the toes of their boots are /almost/ touching. When she does at last speak, her tone is kept carefully low and even - the sort of voice that sounds calm to the ignorant and/or innocent ear, but to those who know better, it harbors an element of warning. Mother, indeed.
"I recall your story. A dead lover, was it? Disillusionment with the Order you'd so heartfully served." Her steadfast stare shifts to look over his shoulder to the door, then back. "The Queen is a woman child, who I imagine has never had to lift a finger in her own bodily defense. Diplomacy is well and good - that is the guiding light which hands like you and me and all the other boots of old and new are made to kill for. That is what justifies the blood. Freedom to choose. It is her freedom, as well as ours, even if her naivete cost her dearly once already."
"The Starfighter Corps is the shiny element of our force which most captures the heart and imagination of all young dreamers and liberated worlds. Death from afar...not so messy and personal as that which we know best, down in the lowly dirt. But no less dangerous. Flyboys will be flyboys, Merek." Ooooh, there's the first name! "I married one such sonofamoof twenty-seven years ago and though he's long since retired I can assure you, they never change." Her index finger comes up and prods firmly into his chest. "If you're in this fight, you best develop a thicker skin, or sign up for sessions with our psych expert...I am obligated to offer you that. Accolades and reprimands come and go, but you shouldn't rely on either to keep your head in the game. Some of us haven't got the time to kick back with a cold one and deliver pats on the back, swap stories about our day. Believe me, kid, wish I did. Life was a hell of a lot more enjoyable, back then. But don't you ever get it into that skull of yours that I, or any of the Brass 'forget' about those serving in the mud. We've all lost. Some more than others. We've all bled. And in spite of it, I wouldn't trade my boots for a set of wings, any day."
"This is war. To some, we are salvation, humanity. To others, we are harbingers of suffering and scourge of the 'peace'." Her head shakes faintly. "Laughter, jokes, insults, slurs, threats...it's all part of the experience, but don't let it shake your resolve. THICK skin." Another poke. "That's what keeps you alive, when commradarie fails. There's a lot of other boys and girls 'round here that are scared, tired, far from home, so you ain't as alone as you think."
[Merek]
Merek takes in a small breath, then exhales it, while he listens to Amber speak with him. He then waits until she is finished with her words, before he speaks. "My apologies, for speaking so freely, I'll do better, I understand, General." He doesn't look to be much a man with many words once he's spoken that which he wished to. Back to simple words. If he has any semblance of emotion though, it seems broken. "I'm already on mandatory psych eval and meetings, under order of the General Skywalker. After the knights."
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
"Ah, well then," Both of Ambrosia's palms go upward out to either side, then clasp together in front of her waist. "Already sorted out." She takes a half step back and offers the man a curt little nod. She didn't grow up through the ranks with nickname 'Ice Queen Aderanne' for nothing. It's not hard to see that she isn't the huggable type. "And I know you will. Do better. You believe in this cause, I know you do. Let that be your consolation," says a voice void of kindness and warmth. Does she HAVE emotions? Maybe, somewhere in that burned out, damaged bundle of nerves called a brain. She remembers having them, at any rate, in a life before this one. And so it's with an attentive posture that she salutes him. "Dismissed, Private. I will be monitoring your progress."
[Merek]
Merek salutes, then makes his way on!
