Dmitry finally finished with his copy of papers, that was given by Comissar. He asked way to gym from local guardsman and proceded there. He entered gym and awaited for next step into his recruitment.
It was quite some time ago. And it was as unusual as an Outcast as Admiral within the Liberty Navy. But though it happened. A man entered the waiting room of the recruitment office. On the first view no one special, a young, skittish recruit. The way he took a first look throughout the waiting room, the way he sat down on a free chair. Nothing special, nothing unusual.
The unusual thing at Nikolai Chekov was, that he saw this room already once before. He could remember Alicia, the door leading to the Commisars office, the other nervous recruits around him. He had lived this day already once, and he tried it again. Why? He did not really know. The last time everything was clear, easy. He almost managed it to become a Pilot in the great SCRA Fighter Corps. And then? Nikolai was not really sure about what happened...They took him, brought him back to the cold desert of Volgograd. Hit him, almost killed him, without any recognizable reason. They left Nikolai behind, being almost completely sure he would die down there. In this moment Nikolai had to laugh quietly. Obviously they were wrong, and he was still alive, sitting again on a damn chair in the waiting room of the Trotzky. He did not survive decades on Volgograd to die within one day. Though Nikolai was almost entirely sure of one thing: He would not survive this a second time. The whole time he sat on the chair he kept that in mind, waiting for his second chance, something really rare in the Coalition
Squished bigly ~Champ- Thanks, you're a champ. "What's the word for when it feels inside your heart that everything in the world is all right?"
' Wrote: Although still somewhat confused, Patrick proudly tuned into a popular drinking song, hoping the Commissar would know it, and possibly tune in himself
Vladimir raised his eyebrows, higher, and higher with each agonizing note that left McKinley's throat. Briefly shaking his head for a moment, he took his pistol from the desk, aiming it nowhere in particular.
"Really? You called that a song of celebration? I've heard those dying a slow and painful death emit mot pleasant sounds than whatever the hell that just was." His tone hinted towards his lack of amusement as his head shot straight up.
"And you didn't have the good sense to tell me that before you decided to permanently damaging my ears and whoever else may have heard that awful show? Tell me, McKinley, what do you know?"