Bretonian Armed Forces Recruitment Centre (iRP)

[Sandermall]

New London, 1342hrs.

A man of middling height, in his mid 20s walks into the recruiting office. His hair is flustered and he has a distinct smell of cockpit-air. He is still wearing the trousers from his flying suit.

Looking around, he heads up to the nearest desk. Placing his feet together in an approximation of 'attention', he looks straight forwards (over the curious recruiting sergeant).
"Here to 'list, Sir."

"Not bleeding 'sir'" growls the Sergeant from his seat. "Bloody work for a living. And stop being a fool."
Looking embarassed, the man takes a sheaf of papers in hand.

Signing down his name, the Recruiting Sergeant reads back;

"Richard Sandermall,
24 years of age,
Born; Leeds, 793."

Glancing up, he asks the newcomer, "What brings you to the forces, man?"

"Loved my country."
"Sure." Growls the Sergeant. There is a glint in the man's eyes that unsettles him little.

He files the papers and sends the young man on his way, to wait for a reply.

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