A black man walks into the Primary fleet's transfer offices on Planet Houston, Texas. He's rather tall at about 5'11, and athletic, with the walk of a military man. Going over to an official, he asks for a transfer to the Primary Fleet from the Secondary. The official pushed over a fat stack of digital work and motioned him to a small cubicle, where his interview would be recorded.
Getting into the Cubicle, he waited for the recording to start, then began.
Good evenin', officers. When I decided I would transfer to the primary, my friends in Secondary said this. "You're going into hell pal." In all honesty, I agree with 'em. But if hell gets me a better chance to serve Liberty, which is what I signed up for, by the way, not the pay, then why not?
I'm called Reginald Lewis, and I'd like to have a chance at it. Why? You'll ask. When you'll read through the stack of paperwork they'll be sendin' attached with my file, you'll get it. Keeping it modest, I'll just say I can fly, and I can serve you.
Ah...Something about my history? No big deal. Born on Denver, Not very rich parents. Struggled through school, wasn't really sharp at damn studies. I can Two+Two, but don't ask me to spit out integral equations in a pinch. Parents saw I wasn't goin' nowhere with studyin', put me into a flight aptitude test. I...managed to do well enough in that...rest is history.
Been servin' in Secondary since 810AS now. Been a good nine years, and I learned a lot of things. How the Legionnaire may spike your tube when you're thinkin' all is quiet, or how the Rogue sneaks about his favorite debris fields. And most importantly, how does the enemy roll.
So that's about it from me, rest is in the file.
He looks down.
Questions? Lovely...
He scribbles for a few minutes, then walks back, his job done.