As he warily ventured through the passageways of the Trotsky, Bill couldn't think of much else.
When the SCRA ships William Bishop had met told him to look up their recruiting office, this was not the kind of place he'd imagined. Heavy guard, yes, that was to be imagined, but this wasn't about firepower. These guys looked mean. Every time one of the intimidating fellows made eye contact, Bishop felt a twinge in his gut; an instinctual urge to leave, to run, to go back to life as he knew it. There were reasons to ignore it; if he turned back now, he'd know he was a big sissy girl. Still, Bill's gut had never lied to him before. It certainly didn't help his confidence.
With what could only be the door to the recruiting office in sight, Bill put on his most indomitable swagger, his most unshakable expression of self-assured calm, and strutted onward to adventure. Unfortunately, it turns it could be other things; as it happened, it was a door to a maintenance closet. Bishop wasn't great at reading the signs in this place.
Practicality needed to come before fear. Bill summoned the courage to approach a guard.
"Excuse me, mate, where does one head for recruitment on this vessel?"
For a moment, the burly sentry only stared back. Gazed into Bill's soul. Oh god, he's going to kill me for talking to him.
The terrifying silence was broken when the guard beamed widely and pointed down the hall. "Yes, no problem, you just take a right, then a left, then a south!" Oh, he's good. They're lulling me into a false sense of security.
"Ah, thanks mate. Have a good one there." Bishop briskly walked off on his journey. He could still change his mind about the killing. Keep moving, Willy, keep moving.
Keep moving is exactly what he did; the half-walking, half-fleeing William Bishop took a right, then a left, then a south. Hey, it wasn't a trap, this really is the place. That desk lady looks tougher than the guard, though. Hey, is that pot plant real?
This promising train of thought was tragically broken as the aforementioned receptionist noticed the bewildered looking man standing in the middle of the doorway. "YOU!" was the short, sharp hail she decided to vocalize at him, though Bill was so startled by the noise that she may as well have shot a bullet from her mouth.
"You're blocking the entrance! Are you here to enlist? What the hell kind of shirt is that?!"
"I'm sorry! Yes! It's Hawaiian, I like vintage!"
The secretary's face wrinkled in disgust; perhaps at the doorblocking, perhaps at his fashion sense. Whatever it was, her contempt flowed effortlessly from her face to her words as she barked a command at the newcomer.
"Take your offensive shirt and sit! You will be called when ready."
Commissar-Lieutenant Commander Vicenta Gonzalez sat behind the desk in the recruitment office, clicking the safety on and off her heavy revolver. The burly guards at the doors flinched undetectably every time the safety came off, but said nothing.
"NEXT!" she called. As Bishop entered, she eyed his shirt. "Is that your shirt, or did a Nomad throw up on your torso?" Without giving him time to answer, she snapped: "Name, occupation, nationality!"
Bill pushed the thought of a very large gun in the hands of a very intimidating looking woman to the back of his mind and snapped to attention on instinct.
"Bishop, William S! Freelance pilot! Bretonian-born, Liberty resident!
Nothing made sense. He had no idea how he had gotten here, but he knew how difficult it had been for him. A bourgeois Manhattanite with a university education seeking to join the Coalition. It would not make sense for those around him if they knew what he was doing. But, it made sense to him, and that was all that mattered.
It had been the propaganda in Liberty when the Coalition was there a few months ago, as well as the actions of his brother, who brought him here. Trouble was he did not where here exactly was. He thought about situation a bit. "Probably for security measures."
The thought did not reassure him, as he thought about how easily he could be killed and how no-one would ever hear of him again.
The Trotsky's corridors did not make much sense to him either. They were different from the capital ships he had seen in Liberty. He thought about how Liberty compromised their national security by giving tours of warships for money.
Lost in his thoughts he bumped into a guard. The guard looked angry, as if he could eat the product of capitalism in front of him.
"Sorry, uhh..." he stuttered whilst putting as much distance between him and the guard as possible. The guard resumed his walking.
He got to place he was meant to. An applicant just walked in. He was about to take a seat when the receptionist made eye contact and he froze. Perhaps taking a seat was a bad idea. So, he stood, waiting for the next direction.
Bill was, to put it simply, scared and confused. Was showing fear a bad thing? Was this a test to weed out cowards? Or is trying to bluff confidence a trap that they're trying to lead you int-oh, bugger it, don't overthink it, answer the officer.
She narrowed her eyes. "You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before your head is smeared all over the walls. And you may not use the letter E."
Bill Bishop took the sharpest, deepest breath he'd ever inhaled. Nine, his chest swelled, his cheeks puffed, his eyes so wide the lids threatened to regress into his skull.
Eight -
and he began.
"MA'AM I WAS FLYING WITH YOUR PILOTS AND YOUR PILOTS TOLD ABOUT THIS SCRA AND ABOUT JOINING YOUR RANKS AND -"
Five.
"- YOU CAN FIX SIRIUS AND I WANT TO AID YOU IN ANY WAY I CAN TO -"
Three.
"- TRANSFORM SIRIUS AND ITS FUTURE!"
One, and Bill inhaled sharply to stop himself from passing out. He looked at the Commisar, panting heavily. Suddenly, something clicked in his head, and his eyes shot even wider.
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