"Alright, thank you so much, I hope she isn't too much trouble" The man waited, listening intently into the receiver. "Okay, tell her I love her. Thank you again, I have to go, bye"
He removed the neural-comm from his ear, slipping it into his pocket. The man turned on the spot and strolled across the busy walkway and into the offices, beyond all of the bustling people.
Pushing the door, he stepped into the Coalition Recruitment office, and removed his coat. Approaching the desk, he brushed his hair neatly to the left, and spoke,
"Good afternoon, Jesse Valentine, I'm here to apply for the Militsiya Fleet"
The woman behind the desk pointed towards the seats, slipping a piece of paper across the desk to him.
"Fill this out and wait to be called" she spoke, not looking up, her breath heavy with the scent of aniseed or liquorice.
"Alright, thank you"
Within minutes, he heard a very loud, unrestrained "Next!" from one of the offices. Without fear, Jesse rose to his feet and followed the sound.
Commisar Vorshevsky was leaning back on the chair, taking the vodka bottle to the dome, and waiting for the next foolish applicant who think they could join the glorious Coalition. It was then that the officer heard a faint sound of footsteps coming towards his way. He could hear the noise even through all the chaos erupting in the recruitment area. Soon enough, the Commissar could see the silhouette of a man walking down the hall towards his room. The man walked inside and introduced himself.
"My name is Jesse Valentine sir, here to join the Coalition."
Vorshevsky glanced at the applicant for a good 10 seconds. Without saying a word the officer grabbed the half-drank vodka bottle and started to pour the vodka into the two shot glasses.
"You drink?" the Commissar asked simply.
Jesse only nodded when he was handed the shot glass.
"Now let's talk about your recruitment into the Coalition Fighter Corps." The Commissar said as he and Jesse cheered glasses.
However, little did Jesse knew, Vorshevsky faked drinking the vodka. Instead, he just stood there smiling devilishly after the man took the shot of the liquor. Suddenly, Jesse felt a stinging sensation in his stomach, and by the time he realized what had happened it was too late.
He had been poisoned.
The Commisar was still standing there, glancing into the dying man's eyes, the same evil smile that was the very thing Jesse would ever see in his short pathetic life. As the man fell to the ground and started to choke up blood the Commissar finally spoke.
"You think you can slip past our security? We know who you are Mr. Valentine."
The Commissar threw down Jesse's LSF badge in front of him and into the pool of blood the man was spitting out.
The Commissar took out his pistol and pointed it at Jesse but held it back at the last second. "You know I should shoot you to make your death less painfull and quicker, but that would just be a waste of a fine-crafted bullet." The Commissar continued. "It would also be too merciful for someone like you... eh what can you do?" The Commissar shrugged.
Vorshevsky started to light a cigar as the light slowly faded away from Jesse's eyes.
"Good bye Agent Valentine"
Recipient of the Hispania Memorium, Golden Fourragere, Halo of Valor, Order of the Red Star, and the Hero of the Revolution
Annoyed that no-one new was coming through his door, Xu headed back to the lounge where four recruits, bloodied and strangely still alive, waited.
"Hrm. Alicia, papers please."
The Commissar duly obliged.
"Standard testing protocol. There is an examination centre to your right. Pass the exam, you stay alive. Fail the exam, you die."
He pointed to the stack of papers and to the room.
"Move it, lest I kill you with a single stab in the eye with this pen!"
He headed to the entrance door to the Recruitment Lounge and tapped in his command code sealing the door. If anyone knocked, there would be no-one to answer. Even if the most daring of applicants tried to breach the door with a Nomad site-to-site transporter, their molecules would be scattered into the twin suns of Omega-52.
"Alicia, stop transmitting the wide-band signal and put up a "Gone to Lunch" sign. There's a nice Club Sandwich being served in the Officers Mess. Thank you."
Sasha Kirov unlocked the door with her code, admitting herself and Alicia into the recruitment center onboard the Trotsky. As Alicia took her seat behind the secretarial desk, Sasha pushed open the first office, frowning. Yep, other then some dust, perfectly fine. She pushed the chair back, set her sidearm on the desk, sat down, and kicked her feet up. The air conditioning kicked on, blowing the dust away before switching over to the heater. Sasha cracked her knuckles.
"Alicia! Call for my counterpart, and set the signal to say recruitment is open." She called out.
// Recruitment is OPEN. Read the rules, which are pinned in this subforum. We have limited availability, so first-come-first-serve.
Each footstep of his dark, perfectly shined military all terrain boots echoed on the steel deck plating. Every Marine he passed snapped to attention with perfect, crisp, military precision. The salutes were given with a sense of pride, admiration, and fear. Each salute was returned in crisp, precise fashion. No words. Just a terrible calm.
Commissar Sergeant Major Stepan Rassid entered the office. He gave a cold, peircing look at Alicia, and uttered a single, calm word in a low husky voice.
"Coffee."
She nodded. He gave a look at Kirov, and said nothing. A crisp salute to the Major, and emotionless eyes. It was then, that he took his seat. Carefully, calmly, and with a perfect precision. It was not fast, nor even slow - just...smooth.
A coffee mug held with a firm and sure grip - it was only then that Kirov noticed the white tightened flesh of his knuckles, in how he grasped the cup with a deathgrip. Every muscle was clenched, and the look of mild contempt and apathy was an emotionless mask. A mask that concealed a body holding back a killing will, fueled with righteous rage.
A man stepped into the lobby - A fairly tall man, it would seem. He was clad in fairly simple attire; A worn, now off-black flight suit that was slightly opened up for the sake of comfort and convenience, evidently not having any other clothing on him to wear for this decidedly non-flight venture. Henry McSteve was his name, or at least it was the name he scribbled down where he landed his Waspu and was shuffled over. His name wasn't exactly the only thing that betrayed his primarily Bretonian decent; his hair color was another one. A vibrant red, the ginger sort. It seemed to be rather... Frizzy, looking to be commonly pushed down by a helmet. He looked fit, though his physique ended there in its quality.
Regardless of appearances, however, the man did as one of the guards told him too; Walk over to the lobby and take a seat. Might take a bit, sometimes busy. That was fine. The seats weren't... Incredibly discomfortable and there were posters on the wall, like a Doctor's office. Save much like one, they weren't so much for reading as keeping your eye's busy, even if the people who put them there might have wanted them read.
The Commissar couldn't help but smirk when he entered the recruitment lobby once again. "same old crap, just a different day" the commissar muttered to himself as he checked around for the next prey that would be unfortunate enough to be "interviewed" by Commissar Vorshevsky.
It only took seconds for the commissar to choose his prey, for he found one, a red-haired bretonian. He pointed out to the recruit, "You, over to my office, now" the commissar commanded as the man started to get up. On the way to the interview room the commissar and the applicant passed a mess hall, a engineering room, and finally the airlocks. But all of a sudden, everything became faint for the man. In a suprising and swift move, the commissar hit the applicant upside the head with a bat and threw the red-haired man into one of the airlocks. The hiss of the doors closing sealed the man's fate, as he was caught off guard and totally surprised. The compact room started to glow red as the airlock activated. Through the small door the commissar stared at the applicant, expressing no emotion whatsoever. Suddenly, his voice blared through the intercom.
"Now here is what is going to happen," the commissar informed, "I will ask you three questions; three questions for three phases of the airlock release. I do not think I have to tell you what will happen when the final phase of the airlock is completed."
The Commissar continued, with a devilish smile,
"If you give me an answer I do not like, I will push a button. Three strikes and you are out."
Vorshevsky pointed at the controls.
"First off, why are you here?"
Recipient of the Hispania Memorium, Golden Fourragere, Halo of Valor, Order of the Red Star, and the Hero of the Revolution
... Is what someone might say in response to this, though Henry in particular was a bit to battered, in a literal sense, to go ahead and say them. He would stumble into the space, not having expected a certain amount of brutality. Or any, for that matter. Wasn't to good for recruitment...
Then again, they were paranoid.
Profanities were mummered - Which, of course, will not be recorded- from the man's lips as he rubbed his head, wondering just what happened... And where that thing came from.
Still, though, even though he was visibly out of it he realized he was in danger, gripping at the wall of the room in a somewhat vain attempt to keep himself upright... And from being sucked away. Entirely in vain, of course. At least the flight suit would keep his body from getting somewhat deformed... Even... If it wouldn't really help with the suffocation part. That's what the helmet was for.
Annoying.
"Eh...?" Henry eyes looked to the window - Obvious fear was in them. "Why am I here? I'm here because apparently I ain't trust worthy. I'm here because I want to join the cause."
A man entered the recruitment office and cast his eyes around for a moment taking in everything that there was to see. Altogether he looked exceptionally average. He was neither tall, nor was he short. He was young, although not so young as to appear naive.
He walked into the office after only a brief hesitation and gave his name as Darren Lane. With nothing else to do the man took a seat in one of the chairs that sat in the office.
It was not long until Commissar Vorshevsky noticed the cheaply built flight suit the red-headed twat was wearing, also it seemed like he acquired a helmet as well.
Rude.
Why the applicant was wasting Vorshevsky's time was beyond him, however he had just the plan.
"That was the most ridiculous answer I have ever heard in my entire life. Therefore, you do not deserve anymore chances. Good bye, and thanks for playing!"
The Commissar pressed all three buttons on the airlock, releasing the foolish applicant into outer space, however there was just one problem: The man did not die. Instead, the rude applicant began to give Vorshevsky the finger, smirking in triumph as he floats away unharmed. The man had survived.
But not for long.
Back at the Coalition Cruiser Vorshevsky watched the man floating away, still alive and with a idiotic smile on his face. He thought he had won, -thought-. The Commissar quickly activated the ship's intercom.
"Helmsman Trotskina, please rotate the ship approximately 90 degrees please. Make sure the ship's engine faces the direction of the airlock."
The Commissar couldn't help but smile, the applicant thought he had gotten away.
"Fire up those engines." Vorshevsky commanded
A deathly fiery red burst through the engines, incentigrating everything in it's path. The man didn't even had the time to scream and in a matter of seconds, McSteve was nothing more but a crisp, his remains floating into the depths of space. It seems like little McSteve could not have his fun anymore.
Recipient of the Hispania Memorium, Golden Fourragere, Halo of Valor, Order of the Red Star, and the Hero of the Revolution