| Dog Show Prizes Part III |
| Summary: | Constin gets a shiny for OSM! |
| Date: | 24 Feb 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Marine Offices - Deck 6 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| This offices consists of desks for those under the CO, along with his desk toward the back of the room. The S1 and S2 have desks here and the place is neat as a pin, with everything in its place. At the front of the room, a Marine sits at a desk to meet people as they come in through the hatch. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #363 |
Though the Raider attacks are no doubt taking their toll on the members of the air wing, the mood in the marine offices this particular afternoon is surprisingly light and airy. Blame it on the music, which in turn is blamed on the commanding officer in the offices. A good night's sleep - and some might dare say a good cry - can work wonders when the morning comes round and things are still plugging along.
The runner's gratitude was apparent when this most recent request to hand-deliver a letter need only find out the Master-at-arms reasonably close by. The small piece of paper said only 'See me, MWC.'
Constin's bulk fills the hatchway, rapping his knuckles on the frame, as he announces his arrival from the SecHub. "Major. Wanted to see me?" the big man drawls, upon stepping into the office proper.
Surely, word has been getting around by now, that Marines are getting called into the office and leaving with shinies. "Gunnery Sergeant…yes, I did. We've got performance reviews here from Operation Silent Mastiff, and I wanted to deliver your results." The music is turned down, and Madilyn spins in her chair before setting down the cup of coffee she's holding in one hand.
Constin's eyes tick to the music box, a short sniff, and something not unlike a brief grin tugging at his lip as the music is turned down. Then its back to business. "Sir," he nods, composing hands at the small of his back, and boots at shoulder width.
"I'm sure you have an idea of why you're here, so I'm not going to waste time fiddling around here. I know you've got more than your fair share of things to do today." A heavy brown folder is flipped open on the desk, filled with performance summaries, background information, and the whole shebang. "This summary was carried out primarily by El-Tee Vandenberg."
"Thank you, sir," Constin grunts with a nod to Madilyn's offer to make this quick. Already narrow eyes squint a bit more in quick scrutiny of the summary. "Understood, Major. If I can cut to the chase, did the El-Tee recommend improvement in any areas?"
Making him squirm a bit, Madilyn flips through the top few pages. "No…no specific recommendations for improvement. Not unless you can manage to make yourself a smaller target. That's impossible, particularly when you're assaulting enemy facilities with recoilless rifles." That's her idea of a joke, apparently!
Constin sniffs dryly, finding humor in the quip, even if his face doesn't crack in a grin. "Never been all that good at dodging bullets, sir," he drawls back, deadpan. A slow breath taken in and out.
"That much is evident, given these sheets," Madilyn replies, thumbing through a rather grotesquely-large stack of medical reports for all the injuries. "What I'm focusing on are a few more comments here. Gunnery sergeant provided recoilless rifle in the open to protect the entry teams and assure they did not become pinned down during the most crucial phase of the operation."
"Weren't any other choice, sir," Constin returns, a touch defensively. "Couple of Raiders inside the hangar. Small arms couldn't chew through those, which meant it had to be the Karls, and it had to be in a hurry. If it'd save paper, we could just stop printing my injury reports?" he suggests, in his deadpan version of a joke.
"Marine policy, I'm afraid. We might have to start to recycling. Furthermore, she goes on to recommend you for the Colonial Medal of Bravery. I've gone ahead and approved that recommendation for commendation." One more time, Madilyn reaches into the drawer of her desk and pulls out a small metal box. Standing up she opens the case up to reveal the medal inside.
"Huh," he grunts evenly to the initial word of recycling. Talk of another medal is answered with a curt nod, and steadily voiced, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." His narrow blue stare does stir to settle on the new hardware as it is displayed, but doesn't linger there long before returning to meet Madilyn's eye.
Madilyn's gaze is shaded as she snaps a hand into a salute, for the third time so far, holding the medal out to the gunny. "Congratulations, gunnery sergeant. I know you've been decorated quite a bit, but your continued dedication to taking on assignments well-above your pay-grade and on a voluntary basis deserves it."
Constin returns the salute crisply, and with the sharpness of practice. "Thank you, sir," he repeats as calloused fingers close over the medal in its case. Dryly, he offers, "There is no pay grade anymore, Major. But I appreciate the gesture."
"No pay-grade, but we do have a rank system. And…you know what I mean," she replies with a smirk tugging her lips. "Still, congratulations gunny. Keep up the good work."
"Major," Constin returns with a short nod, as he lowers his hand from the salute. Taking a step backward, he turns on a booted heel and moves to step out toward the resuming of his duties. No rest for the wicked at the end of the Worlds.