| Selection |
| Summary: | The Gemenon Recon team is assembled. |
| Date: | 23 Apr 2042 |
| Related Logs: | Gemenon recon, etc. |
| Players: |
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| MaA's Office |
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| This smallish styled office is typically made use of by the Master-at-Arms to conduct his business and oversee the MP's. A large desk sits in the center of the room, to which a secured cabinet can be seen immediately to the left of it. Across form the desk, two simple chairs are present for those who visit, while behind the desk, a much larger and more comfortable chair can be seen. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #421 |
Without a stated reason, Ciro had received notice in his off-duty hours that the ship's Master-at-Arms wanted to see him 'at earliest opportunity'. Upon reaching the Security Hub, the MaA's officer hatch is pulled closed, but the MP on duty buzzes the Gunnery Sergeant and is told, "Send him in," through the speaker. The hatch is cranked open from the inside moments later.
Once in, Vandenberg is seated to the side of Elf's desk but obviously on his side of it. The Wrecking Crew. She has a cigarette lit and she's in her combat blacks minus the helmet, rifle, and vest. The smoking hand rests on the desk beside her next to an ashtray with a file folder open in her lap. The woman doesn't seem to look up just yet to any entrants.
A few moments pass until the tall, tattooed form of Sergeant Ciro Sondray steps through. Wearing his off-duty clothing, his dogtags jingle across his chest and the large collection of tattoos on his arms are freely in view. Stepping through the doorway, he spies the MaA and the S3 seated behind a desk, but doesn't miss a beat as he continues towards them. He comes to a stop in front of their desk, flashing a crisp salute towards them. "Sir."
"Sergeant," Constin drawls in acknowledgment, hauling the hatch back closed once Ciro has entered. "Have a seat," he instructs as unhurried steps carry him around the desk to settle into a chair facing the newly arrived rifleman. His own narrow blue stare fixed on the file open on the desk in front of him, he reads, "Certified Advanced Marksman. Recon training, two tours of duty on Scorpia, one on Sagittaron." Glancing up to regard the lean soldier, Constin notes, "what's the longest surveillance you've undertaken, Sergeant?"
Vandenberg only glances up at the salute and waves it away. "At ease, Sergeant," she says quietly and goes back to reading the file. She's obviously listening but the stack beside her means it could be anything - including Ciro's. The cigarette butt is flicked absently, ash tumbling into the tin cup she is using for a tray.
Lowering the salute, Ciro turns his head to the chair in front of the desk. Stepping around it, he lowers himself into the chair and rests his hands comfortably in his lap. "Two months during Operation Boxcutter, in the jungles on Scorpia." He replies, adding in some detail about the type of environment that he was dispatched to. Glancing to Vandenberg, and then to the stacks of paper, he returns his eyes to the MaA before him. He's calculated all he needs to so far.
Constin nods to Ciro's answer, expression remaining settled into his familiar stern frown as the big marine leans elbows on his desk. "I'm curious, Sergeant," he drawls, "Can you remember how many times you went live trigger in that Operation? That ain't the sort of thing in the file, yeah?"
The Marine S-Three continues reading while Ciro replies to Constin, her impassive expression not telling much. There's a short, two finger drag of the cigarette that pinches between her thumb and forefinger. She squints on the exhale, finally looking back up towards the buck Sergeant. "Any experience with close-range surveillance?" Vandenberg asks quietly as a follow-up to Constin's.
The sergeant's been around the block enough times to know that questions like these were always an interview for some sort of future op. His eyes tilt to Vandenberg as she asks her question, and as rank demands, he answers her first. "Some. With the use of Ghillie suits we were as close as six meters from passing patrols during Boxcutter. On Saggitaron we also provided recon, designating targets from inside the enemy perimeter." He nods slightly to her, turning his attention back to Constin.
"Nine, and no, that's not the sort of thing recorded." He's a sniper. Nine shots fired means nine dead, at least it's supposed to. "Live fire took place later in the operation when the go-code was given for the assault."
Constin nods slightly at the answer, drawing a breath in through flared nostrils to spend in speaking, "What is your opinion of the supposed Fleet collaboration with humanoid cylon agents, Sergeant?" Narrow blue eyes hold Ciro's throughout the question.
Vandenberg looks back down to the file after his answer and continues letting the smoke burn between her fingers. A page is flipped over to look at the back and the picture there ..is not Ciro's. Its a Marine Corpsman by the name of Lagana. Its perused for another moment before being settled back on the stack of a dozen or so. With Constin's question, her eyes lift back to Sondray while she takes another drag. She waits in silence.
The heavy question is given only a moment's thought before Ciro responds, apparently already having a well thought-out opinion on the matter. "I don't trust them." It's as simple as that, but he does take the time to elaborate. "Even on Sagittaron we had defectors from the other side providing intel, which was useful, but I'm not convinced that anything involving Cylons over the course of the last year has done any of us a shred of good." He doesn't pull his gaze away from the MaA. "Having said that, though, I'm here to carry out orders, not interpret them, and if command wants me to collaborate I will. We point guns at things that point guns at us."
Constin gives a short, bullish exhale through the nose at that answer. "I'ma give you a chance to say that over, Sergeant," he notes, bone-dry in tone. "You have just expressed willingness to collaborate with the perpetrators of the present war on humanity. Care to answer again, Sondray?"
Vandenberg's eyes flick to Constin for a brief moment before she looks at Ciro once more. The next flick of her cigarette is a little harder, just like the look on her face. "Don't think, Sergeant. Answer the Gunnery Sergeant." The words from her are terse, jaw becoming tight when she finishes.
Ciro doesn't jump. He knows what he's saying. "If the fleet's collaborating with the Cylon skin-jobs that are supposedly on our side, I'll work together just fine. I know the oath I swore and what side I'm fighting for. I've got no control over whether or not those are the orders I get passed down." Ciro stands his ground, casting a serious gaze to the two of them. His jaw muscles clench. "This is about survival, but I've been trained to know just exactly who I'm killing, sir."
"Huh," Constin grunts to Ciro's reply, leaning back in his chair at the answer. A glance aside to Vandenberg, giving the Lieutenant a moment to speak or remain silent as she likes.
Vandenberg returns the look to Constin and settles a little more forward in her chair. "So if you got an order to hold fire and there were armed humanoid Cylons all around you, you would do exactly that? You'd follow your orders to the death?" Careful. Its not unheard of for her to test these little points. There's a hard, quick pull on the smoke. "You religious, Mister Sondray?"
"Yes. I would." Ciro replies, turning his attention to Vandenberg. The words taste poorly coming out of his mouth, it seems. "If there was a cease-fire." The addendum suddenly comes out, being realistic about it. "I'm not going to let anyone, human or not, line up a firing squad in front of me and take one for the team when I can follow my orders to survive and continue fighting for our lives. I'm trained to die if need be, but not throw my life away." He leans back in the chair a little, allowing himself to get a little comfortable. "Poseidon." He answers the Lieutenant frankly. "I'm not a fundamentalist. I got the tattoo, I say my prayers before battle."
"What part of the Old World you from, Sondray?" Constin wonders a breath after Ciro summarizes his devotions to the God of the Seas. the remainder of his reply goes uncommented upon by the MaA.
"And if you suspected, during this imagined Cease Fire, that a Cylon might pull a gun on you. Be it a Centurion or a humanoid, what then? Your orders are to keep your weapons down, gonna still listen to orders that might get your whole team killed?" Vandenberg's tone is daring though even as to where she might be going with an answer. There's no further comment to him being religious. Yet.
"Lomadia Beach, Canceron, born and raised, sir." Ciro gets out quickly before Vandenberg continues. The words are spoken sidelong as he's beaten between Scylla and Charybdis behind the desk.
His lip turns up just a little bit at the Lieutenant's question. It's a very, very brutal question, and it's obvious that he's been backed into a corner. "When those guns come up, so do mine, but as long as those guns stay down, then yeah…I'm gonna follow that order." He shakes his head a few short times. The words that follow are probably a little too blunt and informal for his own good. "If command's working on some sort of diplomatic, teamwork angle with these alleged human supporting skinjobs then me blowing their brains out because I'm pissed about my dead family is only gonna drag this shit out longer, sir. I feel no remorse killing Cylons. Period. But killing a cylon that could save human lives, going against orders, getting executed for treason in a wartime engagement? Frak that. I'm a marine. I'm not paid to figure shit out. I'm only marginally fed to get results back home."
Constin holds his response, remains seating back in his chair, calloused and rebuilt right hand idly tapping the side of his thumb on the desktop as Vandenberg takes the lead in the interview.
Vandenberg barely even blinks for everything he says. "Wrong. They come up, you get to watch. We're not frakking around anymore, Sondray. You don't know why those guns are coming up and if you need to die in order to inform the godsdamned fleet that your Cease Fire is horseshit, then that's exactly what the frak you do. Period. Ours is not to reason why, Sergeant." The officer looks very nearly angry. "Glad you feel that way because you frak around, decide to go off on your own, disobey orders, otherwise damage my calm or mission, I will personally put one round in that disgracefully haircut head. As will everyone else on the team. You hear me loud and proud, Marine?" She doesn't give him a chance to reply anymore before she looks to Constin and sits back in her chair. "Let's see if he's interested in our little field trip. Tell him." She lifts the cigarette once more, crossing her legs as she looks back towards Ciro.
Ciro's been yelled at for both good and bad reasons so many times over the course of his career that he doesn't even flinch. "Yes SIR." He replies with a bit of force to it, letting Vandenberg know just how well her assessment of his answer has been understood. He doesn't need to say anything more. He's heard her loud and proud and when an officer tells you how things are going to go, Ciro doesn't add anything into the mix. He nods sharply to her and turns his head to Constin, preparing for his mission brief."
"Sergeant Ciro Sondray," Constin drawls after a curt nod to Vandenberg. "You are being considered for an undisclosed terrestrial reconnaissance mission. Estimated duration of seventy-two hours. Should you elect to volunteer for said assignment you may be required to undergo Airborne basic training in addition to other unspecified insertion methods. Do you require time in which to make your decision, Sergeant?" If not for the lowbrow drawl coloring his words, the big marine's speech would sound quite polished.
"No I do not, sir. I can be ready to go as soon as the corps requires." Ciro replies without hesitation. He's healthy and unharmed from the attack on the Areion, and his schedule is very well known to his superiors. Aside from his watches, he's untapped.
"Sergeant, the next time you call me 'sir' you will regret it," Elf returns curtly. "My rank is Gunnery Sergeant, my station is Master at Arms, and my name is Constin. Not a one of them pulls 'sir'." Sniffing once to clear his nose, he goes right on, "Your standard duty rotation will be adjusted to free up your time for the necessary training, Sondray. Do you have any questions at this time?"
Vandenberg hears the answer and stubs her cigarette into the tin, letting Constin say his piece. "The operation will be lightweight in nature. Long range recon patrol. Leave any ghillie at home. We won't have the weight or time for it. Pack for standard field kit. Food, ammo, poncho, spotting glasses, and that's about it. See JAG about filling out a Next of Kin form within twenty-four hours if you have not already."
"Gunnery Sergeant" Ciro nods, perhaps having kept using sir in the presence of the lieutenant. It's not an annoying habit that he's known for. "I don't have any next of kin. My ticket gets punched the rest of the team can divvy up what's in my locker." He pauses, glancing to the side of the room as he considers his question. He shakes his head, finding none. "No questions, Gunnery Sergeant."
Constin inclines his head sharply to the answers Ciro gives. Before dismissing the soldier, he again defers to the Lieutenant seated next to him.
"Then it gets designated as communal. See to it, Sergeant Sondray. I'll find you for your training, or Constin will. Dismissed." Vandenberg nods towards the door behind Ciro and waits til the man is gone before looking to Elf, expression serious. "Five down. One to go."
Rising from his chair, Ciro flashes them a dismissal salute before turning and heading towards the door. There's no exhalation of nervous energy, and there's no relieved look on his face. He just continues to soldier on as he always has, never feeling quite sorry for himself. A short moment later and he's gone.
| MaA's Office |
|---|
| This smallish styled office is typically made use of by the Master-at-Arms to conduct his business and oversee the MP's. A large desk sits in the center of the room, to which a secured cabinet can be seen immediately to the left of it. Across form the desk, two simple chairs are present for those who visit, while behind the desk, a much larger and more comfortable chair can be seen. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #421 |
The request for a meeting had been delivered informally. If Lysander has any experience in getting in trouble with the MPs this doesn't resemble such a summoning. When the sergeant arrives, the Master-at-Arms' door is open, Constin sitting behind the desk, flipping through pages of corner-less paper on a clipboard.
Summoned. There's always a sultry little negative connotation to that nowadays. Still, Lysander arrives with ease and even just about smiles regarding things. He would if he knew what the aforementioned things exactly where, so there's a moment of slight hesitation in pausing at the door and rapping knuckles against the frame's surface. "Master Sergeant," is mentioned in greeting as he motions to step in.
"Sergeant Lysander," Elf grunts in return, before correcting simply, "It's Gunnery Sergeant, by the by. I ain't earned rank of Master Sergeant. Pull the hatch in behind you and take a seat," he instructs, flipping the sheaf of papers back and setting the clipboard atop a filing cabinet.
"Nah, but you've earned it through blood at least," because all of the ghosts of Areion past shed tears of witnessing firsthand the true Evocati, the Cerberus' CMC, or something. Lysander should put that into writing. "But, you're right." Still, he makes a mental note and moves in to take the seat after having drawn the entrance closed behind him. There's an idle glance given the clipboard.
"Blood don't buy rank, Sergeant," Constin drawls to the compliment. "But so long as it earns some respect, that's enough for me. Now-" he declares, drawing a breath and settling into the business of the day: "Your service jacket says you walked out of Fort Alastor with specialized recon training and a Designated Marksman pin. That right?"
"Mmhm," Lysander murmurs in turn. He settles into his seat in the process of listening, sitting up when his service jacket is called into question. He offers a clipped nod of his head before speaking up at length in reply. "Yeah, sir, that's right- something I've kept up over the years," given his particular tours of duty.
"Uh-huh," Constin grunts at the mention of 'keeping up skills'. "Three tours on Sagittaron, yeah?" A short nod, as he shifts tracks. "What is your opinion of the recent rumors regarding collaboration with a humanoid cylon agent, Sergeant?"
Mister Lysander takes to an even nod of his head. "Prematurely ended by our lovely metal friends," and their lovely little holocaust quips he and his sarcasm but he tapers such tone of voice off in lieu of answering the question with a sobered expression. "Depends on the particular agent, current intel looks like to me that half of them know what regret and guilt is, even less want to help the poor human race out. Can't be all that bad."
Constin regards Lysander evenly throughout the answer. He neither smiles at the joke, nor grins. If anything the big marine frowns slightly. "Am I to understand that you believe in taking humanoid cylon agents on a 'case by case' basis, Sergeant?" he asks, pointedly.
"I do, almost as much as I'd treat a Sag' walking up to me. Not all of them wanted to put a bullet 'tween my eyes, or strap a bomb to themselves, or curse my family," replies Lysander. He glances aside to the right and favors it as he adjusts within the chair. He's not fully recovered, on duty now at least, but too much pressure one way makes him prickly in a way. "I still have my reservations. I still know what they've done, won't ever forget that."
"Huh," Constin grunts under his breath at the answer. A breath drawn in and out slowly, through the nose, as he sits back in his seat and regards Garret. "Sergeant, I am given to understand that you are close to Marine Corpsman Lagana, is that correct?"
Something makes Lysander slow up with the conversation, quiet down while he brings his hands down the length of his thighs and rests them at his knees. It's just a beat of a pause but damn it's noticeable. "That I am." The something's bringing up Circe, and he nods to his words. He keeps his response just to three words if only so that he can just look on expectantly.
"You are being considered for an undisclosed reconnaissance assignment, Sergeant," Constin voices evenly. "This will involve a significant surveillance period in which it is entirely possible that, should any member of the team be compromised, they may become enemy prisoners." A drawn breath, before his steady, heavy words resume. "I am asking you, Sergeant, if you are capable of leaving Crewman Lagana in enemy custody indefinitely, should the success of the mission require it."
The beginning gives Garret opportunity to exhale and relax for the most part, if only because this is something of a niche. "Ah," he starts but stops upon that in order to keep from interjecting. He offers a nod. Then he's stuck between a rock and a hard place. "I… am." He won't apologize for the hesitation. He clears his throat. "We both know what we're getting into with our relationship. We still fight for the needs of many, not each other's. I'd like to know why that in particular'd be required for success though."
"I'm not able to discuss mission parameters with unattached personnel, Sergeant," Constin returns to Garret's last query. Drawing a second breath through flared nostrils, he goes on. "Sergeant Garret Lysander. You are invited to volunteer for an undisclosed reconnaissance assignment of intermediate duration. Should you accept, your commanding officer in the field would be Lieutenant Vandenberg. You may be required to undergo Airborne basic training, should you volunteer. Do you require time to consider, Sergeant?"
"Yeah, I thought so." Lysander looks down to his right hand as it's balled into a loose fist against his knee. He nods once more and then looks back up to the larger Sergeant as he relaxes the hand. "No- no, I don't. I'm good to go as is, sir."
Constin nods once again, "Then for frak's sake: stop calling me 'sir', Sergeant. I work for a living," Elf drawls back, snorting in a bullish exhale through his nose. "This all considered confidential, of course. You may discuss mission parameters with myself, and Lieutenant Vandenberg. That is all." Settling back in his chair, he notes, "Depending on the insertion plan Air Wing cooks up, we will be deployed to Gemenon for seventy-two hours of covert observation and surveillance of a cylon position. The necessary adjustments to your duty roster will be made."
"Would if I could, honest, but all these near-death experiences, they humble a man of my astute caliber," but he's relatively back to being light-hearted. For a minute there, he was under the impression of being labeled a Cylon Frakker. "But, that sounds fine by me, as it were. How long until the Wing comes up with something that doesn't get us all frakked from the get go?"
"You expecting an insertion plan that don't get us frakked from the get-go?" Constin prompts, deadpan. "You are a real frakking optimist, ain't you, Sergeant?" A short sniff of something near humor from the man who has been accused of being a cylon frakker. "We don't have a timetable set for this operation yet, Lysander. soon as that changes you and the rest of the team will be notified."
Lysander naturally offers a cheeky grin to the notion of being optimistic of things, and then he's settling back down easily enough to listen to Constin's reply. He shifts in his chair again. "All right then, that's fair enough." He looks to stand but keeps stilled for the time being, "I take it that's all then?"
"Just one more thing," Constin notes before dismissing Lysander. "We'd never let her be taken alive. You should know that." One last nod and the gruff Master-at-Arms rises to his feet and offers a calloused and scarred right hand across the desk to Garret. "Welcome aboard, Sergeant."
"Oh, I know. Well, yeah, understood." Lysander goes to speak up at length but thinks otherwise, haven already mentioned the needs of many and all that goes alongside that notion. He stiffly nods to the other man and rises into the fullness of his height as well. He leans casually forward to accept the handshake, simple and firm, practiced. "Glad to be aboard." He almost smiles, for what it's worth.
"Good," Constin answers with a curt nod, narrow blue stare fixing on Garret's. The handshake is brief and firm. "Dismissed, Sergeant."