[OMEGA] The Professionals (closed)

Katange Arcology had improved its living conditions a good deal since last Art Daye had seen it. To be fair, there'd been a horde of Cerberus troops and their pet monster shapeshifters attacking the place, but it had never been five-star accommodations prior to that anyway. Dingy, dark, with a pervasive smell of some sort---it had been, as Daye's first Centurion Roaklar Hathnak had put it, an absolute shitheap.

To be fairer, it still was dingy and dark, but at least they'd gotten rid of the smell.

And so it was that Daye found himself sitting in what passed for the officer's club, huddled in a corner booth with his back to the wall, talking shop with his left and right hands. Instead of his XO, Daye was discussing 9 Commando's future with his gruff Centurion Lucas Dunn (never mind the fact that this was the officer's mess, no one was going to yell at Daye for bringing him in), and the flighty tech genius Kim Avery, who had been placed in charge of training up the new engineer contingent.

"Alright," said Daye, scratching at his jaw with one paw-like hand. "We're all tired as fuck so let's keep this short. How're the new guys looking?"

He was halfway through inserting a wad of dip into his mouth when he realized how how his tech specialist would probably interpret that. "...and no, Avery, I don't want to hear about fucking carapace paint jobs."

Sat rigidly on faded, torn leather, Lucas Dunn's face was sourer than usual. His left hand was held lightly to his chest, fingers working slowly up and down against the fabric of his black t-shirt, while the fingers of his right drummed silently against a glass. The drawn expression on his face was, for once, not a measure of displeasure at the dingy surroundings of Omega, but a visual cue to a private battle against the dull pain gripping his body. The contents of his glass was a second; a pale yellow liquid, effervescing gently.

Three days ago, Dunn had paid what he hoped was the final visit to the garrison's chief medical officer, the last of a grueling tour of monthly visits. The doctor had run all his usual probing, painful tests and the end conclusion, with no small amount of pressure from an impatient Lieutenant Colonel, was clearance for return to active combat duty. The price, however, was a complete cut off of the pain medication Dunn had spent weeks slowly weening himself off.

The ache that gripped his chest was now a constant, but it was fading. Dunn had put himself through hell trying to regain his fitness, and at his age it had proven disastrous to his recovery time. The damage to his ribs, to the muscles around them had been severe; the damage to leg muscles, even more so. An insistence on a light, one kilometer jog every morning under pain meds, therefore, looked in hindsight to be unbelievably stupid.

But he had made it. Cleared for active duty, slowly feeling human again and eager to wield a rifle in anger again, Dunn's only remaining resentment was for the promise he had made to swear off booze and cigars for at least another month.

Hence, the drink he was currently knocking back was a simple soda. A local one, admittedly, of batarian origin that tasted close enough to beer to pass muster.

Dunn found himself chuckling at Daye's added remark. The painful protest from his ribs made him immediately wish he hadn't.

"Not my style of warfare, that's for damn sure, sir." Dunn interjected. "But I can see where they might slot in. Good counter if we ever go up against the yellows, mebbe. Or is that part of the plan, Colonel?"

Trying to draw potential deployments out of 9 Commando's CO was like trying to draw blood from a stone, but Dunn was fond of the occasional challenge.

Kim looked up from tapping idly at her omnitool, shooting Daye a grin that would assure the mercenary that she had (jokingly... well, probably jokingly) intended to do just that. "Eh. Most of them are making decent enough progress, couple I think you should just go ahead and give up on, and maybe a couple more that're actually doing surprisingly well."

The girl shrugged and went back to poking at her holodisplay. "Not exactly up to my standards, but you knew that already." For her part, Kim didn't much care where they were headed or who they were fighting, unlike most of the rest of the team. Anything had to be easier than the monsters in the war - and of course, she tried to avoid the action whenever possible.

Considering the fact his email, omnitool, and wall on that goddam extranet board he frequented were being spammed with messages from Avery, Daye very much knew that the engineers were not up to "tech wizard" snuff. That was fine by him; they didn't need to be. If Avery could train them up to half her skill, that'd be more than enough for Daye. "Trust me, I fucking did."

He spat out a tobacco-stained glob onto the bar floor, levelly regarding his grim Centurion. "Try again, Centurion," he said. "We're still straight-up shock infantry but we need sappers in the fucking mix. No telling what kind of tech we'll be up against these days."

To put it mildly. With all the banter D'Veyra had been spewing about weaponizing Reaper tech, Daye had been more than a bit worried about running up against Eclipse-controlled Husks. You could do the macho corporate chest-thumping but when you came right down to it, the Eclipse had the Suns beat when it came down to raw tech prowess. For Daye, this meant that the discipline and professionalism of the Suns' troopers would mean absolutely fuck-all if Eclipse or some other group brought Dragon's Teeth to a gunfight---hence stressing tech power usage.

Hence him keeping a very close on Avery training 9 Commando's new sappers.

"Besides," he said to Dunn, spitting out another glob of tobacco. "You know that it's not fuckin' likely we'll go up against Eclipse. Not with our...command situation being what it is."

That was a polite way of saying, no, not with Vosque and Del'Serah at each other's fucking throats. Daye had a feeling his Centurion would be able to pick up on that easily enough.

Besides, there were plenty of easy jobs out there that needed doing, ones that didn't involve going up against other merc companies. Terminus worlds looking to settle old grudges, planets in need of a local defense force...garrison postings were boring as shit, sure, but after the Reapers, Daye had a feeling he and his boys could use a fucking break for a bit.

Only a bit though. Can't lose that killer edge.

A sudden, cold shiver coiled up Dunn's spine.

"Fuck..." He breathed, as comprehension dawned.

Should've taken that retirement package...

The Centurion cast a worried glance in Avery's direction, hoping she understood exactly what she might be taking on here. Truthfully, he was still amazed she had stuck around after the War. Blue Suns mercs, particularly some of the borderline psychotics that made up the ranks of 9 Commando, were hardly empathetic company. Between Avery's looks and talents on the one hand, and the continued leering of any number of the Commando's most battered, scarred and downright unpleasant men (along with a few women of similar description, for good measure) on the other, Dunn had began to wonder exactly how much Daye signed off for her paycheque, and why he wasn't getting the same.

He faced his CO again, expression level. Another disappointing swig of soda. For all the physical wear the war, and subsequent recovery, had exerted on him, Dunn's martial intellect had not been dulled. His mind processed the implied deployment scenario, and swiftly began working up mechanisms to accommodate the new information.

"I'll start running some training drills." He declared. "Pool squads from the new sappers and our heavy weps teams, plug 'em in the simulator against Legionnaire fireteams. See if we can work up an effective indirect fire drill. Combat drone mapping to feed into anti-armour missile guidance, that sorta shit."

On being reminded of their current leadership quarrels, however, Dunn had to shake his head.

"It's fuckin' pathetic, sir." He groused, eyes lowered. "Pistols at fuckin' dawn, I reckon. And when Del'Serah plugs Vosque's loudmouth ass, we can get back to business as fuckin' usual.

For Dunn, of course, as with the majority of troops under his command, 'business as usual' generally involved using swear words as punctuation.

Meanwhile, the tech girl quietly continued poking at her omnitool, stopping only to grin and pull a stylus from her pocket and begin doodling over the top of an image on the screen. "Good. I would hope enough prodding would get through your helmet eventually." Her remark carried only a slight edge over her typical easy demeanor, barely noticeable.

Truthfully she'd always known her standards were well above what the troops were capable of, and well above Daye's standards for tech, and truthfully, she also wasn't much of a teacher... but more importantly she needed to ensure she didn't eliminate her own worth to the mercs by her training.

The dark turn of her thought line was barely betrayed by a slight pause as she twirled the stylus idly between her fingers. She wasn't one who enjoyed sneaking around, though she often saw it as necessary.

She was no traitor, Kim Avery (at least not while immediately in a contract) - but she of course had to look out for her own interests first. With Kasair gone, the tech was out on her own, and while she could actually shoot halfway decently by now, and she still had her old ship's failsafe to protect her, but she wasn't about to take her odds against mercs. Thus, the tech expert was stuck very quietly and cautiously trying to maintain her importance... thankfully thus far her efforts had seemingly gone unnoticed.

"Hum. So what are we doing next, anyway? Don't tell me you're going to make us guess." The stylus tapped back down onto the screen again at the end of her reflection, as she returned to her drawing.

That was a good question Avery had posed What were they going to do next? Security contracts were popping up left and right, but there was very very little of the smash-and-burn ops that 9 Commando excelled at. Made sense, considering the Reapers had monopolized that field for the past good while, but Daye had a nasty feeling that Command wasn't going to try and force a round peg into a square hole by making his guys play cop.

Which means we'll be sitting on our asses for a long fucking---

His OT buzzed. Still mentally grumbling, Daye slapped at it to see who was messaging him. It wasn't a video file---it was flash traffic, highest priority, and at the top of the file were five bold letters that let Daye knew that he and the Ninth finally stood a chance of getting into the shit.

WARNO

A warning order? He read on some more. Fuck me. This is going to be fun.

A slow grin creased Daye's face, and he stood up, forwarding the file to Dunn. [color=#0040FF]"Avery. I think you just got an answer. Centurion, kick this WARNO down to the sub-commando leaders and their senior enlisted. Senior officer meeting in the arcology at 2100 tonight---XO, sub-commando leaders and the Legionnaires. I'll let you know what briefing room they fucking see fit to give me." He nodded at the two. "Make it fuckin' happen."

And with that, Daye stormed out of the bar. He had an op to plan.

***

Five hours later, the sub-commando leaders of the Ninth Commando plus the Legionnaires (and Kim Avery), sat in a briefing room, talking among themselves. It had taken some doing, Daye had actually managed to find one that was relatively clean and squared-away with all the tech one could ask for The attendees were clad in a mix of apparel, from civilian clothing to Suns t-shirts to full hardsuits, and each one had groomed him or herself however they saw fit. The chatter was ribald and spirited, laced with profanity, and to an outside observer there was absolutely none of the alleged professionalism that the Suns so prided themselves on.

Then a man in an officer's hardsuit, bulldog features set into a mask of stoic soldierly discipline, paced into the room and barked, "A-TENN-SHUN!"

And as one, human, batarian and turian, everyone in the room (save Kim Avery) snapped to attention.

Art Daye, in hardsuit and full battle order, stormed in after his XO, Centurion Dunn flanking him as he walked up to front of the room. “Seats.”

And as one, the assembled officers and enlisted took their seats.

With a tap of his OT, Daye activated the holoprojector next to him. The image of a garden world, looking a lush green from space, fizzled into existence. “This,” he said, “is Tshombesha. Dunno how many of you keep up with the news but a week or so ago it decided to secede from the Vonskar Coalition. Since Tshomhowever the fuck you say it is a major mining powerhouse, Vonskar isn’t happy about this. Both sides had their respective armies and militias hit fuckin’ bad when the Reapers blitzed us, so the secessionists are calling in outside help to defend them.”

Daye’s stoic mask cracked enough to permit a taut half-smile. “That means us. Question before I get into the nitty-fuckin’-gritty?”

Predictably enough, the first hand that went up was that of Captain Friegsid Khor’shok. Even in casual attire, his old war decoration from the Hegemony glittered on his chest, army forage cap perched atop his skull. “We’ll be slowboating it, then, Sir? How do we plan to get in all the supplies we need?”

“Already talked it over with Captain Nab’lona and the loggies, we’ll be resupplied as often as the corp can manage. Also, Tshombesha was apparently pretty well-fucking-stocked to support the Coalition military when the Reapers rolled in, so we can live off the land well-enough, so to speak." Daye looked around at the others present. “Anybody else?”


The arm of his Legionnaires’ squad leader popped up. “What’s the opposition?” asked Sergeant Nate Pacey, “‘ave they hired a PMC as well?”

Daye shook his head at the question. “Not yet. Matter of fuckin’ time though. Vonskar’s Army’s still building up after the Reapers. Odds are it’ll be one of the other Big Three...or one of the new up-and-comers. Black Jack Vanderwalle’s Leopard Battalion has been very active out there, for example, so I’m keepin’ my fuckin’ fingers crossed it’s one of them. Make our jobs much easier.”

“Black Jack?” muttered the Sergeant, looking a bit incredulous. “That dude sounds like a fuckin’ pirate, innit? With a peg leg and a parrot and shit.”

“Damned sight more intimidating than ‘Frederic.’ Man’s a former Alliance field-grade who decided he could make a lot more after the war. He knows his stuff, so don’t let the name fool you into thinking he’s another wannabe freelancer.” The mercenary commander paused to take a sip from a canteen on his belt. “That said, that’s not our only opposition. There might be Vonskar loyalists on-planet. Militant ones. I think we’ve all learned by now how we deal with local fucking insurgents though, right?”

Grins, baring of needle teeth, and flared mandibles around the room. 9 Commando did indeed know how to deal with rebels.

“Right, any other questions?”

Dunn grimaced. They were well and truly back in the thick of it now. Trying to convince himself a deployment would be good for him - the chance for some fresh air, sunlight and a few months away from this shithole of a space station - the Centurion fought the urge to pop one of the few pain pills he had retained off record. He gave little thought to Daye's suggested opposition. Any upstart Terminus outfit would get ground into the dirt under 9 Commando. Eclipse or Blood Pack could complicate things, but truthfully, Dunn rather relished the thought of taking a chunk out of either rival organisation.

He scanned the faces of the assembled Suns, noting the usual eclectic mix of excitement, apprehension, boredom and curiosity. For his part, the threat of local insurgency was feeling a little like an uncomfortable deja vu. But work was work, and in the aftermath of the Reaper War, there were very few with the economic and military backing needed to stand up to the Suns. This was already sounding like easy money.

He had intended to stay quiet through the briefing, and let Daye do the talking. But as he had opened up the floor so early...

"How big's this colony, sir?" He piped up. "Are we gonna have to split up 'n' cover multiple regions, or is it a single garrison job? Where are we hunkerin' down for that matter? Local digs, or are we droppin' prefabs?"

The question was primarily sheer curiosity, but there was an element of pragmatism involved - Dunn would be involved in the supply chain somewhere down the line, and a bit of early consideration to the potential difficulties of that job couldn't hurt.

In the center of the Legionnaire crowd a younger turian sat, charcoal tattoos stark against his ash grey hide, arms corded with muscle crossed over his chest, mandibles spread in a thoroughly nasty grin.

Cass was relatively new to 9 Codo, one of the recent additions transferred under Daye's command to flesh out his ranks and compensate for those lost during the Reaper War. For the moment he was quiet, attentive. Outwardly at least; inside he was practically bursting with questions. What was the climate going to be like? The people? The terrain? Multiple settlements or just one? Who were the suits bankrolling them? And on and on and on.

Tshom-besh-a.

He sounded it out in his head, doing his best to memorize the alien syllables, he could look up those answers on his own time. It wasn't important, certainly not worth bothering the command staff about it, but still, the questions and all the other stupid shit nagged at him.

Cass wasn't the only new arrival amongst the Ninth. There amongst the gathering, the red tattos of Gothis prevalent on her face, Avera Oscaius spoke up.

"Can we expect any support from the Tsomwhatever, or are we doing most of the heavy lifting for them?"

She likely already knew the answer, but it would make their job slightly easier if the locals were willing to lend a hand.

Kim held a hand over her mouth to suppress a yawn before she turned back to poking around the tech in the area. Briefings like this always bored her - she already knew what she needed to know, anyway... just another stupid colony, probably smack in the center of nowhere. Odds were easily ten to one she'd hate the place within an hour of landing.

She waited for the others to ask their questions, before calmly asking her own without even looking up. "How much am I going to hate the weather?" Pointless though it may've seemed, it was a serious question. She might be tempted to kill someone if she had to water and mud-proof everything all over again.

Daye shot the vocal Legionnaire turian---young for her billet, or maybe he just fucking sucked at reading alien age, he'd never really been sure---a look. "Planetary security forces exist but their job is to protect the mines, which is nice since that lets us be nice and mobile to hunt down any Vonskar loyalists instead of bogging us down protecting the mines. If you mean logistics, Captain Nab'lona and 95 Commando will be coordinating with the government to get us our bullets, bombs and beans in between corporate dropoffs every few weeks via slowboat."

It wasn't the most ideal of situations---the Blue Suns traditionally relied on their truly massive logistics arm to keep themselves equipped, but in these circumstances that simply wasn't feasible. He'd already had quite the intense discussion with Nab'lona, the support sub-Commando leader, and higher HQ over how much materiel they could bring in on the first run---the answer had eventually wound up being as much as you damn well can.

That suited Daye just fine.

The next question slightly less so. "Avery it's gonna be fucking hot and it's going to be fucking humid at our base in the capital---we go far north or south you'll hit savannah, cool and dry. God help us and we have to roll into the western hemisphere, you can have fun killing your goddam ankles climbing mountains but that probably won't happen. For the most part you'll be having fun in the fucking sun, OK?"

At Dunn's question, he glowered. "Centurion, you're getting ahead of the briefing," he said with the faintest hint of amusement before returning his attention to the audience. "Alright we'll be HQ'd at Elizabeth, that's the capital, so I can work with the civvies and the suits and slowly but surely bore myself to death so Captain Rossi here---" he motioned at the stolid XO, still unsmiling at the joke to come "---can take over as CO. However if that doesn't happen, we'll be operating as a rapid reaction force, moving out to deal with any armed groups of Vonskar loyalists that pop up or any Vonskar attempt to retake the planet. We're...fuck, what was the word? Gen-something. Doesn't matter---whatever it is, it's a cross between cops and soldiers, and that's us. We're not gonna be standing sentry for anything other than our prefab garrison---when we move out, it's to search and fucking destroy."

Rossi activated a button on the holoprojector showing the map of the planet---the western hemisphere split up into several highlighted quadrants as Daye continued. "These are the AOs for the sub-commandos. Captain Carinus, 91 has the northwest. Captain Khor'shok, you and 92 take the northeast. Captain Devers and 93 will take the southwest..." The battered officer stopped to fix his glare upon the last subcommando leader, and the one he trusted least. "Captain Puren will take the Southeast. Legionnaires'll stand fast with the command element and support sub-commando at base, they'll go where needed."

The saturnine South African colonist, so recently demoted, disgraced and relieved of his original command, gave a sour nod.

Daye looked around at his audience again, glower giving way to his usual expression of dour intensity. Standard rapid-reaction job here, almost like what they'd done in the DMZ---but he knew they could handle this, his officers and sergeants knew their stuff, and besides the Hajjis were fucking terrible fighters. The desert might've been their home but it was his company's turf now, their stomping grounds, and with Hotel Company setting up an outpost in their backyard, they didn't stand a fucking chance.

He looked over at his First Sergeant to exchange macho repartee, but only found Lucas Dunn. "OK," he said, praying that had been a short lapse. He needed the new officers to have faith in him. "Questions before I move onto the fun political shit?"

Kobus Puren languidly raised his hand, eliciting looks of dismay from the officers around him, particularly "Katamayla" Khor'shok, who seemed as if he was wishing he was several more seats down."Ja, I got one." At Daye's wave, he continued. "What's the word on ROEs for dealing with rebel-held towns? We going soft on the okes or rolling in hot, eh?"

He would ask that, given his past operational history. And honestly what the man needed was to be smacked down, hard. Puren had been in the corp longer than Daye, and he'd been transferred into the Ninth with a fairly large chip on his shoulder. Daye met the man's unimpressed gaze with a glare of his own. "That's dependent on the nature of the operation in question, Captain Puren. And I expect all officers to comply. You guys got me?"

The officers and Legionnaires chorused out a guttural roar.

"Good. Any other questions?"

Cassius settled back in his chair as the roar died away. It was all the standard briefing shit. Who was going where and doing what, when they would all shoot somebody. This was comfortable. This was familiar. This was his life and it felt good...

Even if the weather was, you know, going to be a complete bitch in the capital and people were probably going to be trying to kill him over the next couple months. But, whatever, people where always trying to kill other people, no point in taking it personally. Especially when you were getting paid a pretty cred to do some of the killing yourself.

Plus, he wasn't going to be one of those poor bastards stuck in the southeast with Puren, so yay, handshakes and high fives all around for that.

The ash colored turian glanced over at his CO. He might have been young but he was no stranger to the Suns; he'd served under idiots, pirates, thugs, and professionals alike. The bald man at the front of the room was, as far as he could tell at least, fell into the fourth category.

But who gave a fuck what he thought? He was just another Legionnaire, his job was to keep his principle safe and shoot the people who needed shooting. Not ask questions.

So it was mostly going to be Suns units doing the heavy fighting. Understandable, though having some aid from the locals would have been nice, can't have everything though.

That was essentially the gist of Avera's questions now, as she gathered what Daye said. Weather would be hot and humid, suggesting a tropical climate. Gothis was a more temperate world, cooler especially in the northern plains where she grew up from, that would take time getting used to. Vonskar had yet to deploy any forces, though no doubt the other two halves of the Big Three were willing to chip in. Blood Pack? Possible, but Vonskar probably wanted to get Tsombesha relatively intact, the redbacks penchant for collateral damage would make that impossible. Most likely it would be the Eclipse, fucking yellowbellies, Avera yearned for the chance to knock their collective superiority complex down a peg.

Either way, should be one hell of a fight. Not sure it will be better than Ticorus though.

"I hate the sun." Kim growled bitterly. Maybe it was better than Katamayla, it didn't sound like she'd have to fight the weather to keep her tech safe, anyway. Of course, she was still determined to despise any environment outside of her natural ship/space station habitat.

...Well, nature was pretty in holos, she supposed, but in person it always managed to be filthy, disgusting, and trying to ruin her day in any way possible.

Allowing herself a private grin at Daye's annoyance with her questions, she sat back and resumed prodding at her OT, pausing only to eye a couple of the turians scattered around the mixed crowd. Though her look was certainly one of appraisal, she didn't have an eye out for combat ability like Daye or Dunn would. She noted her favorites, barely a moment later, and quietly tilted her gaze back down to the interface in front of her.

It was possible - unlikely, but possible - that this wouldn't be an objectively terrible mission.

Despite himself, Dunn found himself unable to resist a chuckle at Avery's remarks. With a degree of self reproach, he noted it was likely an age thing: after more than forty years of having total respect for one's superiors drilled into him to the point of instinct, it was eminently refreshing to see such bare-faced cheek leveled at one of the sternest, hardest Lieutenant-fucking-Colonel's - of all the rungs on the command ladder - that Dunn had ever been brought into contact with.

With a smile that a biographer may have described as 'grandfatherly' (and for which description Dunn would have responded to with gunfire, had he heard it), he jerked a thumb at the logo emblazoned on the front of his t-shirt, mouthing the word 'sun' with all the subtlety of an unruly teen in class. As the Centurion had come to expect, of course, the tech's attention was directed solely between the room's complement of gruff, burly turians and her omni-tool, leaving Dunn's unlikely appreciation of irony largely to himself.

In the absence of a direct order being barked at him from the Lt Col, that left the Centurion free to reassess the room.

That Puren's gonna be a pain in the arse. He decided sourly. In his book, anyone that had to ask how tight his reins were going to be either didn't understand his orders, or was a loose fucking cannon. Dunn was not a worldly man, but even he paid attention when the Suns made the headlines. He hadn't needed vacuous commentary to explain Puren was most assuredly the latter. Years in the Suns had blurred Lucas' lines of morality to a grey smear, but he still held on to the belief that if someone was paying you to protect them, you made absolutely fucking sure those same civvies weren't downrange when you opened up. If nothing else, it looked bad on the CV.

The deployment orders for the Legionnaires where, as usual, interesesting. "Go where needed" was, Dunn had learned long ago, a largely human perspective on force deployment; certainly when compared with the rigid, large scale unit deployments the turians tended to favour, and centuries of influence - and martial success - had left the turian outlook to be the most widely adopted. The Suns' flexibility had always impressed Dunn, moreso given it had been founded primarily by a batarian. Still, it was not an easy mandate; it required careful and detailed planning. With that in mind...

"With your permission, sir," Dunn spoke up, "I'd like to have a quick conflab with Captain Nab'Iona," he gestured politely at the officer, "after this and run over some of the logistics. Might be able to work some old contacts and speed up those care-packages from home."

And this was why Daye had been happy as all hell to have a top NCO who was an ex-loggie. More busywork he could leave to the capable hands of the Centurion, and possible snag some good side benefits out of it. One good lesson he'd taken away from the DMZ: you wanted to take care of your men you'd better be fuckin' ready to brown-nose the loggies. Fortunately his Centurion hadn't needed any flattery or shit like that---he'd seen that his new unit knew its shit, and he'd decided he'd do his best to take care of 'em.

Just another sign Daye had lucked out with the new Centurion. Hathnak, wherever the bitter four-eyed fuck was these days, could go to hell.

"Fucking go for it."

The mercenary officer looked around one last time at the assembled officers. Rossi was still standing at parade-rest off to the side of the room, stoic as always; Khor'shok was pensively lighting a cigarette, expression for once not one of barely-concealed contempt. The other officers and Legionnaires had varying expressions of the usual pre-combat keying-up---some looking as if they were already getting psyched up for action

Puren, on the other hand, was looking intently at his commander. Not disapprovingly, more as if he were...judging? Maybe so. Bastard had been given one of the newly-formed Commandos for the Katamayla contract, after all. Coming down in the world after a command like that, Daye'd be more than a little leery of any fucker appointed over him. All the same, a unit built up a reputation for itself fast in the merc world, and 13 Commando had an even nastier one than the Ninth. Only the guys who'd been under Khor'shok had any semblance of discipline...and then only when the batarian had been looking. Once he'd been transferred over to Daye's unit, the rumors had gotten worse. Torched mission stations, heavy civvie casualties in built-up area, and god help any attractive women in their AO.

Daye had shrugged it off. The Suns used ranks and the better units knew a bit of drill but they were hardly a spit-and-polish army. But some stuff was harder for the then-Major to dismiss: he and Puren were birds of a feather when it came to their engagement style,sure (overwhelming firepower was the best form of strategy in Daye's mind), but 9 Commando's men had never raped anyone. And they'd kept civvie casualties to a minimum. Not necessarily because they'd much cared but because it was bad fucking PR for the corp---just look at what had happened with Puren on that shitehole he'd last led the Thirteenth on.

Bastard steps out of line, we'll unfuck him easy. The sub-Commando leaders might've led their units like their own little fiefdoms, but that didn't mean they weren't answerable to Daye. If Puren did anything to bring down a media circus on the Ninth like his old unit, Daye and Dunn would come down on him like the Wrath of God himfuckingself.

Bearing that in mind, best break up this briefing with some final words. Daye stepped forward. "I don't need to give you guys some speech about how we're doing this for rights and independence and shit like that, cause we're not. We're doing it cause we're getting payed, and getting paid fuckin well. So look after your grunts, keep 'em in line, and we're gonna come out of this smelling like goddam roses. That kill shit." He shrugged. "Alright, so its a shitty metaphor, what d'you want? We kill things for a living, not write. Go get your men ready, I'll kick out a warning order soon as higher lets me know what's going on with transport. I'll see you all soon."

As soon as he was certain his commander was finished, Rossi paced to the front of the room once more: "A-TENN-SHUN!"

Once more, the room (save Kim Avery) snapped to.

Daye gave a satisfied nod. His men were the best---very few units in the Suns had the snap and polish of the Ninth. Or so he liked to think, fucked if he actually knew. No way in hell they could fuck up this contract, not even with Puren along for the ride. "Dismissed."

As the men filtered out of the room, he nodded at his XO and Centurion. "You two hang the fuck on. Command shit to take care of before we can hit the bars."

'Command shit'. Huh.

In all likelihood, Dunn knew whatever his CO had to say was probably business as usual - elements of the deployment plan that Dunn would have to pass down through the ranks, make sure all the NCOs understood exactly what their LTs or captains required of them. But fleetingly, he had to wonder if the issue of personnel was about to come up; specifically certain new additions. The Centurion hoped the private glower he held behind Puren's back sufficiently surmised his opinions on that particular front, but he was hardly the only new face Dunn had picked out in the command briefing. He gave a curt nod in Captain Rossi's direction, and received one in kind. As per usual, the stoic Frenchman gave nothing away. Pulling a fat cigar from the back pocket of his combats, Dunn ran it through his fingers as he watched the assembled troops begin to file out.

He flashed a quick smile as Kim slunk past, before eyeing up a pair of turian Legionnaires he had yet to learn the names of. That was something he'd have to rectify before they hit the transport ships. Appending his already lengthy mental checklist of tasks, he gave the two a quick nod as they too filed past.

He brought the cigar up to his lips for a moment, before thinking better of it and deciding to wait until after Daye's little chat. Instead, he cast an eye around the dingy, windowless red-brown surroundings that were Katange Arocology.

Get me off this fucking station already