Entry 8B
The Gala of the Millennia
Author's Note: First and foremost, this is one of my first attempts at a "party" scene with writing, so if this chapter falls flat, apologies in advance.
Second, if you are reading this, please consider two things:
Number 1, this is a FANFICTION, not serious canonical writing, so please account for writing liberties. I create new weapons, new planets, new sub-factions and characters to separate it for the most part from events in the main setting to give this work a distinct identity. Also, this is from a first-person perspective, the narrator is inherently unreliable, so what he reports is not a totally accurate reflection of reality.
Number 2, this is WARHAMMER 40,000, aka one of the most over the top settings to exist, in which what is canon and what isn't fluctuates wildly. Please, for the love of all things Holy, do not take everything as gospel, especially when tomorrow our overlords at Games Workshop and Black Library could decide to change it on a whim. Up until the mid-2010s, GW would have you think that the Ultramarines were invincible, so please, relax.
Rant over, enjoy the chapter!
"Sir?" Came an over-enthused voice. My eyes opened, blinking rapidly as they readjusted to the light of the library, as I groggily straightened myself in the chair. Looking up, I could make out the blurry visage of one of Fadri's servants standing over me expectantly.
"Can I help you?" I grumbled, rubbing my hands with my hands.
"No sir, I'm here to help you! The gala is starting in ten minutes, I was sent to escort you there," the servant answered. I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes and sass the oblivious man. I stood, stretched, nodded to the man, and followed him out. I could hear the buzz of the gala's attendants from further in the mansion, the growing noise began to amplify my headache, which had fallen back to its base level since I had arrived.
Upon entering the ballroom, my senses were immediately assailed on every front: pipe and Lho-stick smoke conflicted with the scent of candles and incense, voices of varying pitch rang in my ears, and a multitude of people writhed before me in a kaleidoscope of colors, shapes, and sizes. It made the introvert in me have a stroke, and, for a moment, I considered turning and running. Ironic; I had stood my ground against Orks, Tau, and traitors, yet today, paperwork and a party had made me consider running. I chuckled at the notion, drawing the attention of the servant.
"Is this amusing to you, sir?" He asked.
"Nothing, just a thought," I answered, "I can take it from here, thank you for the escort."
"As you wish, sir, enjoy the party!" The servant abruptly spun away and disappeared, leaving me to figure out what the hell to do. First thing's first: find the Redeye or a known friendly face. I cautiously moved into the crowd, weaving my way through the press of officers, officials, and partygoers, eyes scanning every face I passed.
Midway through the crowd, I thought, "Fuck it, where's the bar? If anyone I know is here, they're probably where the liquor is." I quickly moved my way out of the throng to the edge of the room and began searching along the perimeter of the room. Now, it had been a hot minute since I had been at a party of this scale, so naturally, I blundered into someone by mistake. My right arm and shoulder made contact with someone's back, causing us both to stumble.
"My bad!" I called, turning to face the individual I had offended, and promptly froze. The individual question, a woman, wore the dress uniform of a Commissar. Now, as a note, I know Commissars aren't all hair triggers when it comes to execution, but I am inherently nervous around those who can, at will, put a bolt shell through my head. "Terribly sorry, ma'am!"
"No harm done," the Commissar said, turning to face me. She was shorter than me by a head, with brunette hair, brown eyes, and a surprisingly gentle face, I was mildly taken aback. "Lieutenant Russman, is it?" I glanced downwards to the right side my chest, double checking to make sure I had a name tape on to identify me. "Can't remember your name, lieutenant?"
I chuckled, "No, Commissar; new uniform. Making sure I've got all the bells and whistles I need." She smiled slightly, nodded, and offered a hand.
"Katerina Vitoria; Commissar for the 1st Agementa Grenadiers, 1st Battalion."
"Because of-fucking-COURSE!" I thought as I shook the outstretched hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Commissar; how are you finding the unit?"
"I haven't seen it, truth be told," admitted Katerina, "I arrived on planet two hours ago and was whisked here by some administrator."
"If we're talking about Fadri, you' find yourself in good company. On another note, have you found the bar? I'm hoping my captain or one of my fellow platoon leaders will be there."
"An astute observation, follow me," Katerina turned around, heading towards the bar with me in tow. It took a few minutes to do so, as the gala was now in full swing, but we eventually found our way there. Leaning on the bar, red eye dimmed for the sake of appearances, was Captain Apelles, engaged with in conversation with a brunette woman in a royal blue dress, tinged with a rich purple.
"Ah, Russman there-" Apelles cut off as he caught sight of Commissar Vitoria. "Lieutenant?"
"Sir?"
"You are either blessed or cursed by the Emperor with the knack for finding…interesting people." Katerina chuckled at my expense, extending a hand to the Redeye.
"Commissar Vitoria; I'm to be attached to your battalion," she introduced.
"Captain Urban Apelles, 1st Company commander. I see you've met the regiment's finest officer," Apelles took her hand and shook as I blushed behind the commissar.
"Is he now? I'm afraid I've only just arrived on planet. You'll have to enlighten me," Vitoria slid in next to the Redeye.
"Happily; Lieutenant Russman, will you see to my lovely companion here, please? There's a good lad," and before I had a chance to say a word, he and the commissar were knee deep in conversation. Being a good wingman, I turned to the Redeye's accomplice, who was blinking in surprise at his back.
"You get it used to it," I stated, moving to the opposite side of the woman, noting she lacked a drink. "Mind if I get you a drink, ma'am?"
"Sure, you pick," the woman answered, turning and shaking her head. On que, the bartender appeared, looking expectantly at the two of us.
"Ya'll wouldn't happen to have any tequila, or be able to make a margarita, would you?" I asked on a whim.
"Both, sir!" The bartender replied.
"Fantastic, the lady will have a margarita with salt, I'll have some scotch, please," the bartender spun away, and, once again, the woman was blinking in surprise. "Lieutenant Ald Russman, at your service," I extended a hand towards her.
"Joy Marie, a pleasure," Joy shook my head, a smile on her face that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her voice, I noted, was also not local; more American sounding than the English, Scot, Wesh, Irish-esque accents I heard from the Freeporters and Cruan. "So, I hear you're some sort of hero; is that true?"
"So some say," I answered, shrugging, "I was just a man in the right place, at the right time, with the right tools for the job."
She nodded, "And what do others say?"
"No clue, ma'am; haven't heard 'em," I replied casually. The bartender returned with our drinks, placing them in front of us before swooping towards another patron. "So, where are you from, Ms. Joy?"
"I'm from Scudu Reale, a sub-sector over, representing the interests of one of the noble houses," Joy answered. Have you ever heard an answer that was technically correct, yet wasn't the right truth? That was the feeling I felt wash over me with her answer. She then doubled down, "Scudu Reale is a Knight World; their reigning house lords are concerned with the developments in Agementa."
"So you're like a scout for them, of sorts," I observed.
"Of a sort," she replied, "although Administrator Fadri would rather me report that all is well, if only to avoid attention from others."
"Well it's a little late for that," I said, taking a short sip of the whiskey, and was PROFOUNDLY disappointed in my drink. "You can tell Lord or Lady Whoever that Ard Allie could do with some proper scotch, for one."
"I'm sure they would enjoy an assessment of the planet's alcohol, but not from me," Joy sipped her own drink, and I watched, curiously, as she almost violently reacted to the taste of her drink.
"Don't drink much?" I inquired.
"No, no," she spluttered, coughing slightly, "it's-it's just," she coughed again.
"Was that her first drink?" I wondered. "Mind if I try?" Joy handed the glass to me, allowing an inquisitorial sip. It was mild, sweet, and tangy, just like a decent margarita should, so either that had been her first run in with alcohol, or the nobles on this Scudu Reale were pansies. *Yes, as a matter of fact, they are. Never try and drink an infantryman under the table, folks.*
"I can ask for something more mild if you'd like?"
"No-no, I'm alright," Joy proceeded to take another sip, grimacing this time, but swallowing all the same. "Not used to drinking much."
"Nothing wrong with that," I scanned the party goers around us; many had food or drink in their hands, and the ballroom was filled with laughter, chatter, and distant music that I'm certain the Ecclesiarchy would not approve of.
"You look uncomfortable here," Joy remarked.
"I am; there's too many people I don't know. Besides, I've got actual work to do."
"Like what?" Joy seemed to lean in at this point, either because she was genuinely interested, or it she so much of a lightweight that the alcohol was already kicking in. Either way, I decided to be a dumbass about it, giving her a nice big grin.
"Working my way into the heart of a certain lady of a sub-sector away," I answered, winking. The interest faded from her eyes as they rolled and I chuckled, downing the last of my watery scotch. "In all seriousness, I've got people to take care of, and a mountain of paperwork to plow through."
"I'm sure," Joy had turned away now, taking another sip from the margarita, grimacing again, her interest having shifted. Taking the hint, I stepped away from the bar, sighting a uniform from the Grenadiers in the crowd, and dove in. Just before I fully emersed myself, I glanced back at Joy; she was still at the bar, watching me as I left. I gave one final wink for shits and giggles and wove my way through the throng. The first person I bumped into was the absolute last person I wanted to see; First Lieutenant Ipswich.
"Ahhh, Russie!" He exclaimed, as if we were best friends. The unfortunate side of being an officer is politicking, the occasional brown-nosing, and forced smiles. Ipswich swung an arm up around my shoulder, and I dutifully fell under it. As he pulled me in, I pushed forward a little harder than I should have, nudging him off balance.
"Enjoying the party, sir?" I called over the din of voices.
"Always, Russie! Let me introduce you to fine society!" Ipswich replied. For the next fucking hour I was stuck talking it up with Ard Allie's bluebloods; mind you, I don't knock the upper class unless they're absolute jackasses, which was the unfortunate case with Ipswich's friends.
I was treated to a masterclass in how to weave a conversation, so that at any point, if you try to leave, you'll look like an ass. The subject matter was always about some local gossip or other uninteresting topic, yet Ipswich and Co. managed to weave it the topic into some uninformative lesson for me, so I couldn't leave! In the press of people, I was somehow handed two drinks of champagne, which, blessedly, took my headache out of the picture, and made the conversation much more bearable.
Then, out of nowhere, a hand found my shoulder, and turned me roughly around. The world spun for a moment, before I was greeted by the bearded, weathered face of a Cruan native.
"OI!" He yelled, his breath reeking of scotch. "ARE YOU RUSS?"
"Sure!" I replied, too taken aback to think of a response. The Cruan ripped me away from Ipswich's circle, dragged me through the crowd, and stood me in front of a cluster of three other Cruan natives.
"THIS IS THE ONE!" The first one screamed. I looked around in utter confusion, until my eyes settled on the blocky letters of a name tape. MCDONAGH.
"Ya'll wouldn't happen to know a Benny McDonagh, would you?"
"Aye! He's our cousin!" The second man said as the third produced a bottle. "He told us to make sure you had a proper Cruan party!" As it turns out, the bottle was the good scotch, and for the next half hour, Benny's extended family, who consisted of three kilted warrant officers that had snuck into the party, attempt to pour the damn thing down my throat, one shot glass at a time.
I foolishly had three shots before I was able to get away to the bathroom, now fully tipsy, on the cusp of drunk. My younger sister would tell you this is where the fun begins, but, frankly, this is where the stupid happens to me. As I collected myself over a sink, I felt a presence over my right shoulder; looking up into the mirror, I found none other than my new boss, General McKendrick, moving to the sink next to me.
"Lovely farce, isn't it?" He inquired. "As if there wasn't a war going on outside our gates."
"Seems fun enough to me, sir," I replied, my words coming out more slurred than I intended. McKendrick chuckled at my intoxication, clapping me on the shoulder.
"Enjoy Fadri's Farce while it lasts, lad; it'll be the last true enjoyment you have," he stated ominously, and left the room. I stood there for a moment, contemplating the meaning of my commanding general's words before a burst of chatter from the bathroom door brought me back to reality. I pushed out of the bathroom into the hallway and was almost immediately greeted by a hand on my arm and a voice in my ear.
"There you are!" Lieutenant Bundrick damn near screamed in my ear. I turned in stunned surprise to my counterpart, who gave a tipsy giggle at my shock. "Where have you been?"
"Around, where have you been?" I retorted, equally as tipsy.
"Stuck with Mac the whole time; I swear without "Brenny" around him, Mac's about as dull as a hammer!" She swayed slightly, so, despite the fact I probably was swaying too, I offered my arm.
"Well Ms. Bundrick, let's make your evening more interesting, shall we?" The two of us, both tipsy and on the verge of drunk, swayed our way onto the dance floor, bumbled our way through the crowd, and started dancing. I use the word "dancing" lightly for two reasons: 1. I was tipsy as fuck, and 2. I historically have two left feet. Thusly, the "dancing" consisted of intoxicated stumbling, swaying, out-of-time movements, bumping into other equally, if not more intoxicated party goers, and giggling to the point of hiccups with Bundrick.
To briefly describe my impromptu dance partner, Abigail Bundrick (referred to as Abby or Bundy in the future) stood at 5'4 compared to my 5'9, had chocolate brown hair, hazelnut-colored eyes, mocha colored skin, a round face with an easy smile, and a lithe build. Of the five lieutenants in 1st Company, she was the smallest, yet the most endurable and the fastest among us. She was also, barring Captain Apelles, the only other officer I fully trusted within the company, as she had proven herself competent, if a tad too controlling and anal with her decision-making process. Ipswich was too full of himself to be of any benefit and MacCallum…had a tendency to get lost. So, Abby and I danced and drank a good portion of the night away, giggling, stumbling, and making the best of a party of blue-bloods and older, boring folk. However, all good things must come to an end.
"Ald Russman!" A hand clapped me on the shoulder and hauled me out of the crowd. Through me drunken vision and renewed headache, I saw the ever-half-smiling face of Administrator Fadri; his wiry frame surprisingly strong and he appeared completely sober.
"Sir? I slurred out. Fadri said nothing, merely slid me into a group if equally drunken partygoers, wrapped his arm around me, and started speaking to his guests. Colonel Janus and Deacon Jungkin, both as sober as Fadri, also appeared and mixed into the conversation, which I could barely make out through my haze. The only thing I knew was that my headache was steadily increasing as time went on, and I began rubbing my head.
"Are you alright, son?" Janus asked, having repositioned himself in the cluster to be next to me.
"Yessir," I answered, lying, "I just thinking the hangover is coming a little faster than expected." Fadri looked down at me, left eyebrow cocked up.
"Sounds like the youngster can't handle his liquor, Fadri; you sure you made the right choice?' Janus taunted, patting me on the back and getting Fadri's arm off my shoulder. "Perhaps it's time we let the lad go."
"Well what do you say, Ald Russman?" Fadri asked.
"I-" my hand went to my head again as it began to pound, as if my brain had gotten a hammer and was trying to force its way from my skull.
"Administrator," Jungkin was beside Fadri now, "the lieutenant should take his leave of us older folk now." Fadri's eyes narrowed as the drunken gathering around us watched, curious as to what would happen.
"You're correct," Fadri relented, "enjoy the rest of the evening, Mr. Russman."
"Appreciate it sir," I thanked, "great party you've got here." I turned and stumbled away, the haze of drunkenness replaced with a ever-thickening fog of pain, my sight blurring as it grew denser and denser.
My last memory of the night was of me exiting the residence into the cool night air of Ard Allie, saying aloud "Legs, you know where to go, get me there," before everything went to black.
0600 Hours…ish
Consciousness slowly returned to me, my mind awakening to the sound of a dull buzz and a significant lack of the last night's mystery headache. Instead, it had been replaced with a hangover headache.
I allowed my eyes to open, then forced them open as they snapped closed from the florescent light. I was at my desk at Building 19-98, still in my dress uniform, with the gifted las-pistol on the desk in front of me. I flexed my fingers and discovered a new pain; holding them up, I discovered bloodied fingers, my nails chipped and scraped at. Looking at the las-pistol, I saw smears around the jewel at the center of the grip, like I had been trying to pry it free with my bare hands. The oh-so recent memory of receiving the pistol rang in my mind.
Hmm.
I stood, cleaned my hands, my desk, and wrote a note to the Redeye that I would be in later that day. Once that was done, I went back to my quarters, showered, shaved, changed, grabbed the broadsword and the laspistol, and wandered the streets of Ard Allie looking for a tinker. It took me two hours, but I found a small shop towards the north-side of the city, called Tinker Tick's. Entering the shop, I found a mess of tools, hardware, and half-finished projects strewn about on various worktables. Perfect.
"Hello?" I called. A disheveled man abruptly popped up from behind a far counter, eyes wide and still crusted with sleep, one servo arm whirring.
"Morning!" The man greeted, his voice laden with energy in spite of his post-waking features, "How can I help you today…this morning?" I approached and placed the two weapons on the counter.
"How long would it take to fix a…less flashy hilt to the sword and remove the gem from the pistol grip?" I asked. The tinker looked down for a half second before replying.
"Two days for the sword, and five minutes on the pistol."
"That includes filling the hole?"
"Fifteen minutes."
"Fifteen minutes plus the five minutes, or fifteen minutes total?"
"Total."
"How much?" The tinker pointed to the ornate hilt.
"I could pay all my tithes for the month with just that," he stated flatly.
I nodded, "Sounds like a deal; mind if I wait here for the las-pistol?" The tinker shrugged.
"Not my time I'm wasting," he replied, scooping up the two items and disappearing into the back of his shop. Assuming that was his way of saying "Sure, you can stay if you want," I took a gander of the shop. As previously observed, unfinished projects lined the sides of the workshop on various tables and desks, but, upon closer inspection, beneath the mess lay completed projects, either left in abandonment or unsold. I looked through them for a bit, in addition to studying the unfinished projects, preoccupying my mind while I waited.
"Done," he said, setting the laspistol the counter. The grip hadn't been filled in, instead it had been replaced by a rubber grip, wrapped around a metal core, with a brass butt. "Seemed better to make it more functional," the tinker explained, laying the original grip on the counter as well. Without thinking, I scooped the grip up, gem and all, and pocketed it, then placed the laspistol into the holster.
"Thanks, and the sword will be done in 2 days?"
"Sure will, provided I don't have any interruptions."
"Anything else I can pay to ensure there aren't any?"
The tinker shook his head in dismissal. "It's an easy job, the tricky part is making sure you don't compromise the blade and the balance.
"Then I'll see you in two days; thanks for the quick work," I turned and left, the tinker grunting in reply. Upon leaving, I pulled the detached pistol grip out, fiddling with the bloodied blue gem in the center. Part of me wanted to throw it away…but something made me keep it, like a literal itch in my skull.
Tucking it away, I began making my way back to Building 19-98 to go to work, then made a sharp turn into a bakery. Even in the grim darkness of the 41st Millenium, the guy who's late has to bring in recaf and breakfast treats, in this case ham-and-cheese jambons. The pastries were still warm when I walked into work, the building abuzz with activity; the company was in the midst of arming itself for the coming campaign, with the platoons conducting mass weapon layouts to verify weapon serial numbers, amounts of charge packs, round counts, etc.
My first stop brought me to 1st Platoon's layout, wherein SFC Volker was observing Eddie, Vic, Irv, Hob, Si, and Benny going through their squads' gear. Volker was finishing his own cup of recaf when I came alongside him.
"Late morning, sir?" He asked, barely glancing my way as he placed his cup down and plucked another from one of my trays.
"Something like that," I replied, placing another six recaf cups on a desk nearby, alongside a plate of jambons, "how are the lads and ladies looking?"
"Like we need to drill them before we even look in the direction of the traitors," Volker stated, nodding to several of the Guardsmen who seemed to be sluggish or confused in their efforts.
"Run them through some weapon assembly and disassembly drills as a start; I'll talk to the Redeye about getting us some time to run through some exercises before we step off," I promised. Volker nodded and turned to me, first taking in tired, hungover eyes, then my damaged fingers.
"Fun night, sir?"
"Something like that."
"Anything I need to worry about?"
"I don't think so; I'll let you know if that changes."
"Good enough for me, sir. When you have time, we do need to go through your gear and pick out our Vox Operators (VOs)."
"I'll set aside some time for that today, for now I need to go report in with the captain."
"Right-o sir, you know where to find me. And be sure to see the Medicae about your hands; the last thing we need is for you to die of infection before we even leave!"
"Will do," I turned and headed for the office, ascending the stairs slowly as to not spill or drop any of my cargo. Entering, I saw my three fellow platoon leaders all bent over their desks, heads down and away from the buzzing florescent light of the room. They looked up; Ipswich and MacCallum looking worse than Abby did, who offered a pleasant half-smile and a wave as I entered.
"There's a good lad, Russie, yes, thank you," Ipswich groaned in gratitude as I placed the food and drink on an empty end table.
"Russ, you're alright, mate," Mac said, standing and clapping me on the shoulder as he snatched the recaf up.
"You're not so bad yourself, Mac," I replied, taking my own pastry and recaf.
"Is it that easy to win you over, Mac? Recaf and treats?" Abby teased.
Mac took a large bite of his first jambon, a long swig of recaf, chewed, swallowed, nodded and said, "Yeah pretty much."
"A simple life is the best life, I can respect that" I said, raising my cup towards Mac in a mini-toast.
"So what happened to you, Russie? Someone said you left the party early," Ipswich asked, his smugness returning with each sip of recaf.
"One of my squad sergeants had relatives at the party; he apparently told them to 'make sure I had a proper Cruan party', and they slipped me some strong scotch," I replied. A partial lie, but good enough for this instance.
"Couldn't hold proper Cruan liquor there, Freeporter?" Ipswich taunted.
"Easy there, Ipswich," the Redeye cautioned from his office doorway, "we Freeporters can take more than you think!"
"Of course, sir, never meant anything by it!" Ipswich replied hurriedly.
"Ald," the Redeye greeted, taking his own cup of coffee, seemingly not feeling last night's ill effects "feeling alright?"
"Yessir; jut feeling last night's aftereffects, that's all," I smiled and raised my cup again. This was a fatal mistake; Apelles's good eye locked onto my hastily bandaged fingers and fixed there for a moment before moving on.
"Lieutenant Hunders, Sergeant Newman, a moment please?" The quiet company XO and first sergeant appeared from their own offices to listen. The Redeye, satisfied that the required audience was present, cleared his throat and spoke.
"Right; we have sixteen days remaining before we march from Ard Allie, and we've used the first five days on paperwork, parties, and getting to know each other. From now until we step-off, we do not waste time with paperwork, parties, or meaningless banter during the work day; our focus is preparation for war. We've got nine hundred Guardsmen, half of whom barely know the other half, and all they've been doing is gear layouts and admin, instead of training. Starting tomorrow at 0600, we will begin drilling and conducting exercises in order to make ready, and to build unit cohesion. I demand the best of all of you through these next sixteen days, as will each of your Guardsmen; if I see anything less, you will know it, you will correct it, or you will not be apart of the Guard in any leadership capacity. Am I 100% understood?"
"Yes sir!" Everyone replied.
"Any questions, comments, or concerns before we begin?" Abby raised a bandaged hand, "Lieutenant Bundrick?"
"Are you going to keep talking sir, or can we get started?" The Redeye bowed his head and chuckled in spite of himself.
"Bundrick, I want a plan drawn up for a weapons range by the end of tomorrow. Ipswich, use every connection you have to get us to a training area for a three-day dry-fire exercise within the next two days. MacCallum, I want a complete supply roster for the exercise and the range. Russman, you're in charge of planning the exercise and the opposing force (OpFor)."
"As in I am the OpFor, sir?" I couldn't keep a note of excitement out of my voice as I asked.
"Yes; 1st Platoon will be against the entirety of the company," the Redeye answered.
"If he's the opposition, why is he planning our exercise?" Mac inquired, genuinely curious.
"Russman will be in charge of the overall plans; how the training is conducted is up to you three. He will also be in charge of how he executes being OpFor, and he will be evaluated based on his performance, as will the rest of you."
"So he gets graded on how badly he bends us over?" Ipswich's voice held a tone of resentment in it, earning a firm glare from the captain's cybernetic eye.
"He will, and you will be evaluated on how well you develop your own tactics, respond to Russman's antics, and conduct yourself on the mission. Any other questions?"
"Sir," Abby spoke up, "why Russman?"
"Allow me to answer with a question; by show of hands, who among you has seen combat outside of Ard Allie's defensive lines?" Of the four platoon leaders, only I raised my hand, "And there is your answer. Any other questions?" No other hands were raised. "To work then; Lieutenant Russman, a moment, please." I left my coffee and proceeded into the Redeye's office.
"Sir?" I said cautiously as I came to the position of parade rest before his desk, hands clasped firmly behind my back.
"What happened to your hands?" Was the Redeye's immediate demand. I sighed and unwrapped my hands in response, showing my raw fingertips. "What in the Emperor's name did you do?"
"Couldn't tell you, sir; I woke up this morning at my desk after I left the gala," I answered…mostly truthfully. The captain stared me down for a moment before sighing.
"Will that," he gestured to my hands, "be the cause of any problems for this company in the future?"
"No, sir, no problem at all," I answered, quickly and almost involuntarily. Again, the captain stared me down.
"Very well," the Redeye relented, "we'll have a conversation later today regarding full expectations for the exercise, for now, go coordinate with the quartermaster and Volker for equipment."
"Will do, sir." I came to attention, pivoted on my heels, and made to leave.
"And Ald," I turned back to the Redeye, "your actions at Barr Maol have earned the attention of many people, several of whom would like nothing more to see you fail. Be aware, be cautious, and be smart, understood?"
"Yes sir, understood."
"Dismissed." I left the Redeye's office and got to work; the words of the Redeye and Administrator Fadri both echoing in my mind.