Grey
Dialectical Hermeticist
The Hangar is a bustle of activity. Technicians scurry from access shafts to terminals to toolboxes and back. A small number of plainly military personnel are present, mostly on guard, it seems. Oddly at ease, though.
A tall, grizzled man in fatigues directs you to a tent - yes, a tent, here in the hangar. A large one - two, in fact, end on end.
"Temporary armoury and dressing rooms, rookies," he says by way of explanation. "Get in uniform, take your loadout, and get on ship."
The first tent is ranked with curtained off cubicles, and in each one is a slate-grey jumpsuit bearing an X-Insignia, a belt with pistol holster, ammo loops, and a grenade clip.
The next tent is fitted with an armed man, armed woman, and lots of chainlink - a fenced of cubicle, of sorts, within which a bored-looking, middle-aged man sits on a crate amongst piles of weapons. A quartermaster?
In any event, he hands you a pistol, rifle, some spare ammunition, and a grenade without comment.
You're quickly bundled onto the dropship, very similar to the one in which you arrived, and quickly taught to stash your gear before being strapped in.
There's quite a bit of space in here - enough to stand comfortably, if you weren't sitting. As the whirl of the last five minutes dies down, a stocky man stumps into the vessel, dressed in fatigues. This man is a General, epaulettes or not. It is a fact stamped into his very being. Although his lack of rank insignia, or any marks for that matter, is... odd.
"Alright, recruits. I'm afraid this has to be short and sweet, we don't have long. Congratulations, Sergeant Jackson - these rookies are your responsibility now." He flashes you a remarkably friendly smile. "Your mission is simple recon - an enemy vessel was shot down less than an hour ago. We didn't intend for any of you to see combat so soon, but times are hard. It's in some godsforsaken little corner of Ireland, with a small civilian presence - fortunately, we don't anticipate many hostiles, either. I'm afraid we can't tell you who you'll be fighting, because we don't know."
Behind him, a pair of soldiers board and strap themselves in, too. At least you won't be going in without some kind of competant backup...
"Good luck, X-Com. Try to come back alive."
A tall, grizzled man in fatigues directs you to a tent - yes, a tent, here in the hangar. A large one - two, in fact, end on end.
"Temporary armoury and dressing rooms, rookies," he says by way of explanation. "Get in uniform, take your loadout, and get on ship."
The first tent is ranked with curtained off cubicles, and in each one is a slate-grey jumpsuit bearing an X-Insignia, a belt with pistol holster, ammo loops, and a grenade clip.
The next tent is fitted with an armed man, armed woman, and lots of chainlink - a fenced of cubicle, of sorts, within which a bored-looking, middle-aged man sits on a crate amongst piles of weapons. A quartermaster?
In any event, he hands you a pistol, rifle, some spare ammunition, and a grenade without comment.
You're quickly bundled onto the dropship, very similar to the one in which you arrived, and quickly taught to stash your gear before being strapped in.
There's quite a bit of space in here - enough to stand comfortably, if you weren't sitting. As the whirl of the last five minutes dies down, a stocky man stumps into the vessel, dressed in fatigues. This man is a General, epaulettes or not. It is a fact stamped into his very being. Although his lack of rank insignia, or any marks for that matter, is... odd.
"Alright, recruits. I'm afraid this has to be short and sweet, we don't have long. Congratulations, Sergeant Jackson - these rookies are your responsibility now." He flashes you a remarkably friendly smile. "Your mission is simple recon - an enemy vessel was shot down less than an hour ago. We didn't intend for any of you to see combat so soon, but times are hard. It's in some godsforsaken little corner of Ireland, with a small civilian presence - fortunately, we don't anticipate many hostiles, either. I'm afraid we can't tell you who you'll be fighting, because we don't know."
Behind him, a pair of soldiers board and strap themselves in, too. At least you won't be going in without some kind of competant backup...
"Good luck, X-Com. Try to come back alive."
