Dieter watched the monotonous processions wearily, anxiously pacing about the imposing vessel’s starboard side. He loathed guard duty; it was the worst kind of job you could offer a mercenary, no matter how high the pay. This hatred was only doubled by the fact that he had been constrained to a sea-borne ship; surrounded by what’s thought to be an endless ocean, what’s there to guard? Leaning against the Garrloch’s brand-new railing, he stopped to ponder this rather jarring conundrum. Looking out over the immense sprawl that was the dock, the grizzled mercenary couldn’t help but wonder why they’d hired him to look after a brand new research craft. After a moment of becoming entirely lost in thought, the would-be soldier shakes his head, returning to the task he had been so expensively hired for. As he turns to face the far-off stern of this gently-bobbing ship, he squints at the impending horizon, and the glistening waves that caress it. [i]“The final frontier…”[/i] he silently murmurs to no one in particular, recalling an old line from a dusty novel he’d bothered to read in his far-gone childhood. A loud, echoing screech from directly behind him forces the pondering mercenary to turn on his heel, his right hand grasping the rifle on his left shoulder’s wooden grip in a tensed, reflexive manner before relaxing; they’re raising the gangplank. That was his last chance to get off, he quietly realizes. However, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach quickly evaporates at the thought of the amount of money he’d be netting from this contract; enough to allow the aging veteran to retire a rather happy, wealthy individual. The warrior-for-hire takes one last, longing look at the shadowed expanse of land that hung above his disheveled head, conformed to his months-long fate. 

The truth was, not many knew why he was aboard the Garrloch to begin with. Those who’ve had the opportunity to read his official UINC file would find very scant details about the man himself; his story seems to begin upon joining up with Ghersland’s Armed Forces, where a brief, partially censored timeline tells of a man who seems to know nothing but conflict; a soldier of no particularly outstanding virtue, yet one who was eventually transferred into the Marksman Corps. This rather undescriptive and blunt account of the soldier’s career seems to end during the Siege of Highwall, a skirmish which saw a rag-tag group of supposedly Canth-originated dissidents, sick of the ever growing poverty margin, attempting to seize the old town. The battle that was to ensue became a controversial event in the years afterward; whilst marking one of the rare occasions in which Canth and Ghersland cooperated with one another, it also saw the first and only use of weaponized gas. With neither country desiring to destroy this historic landmark in inevitably brutal, house-to-house combat, the locally-based Greencloak Company pushed for this vile means to an end, arguing that most, if not all of the civilians present in the area had been successfully evacuated. After about a week of deliberation, the yellow-hued mist was flooded into the defiled old town, followed by hundreds of heavily protected soldiers. With no knowledge of what was about to occur, nor the proper protection to ward against this unforeseen enemy, these ‘rebels’ were nearly wiped out in their entirety; those whom remained were swiftly taken by the combined forces of Canth, Ghersland and the Greencloaks, and promptly executed on the spot. While having been denied by all levels of governmental seniority, there have been rumors circulating that many of the captured dissidents were forcibly exposed to the thick, death-inducing fog in order to test its effects; in any case, the weaponized gas was outright banned by the UINC in the years afterward, despite its recognized effectiveness against a well dug-in foe. Following this event, most of his recorded mercenary jobs have either been censored or completely omitted, for reasons entirely unknown. 

Several hours have elapsed now, and the islands he’d come to know and love so well were but a spec in the distance. Dieter had paced the perimeter of the Garrloch for what must’ve been the third time, only having stopped to top off his singed, worn-down pipe. With every lap, he found himself staring at different faces; not one had given him a look that echoed a sentiment of friendliness. Why would it? Even since before the ship’s maiden voyage departed, he had been briefed on how to handle a variety of potentially dangerous ship-wide scenarios, including mutiny. To many aboard, he was the one thing keeping them from wresting power away from the sea-worn captain; a thought which can’t sit well with those stubborn few. Well into his fourth lap about the ship, the mercenary decides to deviate from his established patrol route to inspect a stairway leading up and onto the Garrloch’s singular flight deck; the man’s first-day shift was about to expire, in any case. Though he was accustomed to nearly all forms of Helicopter, having briefly been a door gunner for a medical transport, the sight of the VTOL craft took him aback. It was unlike anything he’d previously seen before; a marvel of engineering he’d only read about in science fiction novels. For a while he stands about it, scrutinizing its every detail whilst engineers of all nations fuss about it. They seem to be strapping it down; lashing it in every way imaginable, as if to keep this massive, metallic bird from escaping. It seems comical to the cynical man, a gesture he considers futile, before turning towards the bow of the Garrloch at the loud crack of thunder. Dark, roiling storm clouds gathered just off in the distance, accompanied by a strong, salty wind he had never bothered to notice; Though he’d experienced storms before, there was something about sailing [i]into[/i] one, as opposed to sailing[i] away [/i]from one, that made him feel… naked.
 
It hit harder than expected. Much unlike the solid ground he was far more accustomed to, being bound to a ship in a massive storm is basically the same as, well, being stuck in a bottle and shaken ceaselessly. Having had to assist some of the panicking engineers with the lashings, Dieter was one of the few who had been unlucky enough to be caught outside when the Garrloch unflinchingly rammed the storm head on; a fact which put him where he was now, holding onto the dripping railings for dear life. The mercenary had donned the gas mask he wore on his belt, as a makeshift pair of goggles against the howling, stinging wind; it gave the already ominous looking figure an added, fear-inducing effect. After all, the use of gas was supposedly outlawed; why would the vessel’s singular mercenary carry one around on his belt? Even so, anyone who had likely bothered to care about his frightening appearance was likely inside by now, battening down the thick, metallic doors and water-sealed hatches. Having been assigned to search the deck for any stragglers, the sopping wet mercenary found himself grasping at locked entrances, inaudibly cursing beneath his muffled breath. After hopelessly wandering about the sea-sprayed deck, he found his salvation; a maintenance hatch near the bow, just partially opened. Likely a mistake, yet one which would probably save his life. The thankful soldier of fortune forces it wide open, carefully clasping the metallic rungs of a ladder that lead down far below; tightly shutting the hatch which had just barely saved his life, before disappearing below. 

Just as he had thought his lucky streak knew no bounds, a massive, vengeful rogue wave struck the side of the untested Garrloch, sending the once ladder-bound mercenary careening into a neatly-piled series of crates far down below. He shoulders into them with a thunderous crash, lying amongst the varied contents of aforementioned crates with a resounding, muffled groan, deciding against moving for now. Lifting his battered head, he spies a small, red cross from within his soaked, dripping mask, the like of which is accompanied by an adjoining sign; the Med Bay. Not without massive effort, he forces himself to stand, realizing to his relief that nothing seems to have snapped within his likely bruised self; however, he still decides to proceed towards this cross-shaped promise of welcome, looking about the relatively empty forward cargo bay for anyone that may have seen, or heard, that rather embarrassing incident; content to find no one, the limping warrior for hire proceeds down the horrifically lurching adjoining hallway, soon after taking a seat on one of several unsurprisingly plain waiting chairs, just besides the entrance of the relatively small medical center. With a blisteringly brutal migraine, as well as a sharp case of nauseating seasickness, Dieter removes his gas-preventing, annoyingly stifling mask, giving an exasperated sigh upon finding blood against the respirator; he must’ve split his chin open.  Clipping the mask back onto his belt, he taps this afflicted area with a gloved hand, confirming the damage dealt with conflicted annoyance; what a silly way to get injured. Having noticed a sailor barging into the med bay with an injured friend in tow prior, he resorts to patiently waiting, wiping away at the accumulating blood with an old, previously bloodstained handkerchief he carries about in his pocket, attempting to momentarily staunch the wound.