Harold was not surprised when a troop of new recruits walked into the G.M.D Department. He had woken up early specifically to get this done before they arrived, but it seemed that time had not been on his side. He quickly picked up the new ballistic glass plate and slotted it in, a magnetic screwdriver tightening everything up. Last training exercise had been with blanks, and they had cracked and chipped the glass in numerous ways, so he was fixing that. Minor tweaks to the place where he slotted his arm through to make sure that it still fit- he had been bulking up in preparation for going on missions once more.

There was a clank and a few of the rookies turned his way as he eased the construct down onto the floor, before bracing it. The straps were perfect; they fit snugly and he could easily rotate his arm around to a degree without feeling it chafe or pinch. The glass could be a better quality, it seemed to have a slight grey tint to it, although maybe this was a deliberate new policy to avoid being blinded by the light like some previous operators had been. 

To the recruits, he would have seemed like an anomaly. He wasn't in any specific files as he hadn't been given a callsign under the previous operators, and yet here he was, clearly not a member of the new shipment, wearing combat boots and trousers, a long black top covering up his top and providing a little padding for the feat of lifting up the shield. His shotgun was also on the table and he pulled it up, placing it in position atop his shield, away from the recruits.

He listened to Frankie nervously make his spiel. For an operator six years his senior, Frankie sure didn't like public speaking. Hefting back his shield, he placed it back down, his shotgun atop it, and turned back to face the newbies. A platinum-blonde haired woman, a dark haired man... Well, those descriptions could have fit quite a few people in the line. He sat back on the chair and watched with a poker face, wondering who would step up first.