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It wasn't the worst ship Fuka had ever been on, but it was close to it. The battered Buccaneer she had taken to get onto Skandia had been in slightly better condition than this "new" Black Eagle but it had also smelled much worse. She would take a few loose bolts over the stink of unwashed bunks any day.

Sitting in the rinky-dink chair with her chin in one hand and a cigarette between the fingers of the other, Fuka wondered what sort of outfit she had signed herself up for. She was a veteran sure, but her wartime service had been spent in the draconian embrace of Kurita's finest. Mercenaries had to be less strict than actual soldiers, right? There was a time and place for being a hardass but so many military types felt like they always had to wave their dicks around to get any respect.

Ulrik it seemed, was one of those prick officers. He walked in there with the tough guy act and talk of 'real battles", and Fuka immediately filed him away under "people to just nod and say yes to". Ah well, perhaps some of her comrades would turn out to be more interesting. 

In the meantime she sat up straight in her seat and listened, committing the gig's details to memory. None of it seemed too difficult, a bunch of bandits in fourth-hand Locusts would go down easy to any lance with half-decent mechs. But judging by the state of the ship, half-decent was out of Rasalhague's budget. 

She had just finished her smoke when the alarms blared, the samurai stubbing the butt out in a portable ashtray.

[color=cadetblue]"Sir, what're the guidelines on prisoners? If it's just going to be us down there, are we going to have to split ourselves up to babysit captives?"[/color] 

As much fun as it would have been to bully some asshole brigands, Fuka didn't like the idea of dedicating already limited resources to guarding them. But if that's what the boss said they were doing that's what they'd do.