[i]Collab between Igraine and RoadRash[/i]

[i]Five people murdered...sufficient cause to open previously sealed records...background investigations and criminal history checks…[/i]

Bill snorted, shaking his grizzled head in indignation. He understood, on an academic level, why they had opened the records; he also knew that his history consisted of a single assault, exacerbated only by his size and levels of intoxication at the time it had occurred. They had no reason to suspect him of being a potential serial killer. In the decades since his release from prison, he hadn’t had so much as a speeding ticket. A few punches had been thrown in the intervening years, sure, but nothing he’d ever done time for.

Still, it galled him to no end to know that everyone “in the know” now knew him as “Big Bill the Convict” instead of “Big Bill the Drill-hand.” That label would stick, it always did, and it bugged him that the first thought in people’s heads when they looked at him now would be to wonder if he was going to snap and cave somebody’s head in with his boulder-like fists.

He sat quietly in his seat, fists clenched, until the last of the questions had been answered, then rose to his full height to address the First Sergeant himself. 

“So, these records y’all opened. What’s the plan there? Y’gonna start segregatin’ those of us who messed up back in the day? I know we ain’t all angels up here. Half the minin’ crew’s been locked up for one thing or another. Gonna be hard for me to run a drillin’ operation with a cop standin’ halfway up my ass.”

Abby cocked an eyebrow as she looked to Bill, and honestly she just had to bite her inner lip for a few seconds. Hard. Because she was really about to burst out laughing, somewhere between nervous, exhausted laughter and genuine mirth at the mental image of one of her MPs dangling off the backside of “Big Bill” like some monstrous hemorrhoid. 

The sharp pain chased the giggles away - laughter that, at this moment, no one else would find funny at all. Not even her. Tired, [i]damn[/i] she was tired and could probably sleep for days. Well - [i]should[/i] sleep for days. Abby somehow doubted she’d be doing much after this briefing - if she really did get a chance to lay down anyway - but stare at the ceiling of her cabin, or at the snow-covered forest path she kept in her own portal.

Abby took a deep breath, stony-faced and appropriately somber all over again. “No Bill. No one’s records are open to public scrutiny - that I [i]can[/i] tell you. There will be no armed guards, no one peeking over anyone’s shoulder 24/7. Hell, I honestly don’t have that kind of manpower, even if that [i]was[/i] what anyone wanted to happen.”

“No segregation. No armed escorts. But as far as I’m concerned, folks [i]deserve[/i] to know that their criminal records and files and background checks have been reviewed by the people in charge.”

Nodding grumpily, his frown never leaving his face, Bill sat back down with a creak of upholstery. Though he was still irritated, it mollified the old roughneck somewhat to know that his past wouldn’t be held against him. Not in a way that interfered with his work, anyway. He was sure there would still be sidelong glances from the security teams, and that old wariness from the bosses that always comes from knowing they’re dealing with an ex-con who can (and has, unfortunately) broken a human spine with his boot, but there wasn’t much to be done about it.

Abby’s resigned gaze fell over the auditorium as Bill Cothran sat back down again. She knew he wasn’t happy, and it was more than his usual grouch at that. Hell, she wasn’t either - not by a longshot. But there wasn’t a damn thing to be done for it - all these ‘security measures’ had been a [i]fait accompli[/i] anyway, long before they woke her. 

The First Sergeant waited several long moments, ensuring there would be no more questions forthcoming before she moved on to the more banal aspects of the briefing. [i]’At least publicly.’[/i] The thought rolled through her head like the ominous rumble of distant thunder, promising the storm to come. She had no illusions that this matter was even remotely settled among the members of the Third Shift.

Still, something that vaguely resembled a smile crept on her face as she glanced toward Sergeant Davis, the wise ass Marine with her kid’s name. “A few introductions before we all head out today, so you can put some faces with the names, and know how to contact the security personnel if you need.” Abby strode to the edge of the stage, a lift of her chin indicating Mike was “on” - finally - for this round. “Sergeant Davis?”

Mike got to his feet and walked smoothly to the stage, the soft hisses and whirs of his prosthesis nearly inaudible. It was an advanced model, state-of-the-art, and he’d long since learned to compensate for the microsecond delay between his nerve impulses and the motion of the leg. As a result he moved as nimbly as he ever had, even at a dead sprint. As the Marine mounted the steps, the contained energy behind every movement was palpable; despite his calm, gentle eyes and open, easy smile, it was clear that he lived on a perpetual hair-trigger, capable of exploding into action at a moment’s notice. 

Moving with the liquid grace and confidence common to all warriors, he muttered a quiet “Rah, First Sergeant” as he passed Abby, giving her a brief grin before crossing to the center of the stage and turning to face the crowd. His clear green eyes swept the assembly briefly, cataloguing everyone present and habitually noting stances, body language, and basic temperaments in an instant. His spine was ramrod straight, shoulders back and chin up, his black-sheathed arms clasped loosely in front of him. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Sergeant Michael Davis,” he began, his calm voice carrying easily to the farthest reaches of the room. “I lead Special Response Team Bravo, here aboard the [i]Copernicus[/i]. I just wanted to take a moment to introduce myself and my men, and reassure you that the ‘men in black’ over on the Starboard side of the room are here [i]for[/i] you. We’re not government storm-troopers, despite our appearances.”

Smiling, the Marine continued, “I’ve served nine years in the Corps, as a member of 1st Force Reconnaissance Battalion out of Camp Pendleton, California. I participated in a number of combat operations, both overt and covert, in the Korean Peninsula and South China, and have been trained in everything from advanced marksmanship and airborne insertion to shipboard combat techniques and zero-gravity search and rescue.”

Allowing his eyes to roam the audience once more, seeking eye-contact with everyone present as he paused briefly for the information to settle before motioning towards his men.

“Corporal Lopez there is a Recon Marine as well, and Specialists Sullivan, Decker, and Sczruba are all Army Rangers, with similar training and combat records. Each of us is also a certified Combat Lifesaver, so we’re roughly equivalent to hospital EMTs in terms of medical expertise.”

The assembled SRT members raised their hands at the mention of their names before allowing their Sergeant to continue.

“I just want to reassure each of you that you are in good hands. The Military Police will be handling basic security throughout the ship. They’re highly trained, first-rate soldiers, and will be dealing with the day-to-day patrols and responses here aboard [i]Copernicus[/i]. You’re safe under their care. My team will be prepared, trained, and equipped to respond to emergencies ranging from heart attacks and workplace accidents, right up to a full-scale boarding operation. Not that I’m anticipating one.”

Mike grinned and stepped back, nodding to First Sergeant Larson.

“You’re in good hands, folks. If you have any questions, or need me for any reason, my door’s open 24/7. Anything further, First Sergeant?”

“No Sergeant Davis, I think you pretty much covered it all there,” Abby laughed softly, with a grin to match the Marine’s own, shaking her head as she lay her hand on his shoulder. She tilted her head just enough to cover the inch or two in height he had on her, to whisper in his ear.

[i]”Except maybe the translation, Mike. I bet half of what you just put out got auto-filtered by the civilians… “[/i] She clapped his shoulder, still grinning as she turned back to the crowd in the Auditorium. 

Mike grinned and gave her a quick wink, out of view of the audience, before stepping respectfully off to the side and assuming an easy “parade rest”, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“Before we head out,” she announced, “This would be a good time for the crew chiefs, section leaders and specialists among us to get their own introductions in as well. Faces to names - we’re going to be working together for some time.”