"Check this out." Vannin turned over a mutilated helmet in his thick fingers. A scout model helmet, mean for their sharpshooters -- originally, at least. He'd been at it with a plasma cutter for days, and the only recognizable feature left was the shape of the face. "Gonna paint it [i]black.[/i]" He said the word with an air of reverence, which made about as much sense as anything else about his new toy, but clearly it made him happy. "I know what you're thinking. 'Keller, I can't bear the thought of fighting without your ruggedly-handsome face to inspire me.' Don't worry, see, I cut out the respirator and the cheeks, so you can still...."

"Brass. Lock it up." 

Vannin reluctantly lowered his voice, but his mouth kept moving as he explained the bizarre design choices to no one in particular. He and a handful of other vets were lined up in (what passed for) their pretty uniforms in the hangar, ready to welcome some green rebel regs to the real job. Had to look all prim and proper for the marching types -- the captain even rigged up a speaker to play a very military-sounding tune for the fresh meat. The bullshit couldn't be over fast enough. Only one part in ten on this boat came from the Rebellion proper, and the rest was all black-market at best. They'd get the real picture soon enough. Then they'd adjust their expectations or they'd buy the farm like the LT. Slooga had just the medicine to fix that kind of hurt, and presently it was giving Vannin a headache that could tame a rancor. He put the picture of the LT in a box, and shoved it aside. New faces meant new work, hopefully. He didn't know much about rebel officers, but for this kind of work, the new guy better come with balls and salt, or they'd have to send a new one real quick.