When the briefing was over, Claire was honestly a little surprised that nobody saluted the commander - perhaps it was force of habit, but by the time she stopped herself her hand was already halfway to her head. Getting ready for the operation was no different to any other; suit up, make your peace, and bring a big stick that fired high-explosive persuasion with an under-slung argument winner. Diplomacy wasn't her strong point, but from what she knew of the Krogans, they would be impressed by a woman who had lost half her limbs and kept fighting - or, perhaps they'd see her as week, kill the party, and the civil war would rage on. Ho hum - that was the commander's area. Until they hit combat, reluctant as she was to place her fate into the hands of a drunken Turian with a dangerous ship and a prickly temper, the last few days had taught her that it was easier to let it go. If something went wrong in the field, with any luck he'd take a few to the face and not get back up, and Claire would be able to at least get the crew home. [i]It won't come to that,[/i] Claire told herself, [i]you're on board. No fucker in the universe is mad enough to try and pick a fight with you and expect to win it.[/i] It was a lie, and not even a convincing lie; by the time the major had strapped herself into her heavy field armour she had forgotten trying to delude herself and decided to focus on just keeping calm and carrying on. 

Two heavy pistols certainly helped, as did the slug-throwing rifle mag-clipped to her back. In a few places, the heavy ceramic plates of her armour were dented or scorched, but mostly their light grey surface was undamaged, while the soft hum of the built-in shields gave her a quiet reassurance that if the worst came to the worst, she could last about a minute under heavy fire without cover. That was also a lie, but not one Claire was uncomfortable with; for all her doubts about Galen, her own leadership, and the fact that she expected half of the faces she'd come to know already to be gone before the operation was over, the major knew how to kick arse, and whether it was alien arse, human arse, or some sort of bizarre plant-arse, she'd get the job done. Holding her helmet in her hands, facing her, she looked over the visor, with a stylised flag of St.George emblazoned on the front - probably not a good idea for infiltration, but she was here to provide firepower, not sneaking around. As she clipped it on, the HUD beeped into life and a series of blue panels lit up inside the helmet, feeding her information on her vitals, sensor readouts, ammunition counts; all the information the modern soldier could need.

[i]Nothing left but to trust me luck now,[/i] she mused, as she made her way to the launch shuttle. [i]It's got to change eventually.[/i]