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[b]Ques, Camp Valor (23.241° N, 58.566° E)
0820 hours, 15:6, 4 ABY[/b][hr]
The lights hummed their dull sound as they slowly began to grow from dim dots to what felt like the brightness of suns to Elias. He rustled from his position on his bunk, grunting before throwing his feet to the side, his head throbbing for a second and his vision blurring as he struck the ground. His first steps were sluggish, but he picked up pace as his men streamed by him into the open canteen. A pot of the bitter powdered coffee was already steaming on the counter, and all made way for Elias to receive a cup, which he then began to sip from. His appetite was not there, but nor was his strength, so he opted to gather what one might consider 'marching food'. Some hardtack and thin cuts of heavily seasoned Bantha meat would do, and he went to work as he sat down, a datapad produced from its carrier as he swiped along.

His typing and swiping carried on for a good amount of time, and his plate slowly cleared, the mug of coffee becoming empty, and he called upon his Sergeant, the faithful second-in-command and advisor he had fought with for some time, and he rose, announcing, "Quiet! All teams to the operations quarters by 0930 hours." And as he sat, continuing to sift through his messages, he again looked at the time, which had passed quickly: 0920. The canteen around him was now barren, his troops getting their head-start. He rose, disposed of his dishes, and stretched, stifling a yawn before turning to head outside.

And he was met now with a downpour. Monsoon season on Ques. It reminded him of home, but it was inconvenient, the ground turned to thick mud and everything coated in a deep blanket of rain, obscuring the ability to see. He pulled his cowl around himself tightly before making for the command post, trudging through the thick brown sludge which constituted the ground. He arrived at the command post drenched with his boots coated in mud, but it did not bother him, his own experience having produced the same result throughout his childhood. He hung his cowl at the door and exchanged his boots for casual plimsolls, allowing them both to dry.

He turned towards the operations quarters and headed within. He was met with the entire detachment seated by team in three rows, five chairs long, and a podium at the front, a holoscreen display situated behind it. He coughed, taking the podium and producing his datapad once more, starting to speak. "Right. We've got our first contract for our cover. Got some illicit goods traders called the Golden Exchange wanting us to protect an arms deal about 100 klicks west of here. I know nobody's a fan of protecting some gunrunners, but Central says their word's good seeing as they sold to the Alliance before. Not to mention the credits and potential information involved. Objectives entail securing the AO and keeping away 'prying eyes'. The prying eyes weren't specified, so expect anything from rival gangsters to the boys in white themselves. I want the E-Web dug in where it can get maximum coverage of all possible angles. I want Alpha team to position themselves with a hardpoint at the Northwest approach, stretching along the North and West, with Bravo doing the inverse at the Southeast approach, stretching along the South and East. Am I clear?" The troops responded in unison, "Aye, Staff Sergeant."

"Good," replied Elias. "Carry on about yourselves. We depart tomorrow at 0730 on the [i]Ark[/i]. And remember, no unit flashers or patches, maintain complete OPSEC." The troops began to disperse and Elias was left in an empty room with only his thoughts. He noticed his tenseness, his age despite his youth, and he sat in one of the chairs, producing a cigarra and slipping it between his lips, striking his electric lighter, allowing the sweet-scented smoke to drift from the item, and he relaxed.