Roger sat on his bunk, a half smoked cig tucked between his fingers as he pored over an old aviation manual he had managed to keep with him from home. He'd had the book since he was 8 years old, having received it as a gift for receiving high marks that year in school, and the paperback showed its age and use well. The spine was wrinkled and in places non-existent. Its cover was faded and worn away at the edges. Several pages were warped and discolored after an ill-placed beverage was knocked over onto it. Yet it still hadn't quite fallen apart just yet.

It was a book he'd read many times over the course of his adolescence; he knew the thing well enough to recite in backwards in his sleep at this point, but still he couldn't stop himself from going through it time and time again. It used to be a way to facilitate his fantasies of being a pilot, heroically braving storms to make impossible deadlines. But now it carried a different context. It was his way to remember his home in a way that felt productive to him. Sitting around reminiscing about the past getting sad and homesick was a waste of time, but a pilot had to be well aware of the physical forces at work on their vehicle. A plane was nowhere close to a Framewerk, but the same principles still applied.

It was in the middle of this reading that all the pilots were called to briefing. Already? What could this be about? Roger snuffed out the cigarette currently in hand and placed it into the book to act as a makeshift bookmark before he scrambled to make himself presentable for active duty. 

Rooney was one of the last pilots from Squad Sigma to show up, but that wasn't surprising, just a bit frustrating. For the briefing he did as he usually did and kept his stupid mouth shut, but he couldn't keep his mind from keeping a running commentary of the whole thing.  For instance, when Elise decided to come along despite her grievous injuries, he wanted to cart her back over to the infirmary. Yes, broken bones do stop a soldier's duty. That's what the entire point of having a medical ward in the first place was. He might be a chronic over-worker, but even he could spot an example of egregious work ethic that was liable to do more harm than good. But as long as she didn't try to get into the cockpit of a 'werk, it would probably be fine.

When he actually saw the Cruxi, a great deal of dread came over him. It was obvious why they'd try to keep an elite alive and in human possession. The tactical advantages were just too great to throw away. But there was the inescapable feeling in his gut that this was wrong and would only backfire. Either the thing would escape, be a target for rescue, or mess with things behind its container. No amount of reassurance of neural dampening or similar safeguards would change that. Everyone would be better off if the so-called POW were just exterminated right there and then.

Elora being kept in a similar sort of barrier also made a degree of sense. Who knew what the hell the Cruxi did to her. Until this was known, it wouldn't be safe to leave her to her own devices. But it still wasn't right to isolate her like an animal with rabies. She was a human being, dammit. But he bit his tongue to keep it in check, literally. Unlike Mai/Maria, he knew it wasn't his place to make these sorts of judgment calls. Top brass could have just as easily kept them in the dark about the nature of their "cargo," it was a privilege to even be told this much, and acting like a child who knew better about the way things were wouldn't help anything. All he was able to do now was get ready to depart, try his best and hope that things didn't blow up in their faces.