[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/190711/d85b94130afb7c4900935f5ab212fa77.png [/img] [sub][url=https://youtu.be/C3yP_-lOhzA]♫ Mood Music ♫[/url][/sub][/center] [right][hr][color=white][b][b]Smith's Rest | Public House[/b][/b][/color] January 16th, 2677[hr][/right] [indent][indent][indent][color=gray]“Coffee please. Black’s fine.”[/color] The young man shifted in his thick jacket; even in the temperature controlled areas of Smith’s Rest, he still couldn’t find any real warmth. He was used to [i]heat[/i] after all; spending years working in the southeast and southwest. He’d braved dust storms, hurricanes, beasts and raiders, but he worried that it would be the cold that would eventually do him in. “Not used to the cold?” The proprietor of the public house inquired, handing him a steaming metal mug. [color=gray]“Can’t say I am,”[/color] the man muttered, sipping at the mug before recoiling from the heat. [color=gray]“Damn that’s hot! Good though,”[/color] he added, attempting another sip. “You’re not one of those new pilots that have been hired, are you?” The man suddenly seemed a little worried at the young man’s demeanor and attitude. [color=gray]“Well I’m here for orientation and interview,”[/color] he added after another sip. [color=gray]“But it’s not uncommon for pilots to get cut from a job due to lack of information and knowledge. Sometimes you have to build a reputation in an ar-” [/color] “We know about mercs.” The proprietor snapped. “We don’t need mercs. We need pilots.” The man brought the mug upwards, swallowing the boiling liquid with one gulp, before convulsing slightly due to the heat. He placed the mug on the counter and handed his credit chit over. [color=gray]“That’s good news then, because I [i]am[/i] a pilot.” [/color] He stood up, smirking at the man, before stepping outside. It was oddly silent until the sudden howl of the man’s voice sounded through the metal door. [color=gray]“[i]FUCK THAT WAS HOT![/i]”[/color] Alan Fouren stood looking out a thick glass window into what seemed like endless roving snowfields. His mouth still burned, but he felt he’d made his intent clear; at least until he failed to stick the landing with that last attempt to appear tough. He wasn’t here to be a flashy merc, but he wasn't here to be a sniveling yes man either. He’d cut his teeth over the years and had come highly recommended, even though he’d asked his contacts to downplay his achievements. It wasn’t humility he was after, it was insurance. [color=gray]“Goddamn it,”[/color] he muttered under his breath, feeling another chill set him on. Was this psychosomatic? Just the sight of ice making him colder than he actually was? He pulled the neck of his jacket tight, and turned from the window, continuing down the hallway. It was almost time to head to the base for this mysterious [i]orientation[/i]. It was going to be a short tram ride to the operations base, and he was supposed to meet some suit there. It was all too formal for what he was used to; back in the day it was simple. [hr] Alan walked into the smoky office in Cutter’s Split, somewhere a few hundred klicks north of Vegas. It was a dry climate, rocky with some vegetation here and there. There was a large expanse of nature north of Cutter’s Split, a giant deciduous forest full of all sorts of violent flora and fauna ready for travelers to get too comfortable surrounded by what little greenery was left. He’d done some work there before, but he knew this was different. “Got some news for ya, kid,” Old Deek, the main contact for any job north of Vegas, had called Alan in as soon as he’d arrived. If Deek called you, you checked in quick: especially if it dealt with a lucrative contract. [color=gray]“What kind of news? More work out towards the rainy coast?” [/color] “Nah, nothin about fuckin with Red Star or Volkov shit. This is about that little issue you asked me to look into.” Alan’s face hardened and he placed both palms flat on Deek’s messy desk, pushing credit chits and papers aside. [color=gray]“Did you find it?” [/color] “Just a rumor. Out in Alaska. I got you an in, too. Old Denver soldier, some folks in my network knew him: he’s apparently calling for pilots up there.” [color=gray]“Scrapper job?” [/color] “Nope. They want full-time pilots.” [color=gray]“What the hell do they have up there to call for that kind of call?” [/color] “No idea. But the guy’s the real deal. No idea why he went all the way out to Alaska from Denver, but don’t try and fuck with him. He’s a trained killer. Company boy for DV.” [color=gray]“I ever kill any of his friends?” [/color] “Naw.” [color=gray]“Alright. Get my info out there then. Keep it subdued; don’t put any fancy bullshit about me in there either. I’m just a pilot, that’s all.” [/color] It was time to head north. [hr] [b]Beep. Beep. Beep.[/b] Alan’s datapad brought him back to reality, and he looked at the time. He started down the hallway, and towards the tram. He’d arrive just on time, and find a place towards the back of the group, keep his head down and get through it. Graham worried him though. Alan was a scrapper, a waster and a dependable worker. But he wasn’t a soldier. But then again, this wasn’t a City either. He’d have to see exactly what was coming up. He’d improvise if he needed to. He was a survivor, after all. [/indent][/indent][/indent]