[hider=Earning the Raptor] Salient Muster Fields Central Wastes, 0300 AM __________________________________ A man checked his watch. It was a luxury watch, or, at least it was at one time. Gold electroplated, self-winding. Built for looks, but durable too, as the many scratches on the face of it could attest, as well as the dings and chips on the backface and strap. It had been dulled with boot polish to keep the shine off of it many times over the course of the man’s career, a practice he’d never stopped despite not doing any active combat deployments for… Gods above, years now. The man was Saul Imogen, a short, dusky-skinned native of the Planet Salient Tertius, the only hospitable planet in the Salient system, and the home planet (adopted) of Arnulf Wode, the primarch of the 10th Legion Adeptus Astartes, the Pact of the Lance, often shortened to the Pact. Saul sighed, setting down the soft-lead drawing pencil he’d been using to sketch out a portrait of a woman. The fifth of a series of five women, in fact, Wode’s sisters if the pict-propaganda was to be believed. This one was… lithe. Muscular. A jungle worlder, though Saul couldn’t name or pronounce the world. Salienti Low Gothic was clipped, guttural, spoken from the chest, and it was incompatible with the words of this primarch’s culture, which clearly required some knowledge of it’s dialect to pronounce. Still, she was striking, like all of Arnie’s sisters, and Saul loved to draw beauty more than anything else, be it women, nature scenes, or his favorite of all, planes. Not his favorite, though, that had to be the tall one from Mithra. He shrugged on his uniform, the khaki service uniform of the Pact, and spent a half hour shaving and gelling his hair, making sure his appearance was perfect. In Arnie’s infinite wisdom, he had decided not only to give his old friend, Saul, Astartes rank, but put him in charge of training the influx - what other legions called ‘neophytes’. New soldiers they might be, but each was a physical powerhouse, capable of running, jumping, lifting, and fighting far more and far longer than even the most fit human. It took insane bravery to even be near one of these men, but, Saul made it look easy, day in, and day out. Training soldiers was always a delicate balance. You had to be firm with them, even if they could crush you like a grape, but you also had to let them know when they were doing something right without sacrificing the illusion of distant, uncaring professionalism that they would use as their anvil to forge themselves. Well. Every group was different, and there was no sense in planning for any one group of new bodies beyond the training schedule. What they needed would become apparent just by working with them. Speaking of, it was time. Saul left his small apartment/office in the main processing building of their training camp, and began to walk to the influx barracks. Other Lancers saluted him as he passed, which he returned without breaking a step. Two Astartes fell in with him, wearing the bare steel plate of their legion, all save for their bionics. “Got them formed up, Optio?” Saul said, without looking back. “Yes sir.” The voice answering him was smooth. Optio Howler was dedicated enough soldier, doing a rotation in the training group to pad his resume. He wore, like all Lancers seconded to training, a braid on his armor that signified his status as a trainer, and his occupational specialty in the Legion, which in his case was the red of artillery. “I’ll… let you see them yourself.” “That bad?” “That bad.” Howler answered. A sigh emanated from the other, an infantry Lancer with his blue cord. The other man was new to Saul, an Optio like Howler, but his name was… Valentine, that’s right. “It’s not pretty, but then they never are this early.” Valentine said. “It wasn’t that long ago I was standing on the grinder, baking in the sun just like them, no clue about anything.” “We’ll fix that.” Saul said, with quiet confidence. “No Lancer’s failed yet, and not for lack of trying.” The two Lancers with Saul agreed, and that was that. Influx was given three weeks of processing before their actual training began, and that was when they learned menial stuff like how to wear uniforms, strip and clean their weapon, a boltgun at this early stage, and stand and march in formation. The final stage of the first three weeks was the Outprocessing inspection, which was always carried out by Praetor Imogen. The influx didn’t know, but it was impossible to actually fail an Outprocessing inspection, despite what their Optios told them. It was used instead as a weathervane for how intense their training should be, as well as how hard and combative with them the trainers needed to be. If a section of influxes did particularly well, they could even earn themselves two days of liberty before their training schedule picked up to the real skills they’d need, but that was rare. The three of them approached their latest batch of Lancers, lined up in uneven rows, both vertically and horizontally. They were standing at attention, or at least, trying to. Saul sucked in his breath through his teeth. Gods above. Saul stopped in front of the motley assembly, the two trainers with him flanking him on either side. “This isn’t a joke, is it?” Saul asked them, in an even voice. “A prank?” Silence. Several men looked at one another apprehensively, before Optio Howler barked a command to squelch all the fidgeting. “The Outprocessing inspection is a milestone in Lancer training, and the first obstacle you reach in your aspirations as an Astartes of the Tenth Legion. It is a very serious thing, even if it is only grading how well you polish boots and clean boltgun receivers.” Saul continued, calmly. “I’ve half a mind to send you back to the front of the training schedule, and let you…” He sucked in his breath. “...Genetic washouts try again. Bold of you to waste my limited time in the Emperor’s galaxy, it really is. Maybe if we send you back enough, I’ll pass on and a proper Astartes can take my place so he can keep you in boot forever. That said, I think we can save this.” He turned around. “Ten seconds, and I’m going to turn around. If this formation isn’t straightened up by the end of my count, I’ll have you bundled up in boxes and sent back to whatever slum you were dredged from.” He signaled to the two Optios with him with his eyes, and began to count. The two Lancers nodded and set upon the influxes, screaming, barking orders. He heard the shuffling of boots on rockcrete, muffled curses and oaths. Good. They had urgency when pressed, at least. He checked his watch, and with great ceremony, turned around. They looked much better. Saul took a few steps, checking their alignment, and to his pleasure, he could see clearly down each row of men. His Optios stomped back up and joined him. “Better. You’ll all be pleased to know that I haven’t written off your chance at a liberty pass, despite meeting on the wrong foot. I believe in second chances.” Saul said, walking up to his first victim. The Lancer promptly held out his bolter at port arms, clumsily but correctly bringing the weapon up. He snapped the bolt open for inspection, and like ordered, there was no magazine in the receiver. “Name?” Saul said, briskly but calmly. “Orthax, sir.” The lancer said, staring well over Saul’s head. Saul leaned in and peered at the bolter. Pretty good, but… “Dirt in the winged skull relief of your weapon.” Saul stated. “Also, rust spotting on the magazine catch. Pass revoked.” Saul passed to the next, hearing the sound of the boltgun being put back in order arms. His next victim loomed over him. The bolter was brought up like the last, but this Lancer was pale and gaunt compared to Orthax’s ruddy, healthy complexion. “Name?” “Skole.” “Skole what?” “Just Skole.” “Pass revoked.” Saul said, shaking his head. He had to fight back the urge to laugh, which was a common enough impulse. The abruptness of how quickly some recruits misstepped would never stop being amusing, but laughing at a man was detrimental to good training. There were some lines Saul wouldn’t cross, and that was one. He skipped a few in line that would similarly flunk out as quick, due to various minor infractions, some that couldn’t be helped. A lot of influxes weren’t done growing from their implants, and often busted seams on their cloth uniforms during the three weeks of processing. Saul chose to ignore those, instead marking those men down for new uniform issue after inspection. One more recruit and he’d pass on his verdict. He stopped in front of his last, a man that was tall even for an Astartes. Saul was about five foot even, but this man positively loomed over him at nearly nine feet. He possessed chiseled good looks and close-cropped blonde hair. Saul couldn’t see his eyes for the color, but his nostrils seemed in good military order, at least. “Name?” “Proctor, sir.” His bolter was held out perfectly, and it was clean. His boots polished, his uniform creased. Very good, very good… Saul reached out, quick as a viper, and snatched the bayonet from the sheathe at Proctor’s side. He held it in front of his face, the broad blade like a shortsword in his hands. Clean, except… A notch. Saul pressed his lips into a thin line. He looked up at Proctor, and held the blade out. “I had hopes for you, you know.” Saul said, “But this… I wouldn’t use this to cut vegetables. Pass revoked.” He sheathed the man’s knife, and walked away. He heard a muffled curse, but chose to ignore it. Good. That was good. That meant Proctor cared, so he was willing to let it slide unless he messed up again. He stalked up to the front of the assembled recruits. “The more astute of you may have guessed, but, this was a sorry inspection, to be sure. You have passed, but only just.” Saul said, “And you can forget about liberty. If you look this bad here, I’m not going to let you apes out amongst civilians where your sloppy appearance could reflect poorly on the Tenth, and I’m certainly not going to consider you combat ready.” “So, now that your schedules have been freed up, I think we can look forward to forty eight hours of real training, don’t you think Optios?” The two instructors with him nodded. “Good. We’re all in agreement then. Get them suited up with webbing and training ammunition. They’ll be running the kill-house this weekend until we’re all sick of it. Sleep well tonight, because you’ll need it. Dismissed.” The two instructors with him launched from his sides like air-to-air missiles and set upon the recruits like sharks on a school of fish, and far off in Saul’s mind, he thought of what he’d try to sketch next. Maybe a Thunderbolt fighter. Yes, something with nice, straight lines. He turned on his heel, and walked back to his officer. Yes, something with straight lines this time. [/hider]