[hider=Hamazasp Sulser][img]https://images.evetech.net/characters/2112987026/portrait[/img][/hider]
Hamazasp shuffled among the trail of recruits. He relished the frigid morning breezes; this exact temperature heralded his earliest daily routines back... Well, "home" took multiple meanings over his adult career. Either he'd acquired a plethora or he maintained none. He likely possessed one with his family, though his sister had burned it and he never bothered to repair it. He glanced behind him, then before him. He calculated impossibly tedious wait times wherever he situated himself. With no apparent gain or loss, he resolved not to expend his inaugural hour on Skandia amidst the doldrums of bureaucracy. And so he drifted out of sync with the caravan to, at least temporarily, embark on a miniature adventure.

Few in this installation would freely escort him around the facility, certainly not with his unverified registration. So long as Mimir hadn't chewed him up yet, he was relegated to the confines of the terminal. His preliminary visit was a tinted window, beyond which hills rolled in the nearby landscape. The skies grew increasingly bluer, and the wind's ripples rustled through the local flora, mostly grasses. Hamazasp exhaled, pretending that the stuffy air inside was fresh, practicing for his own vehicle. He attempted to spot fauna from such a distance. A herd of cattle grazed on the gentle slopes. Telemark breed: you could tell because they appeared to be pressed between two giant sheets of caramel paint. He imagined himself piloting a battlemech and coloring the cows that way. Bovines were slippery when the situation arose; he'd have to catch the heifer by surprise. His superior officer, whoever he or she would be, wouldn't allow it.

In the foreground, mechs stomped into loose organizations. He mused whether they were allied, or supervising, mercenaries or simple mechanics aligning them like toys. He couldn't settle on his favorite design. He hoped to be awarded something manageable: a Light, maybe a Medium. He'd gratefully accept whatever was on his plate, be they mere leftovers. He spotted a Centurion jogging from the horizon. What in the world would drive a pilot to travel that wayward? Hamazasp tracked the lone stranger to its halt at the periphery of Olaus. What an amusing sight!

He traveled down a corridor to its furthest extent, then repeated until he was utterly lost, or would be without maps posted everywhere in the spaceport. There, he found seating and occupied it. He surveyed the indoor scenery, fixating at last on a poster. It was assuredly propaganda, but regardless he perused it. Why not? Some schmuck spent an entire workday — no, judging from the misaligned center, a lunch break — designing the ensemble. He identified various national symbols and guessed at others. He'd require additional research in the future. The bright blue Scandinavian patterns and designs highlighted the culture into which he'd soon be immersed. The colors were striking; he enjoyed it. Sine message, of course.

His gaze shifted towards a marble sculpture of a woman, roughly his age by appearance. How often had passersby ignored her? Was she an important historical figure, or symbolic of a theme? If the former, she was undoubtedly well past her prime if not already deceased. If the latter, well, her complexion was too nice to convey anything of significance. The youth of the nation, perhaps? He wondered if he'd find romance in this conflict. A girl that wonderful was out of his league. What embarrassing thoughts. He was grateful to ponder alone, where his musings wouldn't see daylight. His vacation concluded, he stood up to rejoin his pack.

He bore no remorse cutting in line; he simply reclaimed space he'd earned previously. At about twenty cadets from the front, he focused attention to the panel of receptionists, quietly listening to questions they asked and his forebears' answers. He would not be caught unawares. Nonetheless, he pondered a select couple in detail as he approached the rightmost of the array. She reminded him of the statue: beautiful, unflinching, and cold. The warm glow of her screen bounced off her. Her judgmental stare was itself sufficient to unnerve most, but Hamazasp was unimpeded. [color=aba000]"Salutations, young madam! Has today fared well so far?"[/color]

She blinked, unamused. "Name?"
[color=aba000]"Hamazasp Sulser. The Third, if I recall."[/color]
"Ess Eeh Are. Planet of origin?"
That was a curious question; he hadn't quite settled on a wholly satisfactory answer. Place of birth felt best. [color=aba000]"Illiushin, in the city of New Lismore, on the continent of Harbor."[/color]
"Haych Eye Enn. Passport?"
He pulled out his booklet, unlocked its verigraph, and spread it open to show her. As she punched numbers into her computer, he decided to risk a conversation. [color=aba000]"What remains of your shift?"[/color]
The clacking paused. "Three, four hours." It resumed. "What is your purpose here?"
Pleasure. [color=aba000]"Business. What do you have lined up with the conclusion of your work?"[/color]
"I dunno. Probably a holovid, then sleep." She stamped a page and returned it to him. "Hold still; I'm reading you for illnesses."
He remained motionless, then slacked after hearing a beep. [color=aba000]"Are any elements irregular?"[/color]
She shook her head. "You're a Merc, correct?"
[color=aba000]"Indeed; thanks for asking!"[/color]
"Your barracks will be out those doors, the sixth building on your left."
[color=aba000]"Much appreciated! I hope your evening's entertainment is as lovely as the rest of your afternoon!"[/color]
"Welcome to Rasalhague." Heavens above, she smiled. Her face reformed to stone. "Next!"

No sooner had Hamazasp taken six steps than he was seized by the shoulder. "Please come with me, sir. Let's have a word together."
His overly cheerful demeanor must have caused himself issues yet again. He complied, and was led to a purposely blank room. A lady whose insignia featured a bearded man motioned to a chair, which Sulser accepted. The door closed. She cleared her throat, pulling out a datapad. "What are your prior occupations?"
[color=aba000]"Largely dairy and data analysis. I have operated complex machinery, if you have concerns regarding my qualifications."[/color]
"Hm," grunted the interrogator. "Alright, gouda and camembert: what are the differences?"

That was an odd comparison. Even if perfunctory with ulterior motives, someone's care for his craft was touching. [color=aba000]"Gouda tends to run in its adolescence, and crumbles with accumulated years. Camembert does the reverse. Also, camembert's rind is typically eaten in Kurita and Steiner (but not Taurian or Capellan) social circles, whereas gouda's... I mean, it won't kill you, but I highly recommend against it."[/color]

He stretched. [color=aba000]"You can make both with the same milk, but I personally think that certain breeds function better with regards to branding. The vast majority of grocers would laugh you right out of the market if you sold them a camembert wheel with a Jersey on the package."[/color] He held up a finger. [color=aba000]"You know, Jerseys might actually suffice if you're marketing pepper jack. Haven't tried it myself, so I cannot guarantee the results. Can I interest you in my experience with gorgonzola?"[/color]

The agent's fingers pinched the bridge of her nose as her peer rapped upon the entrance. "Get out," she muttered.

Hamazasp opened the egress, and a seedy Mechwarrior locked eyes with him, accompanied by the soldier who directed Sulser earlier. Sulser saluted. [color=aba000]"Enjoy your stay; they're rather friendly!"[/color] He marched off to his quarters. All too easy. He was no secret informant, but these encounters amused him endlessly.

Sulser heard his compatriots' quarrel several paces from the structure itself. He rounded the corner and addressed them. [color=aba000]"Greetings, friends! I'm assigned to this dormitory, and I wish to introduce myself!"[/color]
"Oh gosh, we can't handle this many," a fellow replied.
[color=aba000]"What seems to be the issue?"[/color]
"We don't have enough beds for each of us," stated a separate acquaintance. "You're going to have to use the floor."
Sulser scanned the area. A half wall of bunks displayed no traces of human activity. [color=aba000]"Who's claimed that section?"[/color]
"Nobody," answered the first warrior. "Not unless you count the ant colony."
"And the higher ups appear to have other priorities," bemoaned the second. "You'd have to be used to gutter conditions to slumber there."
"And I arrived the soonest, so the bed is mine."
"Nonsense; the order was arbitrary. I'm the experienced driver, so I take seniority."

Hamazasp abandoned the group to its bickering in favor of the ants. He crouched and viewed the scene. Those were pretty large grunts. He squinted, and... was that the queen? Her choice of location was truly desperate to expose herself thusly. He withdrew a roundel of colby from his overcoat, his beloved empire's parting gift. He'd planned to crack it at an appropriate moment; this seemed fitting. He tore off a piece and placed it beside the monarch as a peace offering. As her royal subjects hurriedly inspected, then dismantled the foreign object, he climbed to the top bunk and bit the cheese himself, reminiscing on bygones and the day's events. His overlooked his lactose intolerance for this special celebration in the quiet. No comrade would share his haunt for a five meter radius, anyways. Yet another trinket of his previous lives vanished into the aether.

His younger selves were dead. May life blossom anew in their absence. The Sulser way.