Elsen was not accustomed to being issued orders that he could not anticipate. Over the past two decade he'd spent every ounce of effort in collecting a network of informants within the PDF who owed him enough favors to allow him foreknowledge of what his platoon would be expected to do, where they'd be expected to do it, when, and how. Turning a blind eye to the occasional narca or lo-stick snuck through the quartermaster's office often meant the difference between surviving a conflict in tact and dying on the front lines. He prided himself on knowing what the brass was going to have him doing before they did and doing it before they asked.
Yet here he was, stuck in a room with eight men he did not recognize on the orders of the Lord Governor. Phlintte's men had shown up unannounced with papers immediately taking him from his current assignment – from his men – and transferring him to duties 'more pressing for the needs of the Empire.' He'd barely had enough time to put his men in the hands of Sgt. Ames before they'd hurried him to a transport and head to Throne alone knew where.
And now he sat, here, in a bright, white room surrounded by faces he did not recognize. The PDF were irrelevant to his current situation, their rank chevrons identified them as a Trooper, a Corporal, a Sergeant – though the PDF member without rank sewn on his uniform was an oddity – no it was the three men obviously not members of the PDF who merited his attention. They were the ones who likely knew why the group had been formed.
So he sits, he waits, he listens, and he plans for the inevitable fallout, looking at those around the room and deciding what the best way to kill each of them would be, should the need arise.
Last edited by Todeswind; 01-13-14 at 12:29 AM.