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Mother Confessor:

Sitting patiently at the fatigue stores, holding my pairs of combat boots in my lap. Waiting while they try to tailor my uniforms to my physique. Primarily the pants, as I have more legs than they do. Therefore, I wait in my underwear standard issue undershirt. The three long sleeve fatigue shirts folded atop the boots, along with the extra under garments, and billed cap on top. My feet feel almost numb as the rest on the cold metal floor. The fresh stamped tags feel cool against my sternum, slung around my neck. The soldier that stamped them looked quizzically at the name I had chosen. It had to be better than Mother Confessor is, at least in my opinion.

The pair of soldiers come back with my refashioned pants. Seems they thought it a good idea to put cargo pockets on all four pant legs. Whatever, I will take them for what they are. I thank them, placing my stack on the counter. Accepting the pants, I place the two bottom pairs on top of my heap. Taking the top pair of fatigues, sliding my slender legs into them, I feel something heavy in the left front pocket. Plunging my hand into it, I find my belt. It seems a little Spartan, but then again is that not what I wanted. Placing it atop the counter, as I finish buttoning up my pants. Then retrieving the belt, holding on to the buckle as it unfurls. Deftly I slip it through the loops on the pants. Removing the undergarments off the shirt stack. I pluck the stiffly folded garment, and shake it out a few times. It feels more functional than I have ever thought it to be, as I glide my arms into the sleeves. Completing the process by buttoning and then tucking the loose fabric in to the waist of my pants. I buckle my belt, and smooth the collar of my shirt on my shoulders.

Taking the seat, I had waited in once more, this time to don my boots. I felt grateful that I had laced them beforehand. Placing my feet in the heavy footwear, I tightly bind them to my calves and feet.

Taking a moment to test the tailored pants, after rising. I lower myself-low, spreading my legs wide testing the maneuverability of the fabric. Ignoring the stares of the two soldiers watching me in my actions. Rising again, I gather my now lighter pile. Proceeding to the final phase of this awkward initiation process.

Crossing the hall, to get my haircut. Should be an interesting experience, since it has never been done before. It seemed to stay about mid shoulder blade in length. Entering the final door to finish my last rite in entering servitude to the military. An extremely old soldier greets me warmly. I return with a pleasant smile. He relieves me of my belongings, placing them gently on the counter in front of an odd looking chair. This seemed a bit strange considering as far as I knew, Centurian did not grow hair. Taking a seat on the chair, eyes exploring the tools lain out before me. Scissors, an odd looking folding knife, and a small bowl filled with an odd white foam as well as a basin of water. I suppose that they have learned how to remove hair from studying other species and their practice.

Watching as he collects the scissors in his wrinkled hand, he runs the other through my white locks. Then very carefully he begins to sever the long strands in small bundles, the sliding of the blades against each other whispers in my ears. Their metallic whispering coupled with the light clacking as they clamp their sharp jaws, slicing through the many strands. He brings the blades to within millimeters of my skull, once he is satisfied in removing the bulk of the length. I glance down to see my hair scattered about the metal floor like a freshly harvested crop.

Seemingly achieving his desired result, the elder soldier places the scissors back on the counter. His wrinkled fingers clasp around the small bowl brimming with the white foam. Using his free hand, dipping his fingers into the captured cloud. Removing a generous clump of it from the bowl. He gently spreads it upon my tight cropped cranium. It feels cool and light on my skin, it feels most pleasant in ways I cannot describe, as he smoothes the glob of fluffy white foam on my skull. Replacing the bowl back on the counter, he retrieves the odd folded knife. Flipping the blade out from the handle, revealing a slight curve in the blade and blunted on the end. Taking a deep breath, trying to relax, he takes notice and allows me the moment. Gingerly he maneuvers the blade to the high left side of my forehead. My skin tingling as he carefully guides his tool. Brushing my nearly hairless scalp with the length of the blade. A light scratching in my ears, as it removes the last of the harvested follicles. After the pass, I watch as he rinses the blade clean of the tiny hairs and foam. Repositioning the blade at the front of my crown, he readies for his second pass. This little ritual continues for another five minutes. Now nothing, but my bare skin breathing from the top of my head to the joint of my neck. The elder pulls a small towel from a drawer beneath the counter. Moistening it in the water, he concludes his work by cleaning off my bare flesh with it.

Rising up from the chair, he hands me my belongings, smiling warmly with a gleam in his eyes. I nod my thanks to him, returning a warm smile of my own. I take my leave from the conscription area, and head back to Red Wolf for my assignment.

Graxis:

Sitting at my desk, feet resting comfortably atop it. A hot mug of coffee in my hands, the strong scent violating my nostrils. I ponder what I should do with the Major’s console. On one side, I feel that the Ober-Commander should know that she was not playing along of her own volition, and what the Confederation used to leverage her into the position. The other possibility being it would cause him to have a meltdown, seeing his sullen state, as she placed herself in eternal rest. By his gun no less, makes the gravity of prodding the already unstable man a step closer to the edge. No telling what he might do in a fit of rage. I settle on taking the latter path, no need to cause him any undue pain, anymore than he has already suffered.

Taking a large swig on the strong brewed contents of the mug, I decide to move beyond the discouraging words branded on my brain. Cuing up my desk console to check for any new messages. I take another large mouthful of coffee as it sifts through the network seeking out the indicated order. A few moments later, a message addressed to me starts scrolling on the screen.

Capt. Graxis,

I would like to ask a favor if I may? Kindly ask the Admiral to steer this tub into the Saturn system. A bit of a shopping list to fill and that is where I intend to fill it. Should like to arrive there in about four days if possible. It is absolutely necessary that we make the stop, before proceeding to our next designated target. If you run into any problems, or have any questions feel free to stop in.

Thanks,

O.C.

I seem to be correct in heading to Saturn, but pondering the misuse of the word tub. Nonetheless, I will see to the request. As far as his shopping list, I do not know what he is expecting to acquire from the system. It must be important in whatever his plan is for the near future. Either way, he made no mention of a threat, so I will err on the side of caution until I go and ask. The only thing I recall being in the miniature solar system around the gas giant, is a relic of a space station. Not even sure if it is still operational or not. Then again, there was no mention of it in the message. Perhaps he is withholding the information on the destination of what he is looking for out there. Maybe he is unsure if what he is looking for is even there still. I will find out soon enough. Draining the cup in a few more gulps, I set off for the bridge to relay the indicated target.