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<span style="font-size: 12px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(51, 102, 0)"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'"><br/>
<b><s> <s> <s>  //</s></s></s></b><br/>
<b>ACCESS LOG</b></span> --&gt; <i><b><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'">DOSSIER</span></b> <b><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'">LOOKUP</span>.</b></i></span></span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(51, 102, 0)"><span style="font-size: 15px"><b>CDR. CANAAN DRENNEN</b></span></span><br/>
<span style="font-size: 12px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(51, 102, 0)"><i><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'">CURRENT STATUS --&gt; ACTIVE.</span></i></span></span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(51, 102, 0)"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'"><span style="font-size: 9px">access to subject records: denied.<br/>
<br/>
<s> <s> <s> <s>//	  </s></s></s></s></span></span></span>​</div><br/><br/><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-size: 10px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(128, 128, 128)">It wasn't long after Sugawara waved the Commanders' team from the holotable that he put another cigarette to his lips. The day had been uneventful at best, because of it even more tiring than most would assume. It didn't change the fact that the evening would bring another of those sleepless nights and there really was no way a man in his position would be able to calm his buzzing thoughts even if he was trained to. There was always planning, meticulous strategy - looking over operations passed and combing through what the man and his team could learn and improve from them. Living in the present, dreams of peace, illusions of comfort. The Commander could only achieve that state of mind with mild to moderate intoxication. So Drennen's pace held steady, unhurried as he kept his eyes to the place which hid his steel flask of liquid gold. The same place he'd been rolling out of bed after Bloodmoon began haunting even his REM cycle. A strange cold had fallen over base as the sun set and though it'd been nearing autumn for a while the man never tended to appreciate the way the change brought along its seasonal depression. Especially when operations were assigned on some tundra in the glacial north. Biomes like that and the sweltering desert were dead before all of the biological warfare conquered them. Russia was ground zero for nuclear trials as were the deserts of America and it'd been that way since his great-great grandfather fought in WWII. To deny the nature of war and its' inevitable chokehold on the family name would make him just another grunt overnight. He was a destined alcoholic, and maybe without it he'd be a shell-shocked quadraplegic about now. Sugawara'd been kicking rocks over his habit since Drennen rose in the ranks, anyway. Be an example. A base full of (somewhat) sober soldiers surrounded him and not one was capable enough to unwind.<br/>
<br/>
Finally in solitude - the Commanders' combat armor felt much heavier within its' safety. It served as an excellent reminder for what he was tasked with. The small black device was soon unsheathed from the pouch along his waist and tossed to the side along with the belt of unused ammuniton. He approached his hiding spot among his personals. At the farthest corner of his small accommodation stood a tall personal locker - secured with clearance being granted only to a commanding officer. A fingerprint identification prompt lit up the front of it as Drennen peeled off his gloves. The prompt disappeared with a chime when his identity was successfully confirmed and revealed a single shelf of disorganized oddities. There was never much to be found among his affects, being moulded to the mindset that sentimentality established weakness on weakness usually meant there was never even a single dogtag to be found anywhere in the pile of unworn Blues and discarded tech. He made quick work of rifling through the assortment and let a relieved sigh escape him when his touch grazed the flask.<br/>
<br/>
After he pulled the flask away from the locker and pocketed it, there was a faint tap against the ground in front of his feet, and as he retrieved the source of the sound he came to the conclusion that maybe he wasn't as cold about the prospect of sentimentality as he thought. The Commander's brows furrowed as he examined the small box with its worn, grey edges. <i>McDermott</i>. It was hers. The object in his hand was a box of playing cards, a wartime novelty rendered obsolete by the mass-distribution of holotablets and other handheld gambling devices. If it weren't for her old soul she wouldn't have kept and made use of them. For a moment, Drennen replayed old memories buried deep at the back of his mind, rounds of poker played at her urging with the rest of the squad and a few eager privates during mission recoup. He was never good at it.<br/>
<br/>
The box felt lighter than he remembered in his palm. Peeling back the lid, he turned the box over and shook out the contents.<br/>
<br/>
There were no cards left. A single cigarette, broken, dangling by the filter - a sprinkle of loose tobacco and that was all.<br/>
</span></span></span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(204, 153, 255)"><span style="font-size: 10px">("<i><s>Hey, Commander! Can I get a smoke from ya? Sugawara's a stingy dick with the tobacco allowance</s></i>.")</span></span></span><br/>​</div><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-size: 10px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(128, 128, 128)">Drennen's expression steeled as an unwelcome voice echoed from within. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 10px"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(128, 128, 128)">He turned away from the locker and knocked the door with his elbow, eyes not leaving the palm that held the broken cigarette. The door tentatively hissed shut behind him and popped when the security systems re-engaged.<br/>
<br/>
At the table where he'd left the black device and the bandolier, he retrieved the tank top and cargo pants he'd worn earlier and draped them over his shoulder. The hand holding all that remained of McDermott balled into a fist while he used his free hand to resettle the bandolier. He grabbed the device before slipping out into the frey once more, but he paused for a moment as soon as he was in the open. He noticed the tobacco in his palm had begun to cling to his skin when he took another look. With a scoff - he brushed the contents away with the wind. The General expected him to be able to make cold, calculated decisions at all times. The cigarette that'd been resting lazily at his lips was subsequently lit. Getting wrapped up in the thought of dead women wouldn't be conducive to the inevitable outcome.<br/>
</span></span></span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font-size: 18px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(64, 64, 64)">✭</span></span></span>​</div><br/><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(128, 128, 128)">Just outside of the armory, the Commander stopped at the doorway, and leaning back against the right side of it he took one last deep drag before flicking the empty filter to the ground and crushing whatever was still lit. He knew that the experiment waited just inside of the armory - after being given the grand tour by Private Weiss no doubt - and he knew that if he wanted to get back to the comfort of his own quarters as quickly as possible he needed to scan it into the armory inventory. It all just came down to that... cyborg? Android? <i>Human</i>? Avielle. He still wasn't entirely sure what exactly it was. Drennen never considered himself to be one that was unnecessarily afraid of technology and its advancements, but genetically-engineering a war machine with a human body and a fully developed mind would eventually lead to a conflict of interest and free will. He didn't have to be a technological genius to forsee the dangers of a weapon like this on the battlefield. He just had to have good judgement - which, apparently, the scientists over at SSAG were lacking when they conceptualized these abominations.<br/>
<br/>
Procuring the flask from where it was pocketed was quick. It was when Drennen put the cold steel to his lips that he looked towards Sugawara's station for movement, and tipping it up - the strong alcohol inside almost instantly evaporated when it touched his throat. His face instinctively curled into a grimace as he pulled it away. The sound of him clearing his throat and coughing wasn't exactly as subtle as he'd hoped to make it. The Commander whispered to himself after the fit was over.<br/>
</span></span></span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 255, 255)">"<i>Shit</i>..."<br/>
</span></span></span>​</div><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(128, 128, 128)">Despite the strength of the alcohol and his obvious distaste for that particular kind, Drennen once again brought the flask to his lips and took another swig. "Liquid gold". If he wanted to savor what he was drinking he'd invest in a nice vintage red - and he <i>never</i> drank anything alcoholic to "savor" it.<br/>
<br/>
Right now he just wanted something to take a little bit of the edge off before speaking to Avielle.<br/>
</span></span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#808080"><span style="font-size: 10px">After wiping the moisture away from his lips and pocketing the flask again, the Commander kicked himself off of the wall and finally entered the Armory.<br/>
<br/>
He'd found Avielle there, as expected. What he <i>didn't</i> expect was for her to still be in her SSAG bodysuit - contemplating what was provided. Did he not stall the coming long enough? Or, more likely, she'd yet to get a hold on all the pieces. He crossed his arms over his chest before speaking up. </span></span><br/>
</span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><span style="font-size: 10px">"Did Private Weiss get you the right size on the uniform? I need you ready and focused on the field and that's not going to happen if it's too tight on the hips."</span></span></span>​</div>