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<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)">The officer processed Avielles' words as she did his, defaulting to a machine-like state where everything would be filed somewhere within him to resurface at a whim. He had to remind himself that his fleeting attraction to Avielle was not part of the ongoing operation. Not only did she have a serial number leaving the lab, she also began to have a Corps-assigned armory number as soon as the device signaled her entry into the database. There was little difference between checking in a firearm after a particularly risky operation and dismissing her from his presence now. What it all would come down to was trust. He knew the Nazarovs, fought with them, tested their worth and was satisfied with their performance after they became a part of his ground team. Basche had managed to get them out of the middle of an ambush with some clever hacks of available security systems more than a few times. <i>McDermott</i>...<br/>
</span></span></span><br/><span style="font-size: 10px"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(128, 128, 128)">Avielle was an unknown quantity, and the last thing he wanted was an unknown quantity at his side when she could easily be blown away at the first step into a warzone. The way she wielded the word "friendlies" as if it hadn't been programmed - <i>drilled</i> into her somehow beforehand. When her cold, unfeeling hand brought his down over her breast, he didn't feel her heartbeat. He didn't look at her in the mirror. With each and every word that fell from her lips - her perfect lips designed for deception and seduction - he heard her explain that all of it was designed to trick and kill. He didn't need a secret agent on his side. Subterfuge and general underhandedness were rarely ever helpful when you were already staring down the barrel of a loaded gun - and rarely did an operation go successfully when the former was called for. He didn't fear the change that came with the chance of a higher success rate, but her inexperience would likely come back to bite him and his squad in the ass. His bad attitude was no fault of hers, but with each and every syllable she spoke he could feel and inexplicable anger boiling up deep inside of him even as his touch grazed her pearly teat. As soon as her grasp left his, he didn't linger. He pulled his hand away so fast it was almost urgent.<br/>
<br/>
Drennen turned towards the Avoxxis when she moved to finish covering herself. His arms crossed over his chest once more, and he waited impatiently for her to get situated in her new uniform. He called for her attention with a voice as stern as his expression - highlighted by the fact that he chose to use her SSAG designation instead of Ylona's nickname. It wouldn't hurt his unfeeling ward for her to know exactly how low she really was in the hierarchy.<br/>
<br/>
The alcohol, of course, didn't help to settle his emotions.<br/>
</span></span></span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 10px"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">"I assume you weren't briefed on proper Corps etiquette before your creators <i>so graciously</i> handed your leash over to me so I've let it slide so far, but I am your Commander, and I <i>will</i> be treated like one. Every opinion or explanation will be asked for when it's needed. You need to take a piss? You won't squeeze a single drop without my say-so. From this moment on I'm a classified subject. Don't even <i>think</i> about analyzing me. You want to figure me out? Build a relationship with your XO? I'm getting too damn old for small talk. You know you're another weapon in the armory so remember what I'm about to tell you - stick to learning what you can when I take you on an operation and I won't consider shipping your ass right back to your mama at SSAG,<i> do you copy, </i>AXS-062?"<br/>
</span></span></span>​</div><span style="font-size: 10px"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#808080">How does a Marine cool off after a reprimand like that? The Commander</span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(128, 128, 128)"> spoke his truths - the only three people he'd come to trust with his life had his back even before Bloodmoon. He wasn't about to start trusting a genetic abomination just because the brass told him he had to grin and bear it for a while. This was one of the few times he wouldn't mind being in Sugawaras' position, it must entertain the General to no end to watch him deal with trying to pilot the Avoxxis.<br/>
<br/>
Drennen turned heel as if he were on a march and made his way to the table that lined the north wall of the armory. He unholstered his handgun first and methodically began taking apart the weapon for check-in and storage. Make sure safety is on. Slide back, check barrel for unspent rounds, release slide. Eject magazine from weapon and retrieve any spare clips from bandolier. Assault rifle next. Is the safety on? Inspect barrel for unspent rounds. Eject magazine from weapon and retrieve any spare clips from bandolier. Though the weapons had remained holstered for the entirety of Operation AXS-067, it was all just protocol. Protocol, protocol, protocol. The monotony of it all has always proved useful for switching his mind into autopilot when the stresses of the day (or the past) came back to haunt him. All there was left to do was strip down and return it all. The Commander didn't face Avielle when he spoke next but he assumed she could most likely hear the relative apathy in his voice anyway.<br/>
</span></span></span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 10px"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">"Training begins at oh-six-hundred tomorrow, that means be ready by a quarter-to here in the Corps. I'll call somebody to escort you to the barracks. Don't be late."<br/>
</span></span></span>​</div><span style="font-size: 10px"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#808080">He hadn't <i>technically</i> dismissed Avielle, but the message was clear.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Safety, inspect, eject, repeat.</i><br/>
</span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#808080"><span style="font-size: 10px">How well she'd adapt to a condensed, three week version of both Basic and Spec Ops training remained to be seen.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Safety, inspect, eject, repeat.</i><br/>
<br/>
Drennen triggered the release on his pauldron and his left arm bracer fell into pieces at his waiting hand. This called for different protocol. Simpler. Inspect each piece for damage that would effect the physical integrity of the armor. Scan each piece back into the armory in the order it was scanned out.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Inspect, return.</i><br/>
<br/>
Who was the bioweapon here?<br/>
</span></span></span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><span style="font-size: 10px">"<i>Dismissed</i>, Avielle."<br/>
</span></span></span>​</div><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#808080"><span style="font-size: 10px">Where would she wait?<br/>
<br/>
It was the age-old Canaan Drennen solution to things he never understood. He wasn't sure how many more times he could get angry and resort to protocol without completely losing his grasp on reality. If it were the Nazarovs the three would talk all night. He doesn't so much feel up to it anymore.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Dismissed.</i></span></span></span>