<i>Yes sir, sir</i>.<br/><br/>The words were spoken firm, loudly, and yet without emotion from Corporal Ruya Aras. There was no pride or sense of duty that compelled her so, though there was a compulsion nonetheless that had her adhering to such displays of authority and command. Strapped in her seat, her combat suit sealed, and locked, to her personage, Ruya stared down at her lap, at her black gloved hands, wondering what this mission would entail.<i>And what it might cost her.</i>A moot point, given everything she owned, including her own life, wasn’t even hers to spend and use anymore. The former convict, pressed into service in lieu of prison, was just another Forge pawn, to fire her rifle, to be fodder for the enemy’s guns, and to be recycled to do so again and again if somehow, she managed to survive.<br/><br/>How many<i>runs</i>had she been in? Ruya didn’t even know herself. Each previous mission was as shrouded behind broken memories in her mind, a by-product of the performance-enhancing drugs that coursed through her body, regulated by built-in monitors in her suit and neural implants. Not that it seemed any different from those about her. She had the standard gear. Thermal optics currently resting on her brow. A pressurized suit and basic body armor. A bag under her seat containing a single clean copy of every piece of garment she wore. Unbidden check lists flushed through her mind, going over each and every item, noting any discrepancy, even as pointless as a loose thread or small rip, mentally noted and recorded with an efficiency she never had before. The focusing drugs pumped into her brain gave her an organization behavioral set never used before by her. It gave her headaches sometimes.<br/><br/>She didn’t bother to glance across to her assigned comrades for this job. Would she even remember them?<i>Would they remember her?</i>They looked a tough, durable sort, but then again almost everyone involved in Forge’s tactical affairs were. There were others too, local Divinity personnel, with whom they were partnering for this op.<i>Cynosure.</i>Ruya knew nothing about it. She didn’t need to know anything about it, as was decided by her superiors. She was there to show up and do whatever was asked of her. And she had to do it. What they did was no cake-walk. It was understandable that volunteers wouldn’t be rushing to partake in such operations. That’s why so many were pressed and “bought-up” from the prison system. They didn’t have a choice but to like it and do it. Ruya balled her hands into fists. Well, whatever happens, happens. It was only fair. She had spent her youth as a thief, a killer, a street thug, it was only right she now spent her life giving to others what she took from so many.<br/><br/>The shuttle soon docked. The seating harnesses were lifted. It was time for action. Ruya rose to her feet, grabbed her bag to be slung over a shoulder, and moved along with the other enlisted men and women towards the disembarking ramp. She hadn’t been told anything else so she assumed she was going with Sergeant West and the others. She ignored the words of Tug Boat, arguing about the seemingly pacificist nature of their mission. Ruya didn’t know what to expect. If it really was a recon job, maybe the lack of violence might have her remembering what she saw for once, instead of being muddied with the unhealthy consumption of combat drugs that compelled her to frontline duties and dangers. She fell in rank and file with the others, her<i>Hurrahs</i>audible but less enthusiastic than the others. It shamed her to hear herself sounding so…conforming.<br/><br/>They were dismissed, and before she could even turn on her heel to carry out her next set of orders, the Lieutenant saw fit to call her out by name. She went deathly still, though not due to any fear, but because of the artificial belief of adherence to command and authority. “Sir!” She snapped off, coming to attention at the Lieutenant’s call, and marching over to stand still and obediently before the man.<i>Report to K-Doc, that is Dr. Khatri, for therapeutic treatment.</i>That is to say get her fill of stims and inhibitor drugs, in order to make her combat effective while ensuring she didn’t go off the rails on the amount of aggression inducers she would be loaded up with. She didn’t offer up any complaint or protest. She…simply couldn’t. Her mind ached if she even thought it.<br/><br/>“Sir, yes sir!” She snapped off with a crisp salute and turned on her heel, pausing a moment to take in the crowds and find where the Doctor was. She didn’t like it. A new handler, a new set of eyes, new questions, new inquiries, and…<i>old judgements</i>.