The central hub of the ship dims lowly, the main illumination is a central computer displaying 3D images hovering in space. The images was a rotunda of dossiers, each with a picture attached to them. Ebon Fenris takes a swig of Canorlian Bombay, straight from the bottle, the unique drink an easy way for him to relax his senses and prevent them from going on overdrive. Another thing always helped him relieve battle stress, but he hasn't been to a hottie filled planet in weeks, and his last team lacked a female that was willing to go that 'extra mile' fro him.<br/><br/><em>"This is the best they're giving me?"</em>he asks into the computer, as another voice echoes through the speakers. Male, deeper, more from the gut.<em>"Deal with it, Fenris. This was the best I can scrounge together. Higher ups wanted me to give you only green rookies. At least these have some potential to them"</em><br/><br/>Ebon shakes his head before taking another swig,<em>"they better be able to follow orders."</em>he hits a button on the round computer and the holograms dissipate, replaced by a hologram of a planet,<em>"alright, what's our job?"</em><br/><br/><strong><em>"The client is the Kolov Syndicate out of Mirala. They need mercenary muscle to secure a bunker that belongs to the local rebel militia on that planet. The militia, calling themselves, Miralian Freedom, have been doing hit-and-run tactics on many Synidcate convoys and strongholds. Mainly pirate tactics, stealing weapons, armor, and living resources.<br/><br/>The one thing very important they stole was the comms code that the syndicate uses. Not only can this militia hack into Kolov comlinks, but the navigation tracking of all their vehicles. The client is giving a bonus for the retrieval of the system, but will be more than happy if it was just disabled.<br/><br/>The main part of the job is simple. Go into their stronghold and wipe them out, leaders being highest priority. Their numbers are only about 50, but they've been operating special forces style just like you. We're guessing some of them are former merc."</em></strong><br/><br/><em>"2 to 1 odds at least..."</em>Ebon mutters,<em>"Seen worse..."</em><br/><br/><strong><em>"Uploading details now. Your team is responsible for their own gear and intel."</em></strong>You mean, -I'm- responsible, Ebon thinks, but either way shuts off the com. He didnt have to say bye, or awknowledge, or the like. He takes one more drink before closing the bottle. He brushes back his hair as he walks down to the cargo bay, lowering the ramp. He gazes out to the hangar as he waits for his team to arrive.