Locke continued to rub his temple. Why him? He prayed proper respect to the Emperor, said his prayers ten times a day like everyone else. Why did he have to get stuck with a ragtag bunch of misfit inquisitorial adepts? Finally, he looked over at Ace. Of all of them, she seemed to be the most normal at least. "Fine, go to the quartermaster. See that you get properly outfitted. Your timetable is forty-eight hours. After that, you better be on this half of the moon. Dismissed."<br/><br/>The quartermaster's tent was large, with impromptu fencing set up to keep the grunts away from all the good stuff. Like food that didn't taste like cardboard and break your teeth when you bit into it. The quartermaster himself was a large man with a lasgun slung at his back and a monocle in one eye. There were various autoquills moving around him as he went through checklists. As the agents entered the tent, he didn't look over but instead simply waved a hand dismissively. "If you are here to beg for supplies for your squadron, you are simply out of luck. If you are here to complain about the quality of your rations, I will remind you that the Primer has a strict guideline on how rations should be dealt. If you are here for an additional charge pack, then I want a detailed list of every charge spent."