e n c k e (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
youfallinline) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
startcountdown2014-11-09 02:41 am
youfallinline) wrote in startcountdown2014-11-09 02:41 am
(no subject)
Evil exists, and its apocalyptic riders are unindented requisition forms.
Encke knows. Encke fears. Encke, absently leading the day's third red pen to its unfortunate demise, has known and has feared for the better part of four hours now, in between moans, groans, and the quiet foreboding that the brass is paying him back for his leave with sweet, sadistic relish. If the Sleipnir were a dog, he doesn't doubt it would've faithfully wagged its tail and rubbed its head on his knee the moment Encke stepped foot on board, because daddy is back to make the assholes on custodian duty actually clean the fucking corridors.
But the deplorable ship hygiene, enterprising rise of smuggling, lukewarm troop morale and starfighters way overdue their tech revision aren't the worst of the welcoming committee's horrors. No, that honour and privilege goes straight to whatever stick crawled up the collective ass of their new recruits.
Of course Encke'd be so lucky to get his new shipment of cannon fodder two hours post-return. Command Santa times these little gifts so fucking carefully, after all. And ho ho ho, Merry God damned Christmas, most of the newbs are packing more testosterone than a weight lifter's doctored cover picture - when they're not screwing, they are very literally screwing each other's limbs to parts of the ship Encke never knew existed, let alone had had to visit beside a wincing medic. The rookies are mean, vicious, loud, bitchy, conniving little shits, and they're all just waiting on a turned back to go rabid.
...which is to say, they'll all get along just fine, as soon as the newbs survive induction, and Encke outlasts his migraine. So far, it's a hard battle.
By lunch, he's happy to concede the need for reinforcements - and happier to hunt down Keeler in the junior command deck overseeing the hangar without having to cruise around the entire Sleipnir with coffee and milk in tow. There are some deliveries your good name just can't survive.
"Here's what you tell'em in court martial," he gives by way of greeting, glaring out yet another one of Keeler's cronies, "every single son of a bitch in the rookie squad came up to me and begged real sweet to get fucking strangled. And I just didn't have the heart to say no. We clear?"
Encke knows. Encke fears. Encke, absently leading the day's third red pen to its unfortunate demise, has known and has feared for the better part of four hours now, in between moans, groans, and the quiet foreboding that the brass is paying him back for his leave with sweet, sadistic relish. If the Sleipnir were a dog, he doesn't doubt it would've faithfully wagged its tail and rubbed its head on his knee the moment Encke stepped foot on board, because daddy is back to make the assholes on custodian duty actually clean the fucking corridors.
But the deplorable ship hygiene, enterprising rise of smuggling, lukewarm troop morale and starfighters way overdue their tech revision aren't the worst of the welcoming committee's horrors. No, that honour and privilege goes straight to whatever stick crawled up the collective ass of their new recruits.
Of course Encke'd be so lucky to get his new shipment of cannon fodder two hours post-return. Command Santa times these little gifts so fucking carefully, after all. And ho ho ho, Merry God damned Christmas, most of the newbs are packing more testosterone than a weight lifter's doctored cover picture - when they're not screwing, they are very literally screwing each other's limbs to parts of the ship Encke never knew existed, let alone had had to visit beside a wincing medic. The rookies are mean, vicious, loud, bitchy, conniving little shits, and they're all just waiting on a turned back to go rabid.
...which is to say, they'll all get along just fine, as soon as the newbs survive induction, and Encke outlasts his migraine. So far, it's a hard battle.
By lunch, he's happy to concede the need for reinforcements - and happier to hunt down Keeler in the junior command deck overseeing the hangar without having to cruise around the entire Sleipnir with coffee and milk in tow. There are some deliveries your good name just can't survive.
"Here's what you tell'em in court martial," he gives by way of greeting, glaring out yet another one of Keeler's cronies, "every single son of a bitch in the rookie squad came up to me and begged real sweet to get fucking strangled. And I just didn't have the heart to say no. We clear?"