MD #062: Let's Make A Deal
MD #062: Let's Make A Deal
Summary: Penta is visited by a civilian with a very interesting proposition (Dropkick guest stars as Rance)
Date: Tue 6/Jun/2017 (OOC Date)
Related Logs: http://battlestarorion.wikidot.com/aftershocksandplanning
Penta Rance 
Battalion HQ
The headquarters room is the primary command location for all Marines associated with the battlestar or accompanying fleet ships. The walls and desks are covered with maps, photos, and satellite imagery - as well as clocks indicating the current time in each colonial capital city and Site Anvil. Along the back wall are large touchscreens with holographic capability, able to bring up fleet intelligence if the user has proper access. Secure phones are bolted to each bulkhead, and for added insurance, each desk possesses its own encrypted wireless unit with its own independent wiring. The small room is always manned by a wireless operator and a duty sergeant, at a minimum, though it tends to be a hive of activity during duty hours.
25/Dec/2028 (IC Date)

It isn't long before the jump is supposed to commence and most of the ship has already been locked down. Most of the Marines are out on patrol and getting ready for the jump, just in case there's something nefarious on the other side of it. Standard measures, nothing special. Penta's been notified that there were a couple last minute additions to the crew, both Sevens, but there wasn't much more than that due to the swiftness of the action to get them aboard. But there is one seven in khaki shorts and a faded blue polo being escorted into the HQ by an MP. The Seven has a file folder with him, not a datapad, and he is probably the most unregulated person on the ship. He has a short beard that looks like its probably been trimmed in the last few weeks and there's a faded olive green ballcap on his head with a patch that says 'Stay Classy' in cursive writing on the front of it. Under the hat is long hair that goes to his shoulders, curled and unkempt. He taps the bottom of the folder against his open palm as he looks around as if he's been here before. The MP makes his way over to Penta, "Sir, he's asking to speak to the battalion CO. He came aboard a couple hours ago with another Seven."

Penta looks up from his desk and the associated paperwork. "That'd be me. He have a name, anything I should know?" He's a little surprised that *anybody* aboard the Orion has an escort, but keeps that to himself for now, even as his mind frantically reviews what little he knows about the Sevens.

"Lance or Pence or Randy or something, sir. He looks like he fell off a porch drunk and never bothered to consider it a mistake, Major." The MP glances over to the visitor and the Seven slowly makes his way over and nods his head once to Penta. "Major. I'm hoping you're, ah," he glances to the MP, then back to Penta, "ah, I hope you're the Marine Commanding Officer. I need to talk about some business right quick if you got a second or sixty." He shifts the folder to his left hand and offers his right to shake. "Rance Hood. I came up a few hours ago." He's got a strong grip and working hands. Rance also doesn't look a single bit intimidated by rank, and not because he doesn't recognize it. The guy only glanced to the rank pins to know how to address.

Penta nods. "I see, Corporal." With that, he shakes Rance's hand, clearly trying to take the guy's measure as he listens to him. "Well, Rance, come into my office. Ain't very big, but the hatch closes. Let's talk, then." With that, he leads the way from the duty desk where he'd been hanging out into his actual office - a fairly neat and uncluttered space for the small size. "Want coffee?" He asks, as he gestures to a coffeemaker, then a chair.

"Oh I know. Been in there before back when Ommanney ran this place. Its been awhile, though. Shame about him." Rance follows along to the office and takes the offered seat, leaning back casually. The folder is left closed in his lap. "Shit yes, sir. I'd love some brew. Thanks." He takes a long breath and glances back to the door, then to Penta. "Retired Staff Sergeant, sir. I prefer to not make it obvious to the boys and girls out there. People always ask whatcha did, where you were stationed." Rance waves it off. "Hey, so my Doctor friend said you guys were fixin' to get into a pretty good gunfight somewhere called Callamet." Calumet. Whatever. "I was wondering if yall wanted my services as a civilian." He looks attached to the beard and haircut.

Penta looks…sad at the mention of Amos. "Yeah." Then, he gets the coffee (and closes the hatch) as he listens. "Calumet. Yeah. Kinda wish your friend hadn't breached opsec, but I won't complain too loudly." A pause then. "As a civilian. In what capacity, exactly, Mr. Hood?" He looks curious but also, in a word, confused. They don't exactly need contractor personnel on this trip!

Rance snorts a small laugh. "Doc Pershing means well but one thing he ain't is military. You tell him words like opsec and he'll stare at you, waiting for you to explain." He bounces his chin forward with the last, smirking with it. The next question has him shrug. "I was a professional gunfighter with Marine Recon for ten years. Spent most of the deployment at Libran, watchin' them boys and girls fan themselves over hot thoughts of the Cylons. During the Second War I was also the first Seven to break ranks with the Lines. I got some diplomacy points there since I had to convince other Lines to give the Freedom Drug a try. After that I spent a lot of the war either on this ship or poppin' unturned Lines. Helpin' speed up the process of getting them to see the light, as it were." They had to kill most of the Lines in existence to get them to turncoat, the resurrection programming having been corrupted by something Piraeus did to the lines that still remains unexplained. "I'm nothin' special otherwise. I'm retired these days, teach the Lines how to defend themselves before leaving Piraeus. Guns, knives, fisticuffs. Whatever." Rance says it all casually. "I'm along for the ride so figured I might as well offer. Figured if I had someone like me sittin' around and nobody told me, I'd be pissed. Always helps to know what's available, right, sir?"

Penta nods. "That it does." Pause. "So you're offering yourself as a trainer, basically. I can see how that'd come in handy. You proposing to train our folks, though, or the locals?" What he doesn't say is that either would be good. Frankly, his troops (himself included) need special operations training for this campaign, if he's really honest. Best not to reveal too much of their hand before the contract's signed, after all.

"Training is one thing I do. I can also blend in better because I sure as shit don't look military. It makes people like me ideal for unseen security details and sneaky sneaky. Cylons were always lookin for folks who looked like they made an effort to square away. I was thinkin' maybe these Skath critters were cut from the same bolt of Dumbass Incorporated cloth." Rance's smile spreads wide up one side of his face. "But I'm also a trigger-banger in general so I'm flexible. If you wanna use me, just tell me how an what. I'm an adrenaline junky so anything is good. …But yeah, training or whatnot."

Penta nods. "We can definitely use you. I have a few quick conditions, though." Pause. "One, you're under my operational control and the command of those who I designate. I won't hold you to the more mickey mouse regs of the Corps, but I expect you to follow orders. Two, you sign a contract that places you subject to the CCMJ while you're with us. Period. Three, because the Skath like using Lines as Clerics, sort of a secret police, be aware we may need to be really damn careful how we deploy you. If you are mistaken for a cleric, we're all fucked in working with the locals, whom we're just building up trust with. So try not to get mistaken for one. Sound good?"

Rance listens, nodding. "Shit, sir, might as well take me out to dinner after an offer like that." The guy grins with it and flashes a thumbs up and it drops. "I figure that if I'm not wearing rank or a uniform then I'm probably not gettin' a choice in who I have to listen to. As for the contract?" The Seven nods casually. "Sounds suspiciously like a job. Job means money. Hell I took vacation time to come out for this," the guy asides with no small amount of humor. The point about Clerics has him look confused, but he holds a hand up. "I'll take your word on that, Major. I'll do some digging so I know what the frak you're talkin' about. I 'magine that if I'm along for the ride, its on me to get up to speed on my on power." He uncrosses his legs and leans forward, offering the manila folder. "I brought some gear with me. Training guns, training knives, a couple of actual blades, and my own operator kit. I need your permission to store the weapons in the armory, sir, and my body armor with the rest of my stuff. …Where do you want me bunkin? General navy enlisted? Marine officers? Marine Enlisted? Or should I ask Petra?"

Penta looks thoughtful. "Permission granted in terms of the armory. As for berthing…Good Gods, ask Commander Petra. This is my first time dealing with civilians aboard ship as more than a theoretical maybe." Pause. "As to the rest, it sounds like we have a deal. I'll have the JAG draw up a contract and you can negotiate precise pay rates with them." There's an easy grin, there, and a hand extended to seal the deal. It's the benefit of his job: The precise *details* of the contract are someone else's problem. Including the money angle.

Rance drops the folder to the desk and gestures to it. "Just needs your signature for the armory storage. Otherwise I think we're good." Hood rises from the chair more and reaches wide to clasp and shake Penta's hand. "Sounds like a good deal, Major. I'll get my shit squared away and go mingle with the boys and girls, so what kinda trouble I can rustle up with the Marines. Maybe give some of those Wing wipers a hard time." The hand drops and he laughs. "Thanks, sir. I'll get out of your hair and go hit up JAG. I need to get my clearances updated. Shots. Food. Hoooo, lots to do." There's a sketched salute with it.

Penta signs the paperwork, grinning. "You do that. Just don't do anything you wouldn't mind a dumb Private emulating. Or that *I* wouldn't laugh at a dumb private emulating."

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