"*points to own url*"
I don’t know Mavic well, but he seems to be the capable sort. I was happy for the opportunity to speak with him in the requisitions office. He made me feel like a soldier again, not some damn politician.
“Something like that,” He repeated, more to himself than to Victus. “Indeed I do. Never made it far up the tiers myself but I’m content where I am, in fact there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Mavic glanced over at the man as he leaned against the wall, seemingly totally at ease but he’d always been a good read of character. Added to that Victus’ own words, his actions too and he could draw his own conclusions. “I take it your new posting isn’t one you’d have chosen yourself?”
He began fitting pieces together. It was just a mold for now, for some reason he could identify as more than a feeling, Mavic wanted to build the man his gun from the ground up with the best material he had. That feeling said Victus would need it and Mavic always listened to his instinct.
His mandibles drew up slightly, even as he inclined his head in reserved confirmation; little gestures that were automatic, not even really meant to be seen. “No, not something I would have chosen. I miss the soldier’s life. It’s…straightforward." He might have said more, but he was not some drunkard down in his cups. No more complaints. Just shoulder the duty and move forward.
Victus watched with interest. He knew how to disassemble a pulse rifle and keep her gleaming, but rarely had he been given the opportunity to see one born. Good barrel. It might compromise kickback but the firm stock makes up for it. Rear sights to complement the fore sight– "You know how to make her sing.” He said approvingly, even as the inchoate mold began to take shape.
“Sure.” Mavic said and turned toward a door reset into the wall. “You can hang out while I get started, I enjoy the company, as you can see, I’m usually the only one here.”
He led the man back through the door, pressing a button that turned it clear so he could see anyone coming into the main office and then went to a few of the lockers. He pulled out the first several pieces he’d need to get started. “Bureaucratic life? Are you a lawyer or something? Just a guess, you don’t really strike me as one, guess you could be an ambassador, it’d explain the type of weapon surely.”
Mavic flicked his mandible in a grin, trying to show that he was only teasing and not needling Victus for information he didn’t have any real need to know.
“My service record,” He repeated, he hadn’t thought about it in years and when he did it was usually tainted with a certain memory. “I served on a patrol ship, the Havincaw. Nothing fancy. Saw a little bit of action, enough to learn I didn’t like being shot at or getting shot. I got out after my service was up, came here and followed in my dad’s footsteps building guns. And that’s all she wrote, as the humans say.”
He eased back, happy for the moment’s informality, and chuckled lowly at Mavic’s teasing barrage of questions. Lawyer? He’d rather be a krogan. “Ambassador’s a good guess. It’s something like that. Never a move I’d expected, honestly, but you know how the meritocracy works.”
Victus crossed his arms over his chest and took the opportunity to rest against the wall. “A fair history.” He noted mildly. “I’ve never had the interest in pursuing anything other than a solid military career." He shrugged his shoulders, as if to indicate he had no control of his current position. "It served me well until recently.”
The items entered into the terminal, Mavic now had a base to work off of. It would be just a bit tricky to get all those elements to coexist comfortably within the same weapon but he loved a challenge and this was one he knew he could meet.
“Not a problem, patience is something I have in abundance.” He took the offered hand and gave it a good, professional shake. “Nice to meet you Mister Victus. I’m Mavic Virim.”
A good, firm grip. And a title he had not been called by for years. It was refreshing. “You as well. I’d like for you to apply some more of that patience and humor me for a while. It feels like it’s been ages since I ever had the occasion to ‘talk shop’, as it were…” He shrugged his shoulders once, briefly, and crossed his arms behind his back. “I, personally, was not meant for a bureaucratic life. That’s why I’m here, of course. Give myself the illusion that I’ll see the field again, if only for a little. What’s your service record? Not the official story. Your experiences?" It was asked casually, out of open curiosity, one turian to another.
He activated his desk terminal and typed in the parameters for his search. “I’ve been a requisitions officer for six years.” He answered. “I’ve been in this particular posting for about four months.” The terminal finished its search and he turned the thing toward the man, showing him the screen and scrolling through the options.
Victus said nothing, immediately. He was not in the habit to fill the silence with words; it was all just so much white noise. His deep-set eyes flickered over the screen with practiced movements. He was skimming, really. Gleaning just the basics of the armaments available to him. It was all he needed, and he was satisfied.
“Good.” He said at last, although it was unclear if he referred to the requisitions catalog or the young man’s employment history. With a few short jabs at his omnitool, he made the necessary arrangements to procure his interests. He might not have had spectre authority, per say, but his own channels of authorization certainly made due.
“Adrien Victus.” he offered, extending his hand. “Thank you for your patience. Not sure I caught your name.”
.
Mavic glanced up from his datapad at the chime above the door going off. The guy that walked in had a feel about him, an obvious soldier from his gait and bearing alone, the sense of command came off him like cologne. Mavic stood a little straighter behind his desk, reaching his full not-all-that-tall height. He suddenly felt like his drill sergeant had entered the room.
“No sir, not on hand. Well, not in one piece. But I can do something about that, easily.”
An appraising stare. It did not take long for hooded amber eyes to seep over the turian behind the desk, but whatever the search, he seemed satisfied. “Fantastic. I’m tired of being told what can’t be done and whatever excuses follow. Tell me, how long have you worked in requisitions?” He asked, easing into a more conversational mien. “ If you’ve got any recommendations, I would be willing to hear it.”
–Unnecessary, really. That’s what his advisers told him. The Primarch’s duties were outstanding; any new requisitions could be arranged through the proper channels – no need for the old general to so much as step foot out of the war room. Yet, Adrien missed the cold muzzle of an assault rifle in his grip, the constant, reassuring weight at his hip.
It was far too easy to feel old inside, to feel useless and alienated from the battles he no longer had a direct hand in commanding. Yes, his tactical abilities painted the sweep of war in broad, far-reaching strokes – but he felt too safe, too removed from action while scores of his own people died under his orders.
Ordering a gun from a spectre requisitions officer would no more bring the souls of the wandering dead back from the hands of the spirits - and the name of one young officer haunted him especially - but it could at least maintain the fantasy that he could help, somehow.
It was for this reason that he approached the younger turian behind the desk. “I want high-impact shot; moddable. Range is immaterial, and I’m willing to sacrifice accuracy for something that can tear the target to shreds faster than you can say ‘warp rounds’. Got anything like it?”
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[text] This is the Primarch of Palaven. Cease and desist with these images or your standing within the Hierarchy will be reviewed and subject to demotion. [/text]