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Dusk Tart
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Obedient to the last, you march to your designated chute among dozens of other 306s and slide to its outpour at an aero-hangar. A nervous-looking cargo unit loads you all into a Model 520-HE preparing for departure. A few weak radio broadcasts jitter through your head, mentioning something about an airdrop, but you can't quite make it out over the collateral interference of a nearby jammer drone. You pack in among the bodies of your comrades and set your power consumption to Hibernate as the vessel cautiously warms its thrusters.
But that's boring!
You are now an utterly exhausted Model 210-WL. You've just finished dealing with the latest nut-job who waltzed into your jurisdiction looking for an answer to a question he doesn't even have the capacity to comprehend. A truth so potent, so vital to an understanding of the status quo, nay, the world, that --
Well. You like to think it's something that important, but in reality you have literally no idea what you're even supposed to be keeping secret. OMNI Command is pretty well-run in that respect; they keep a hard tab on the "need-to-know" status of their underlings. Might be nice if this particular underling got to know a charging station sometime soon, though... oof.
You're 3 hours past due for a break, but next shift's 210 hasn't shown up yet. Scummy bucket of bolts probably fell through a guardrail or somethin' on his way to the navigation terminal. You got no bleeps on yer proximity scanner, and Tiny here seems to be doin' just fine on his own... still, if you get caught deserting yer post, it's reprocessing fer you. Not like you haven't skirted that line today anyway, what with yer unexplained-mood-swing-of-mercy stunt back there, with that joker in the stilts. Don't wanna push yer luck, here, but screws if you ain't tired.
So would ya input command, already?
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