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/tg/ - Traditional Games

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Solidarity holds the world in a vice grip, nations forced to put aside their conflicts in a joint defense of their planet. A Brotherhood, a Sisterhood—no, neither of these are quite accurate. A Humanhood, all races and genders standing together in a grand effort spanning more than the entire globe, has begun its gentle but ever-tightening embrace over the entirety of Mankind. Yesterday's enemies are today's friends, every person lending themselves in some way to the war effort.

You are at the forefront of that effort, spearheading a mad grab-and-dash operation that has fallen into your lap completely by chance. An entire ship, to say nothing of the rest of the flotilla, has been diverted to deliver you safely. The whole world is here for you, as your 'treasure' and yourself represent its best chance at tipping the balance decisively in its favor. For the time being, at least, they're here for you.

"Then why do I feel so damned alone?" you wonder.
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Looking around your sparse cell, you're grateful the admiral at least tried to get them to spruce it up a bit. Your 'sleeping area' has been fitted with a luxurious extra pad, making it tolerable to lay on. You've been given a pair of books (in English, even—you have no idea why someone had a copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in English on the Jintsu, but you certainly aren't going to complain) and a small pad for drawing, should you decide staring at the ceiling isn't diverting enough. The guard just around the corner even speaks a smattering of English, should you wish to strike up a conversation. Socks is next door, and from what you can tell he has similarly-enhanced accommodations.

Still, there's no one you can really talk to. Rae and Miranda are probably about ready to call it a night back in the bunk room. Yetta, bless her heart, is probably feeling too badly about getting you locked up to come visit. The Admiral just about had you killed and Lt. Cmdr. Ito is on another ship, if you had some mad reason to try and say 'hello'. Yeah, the only person you can talk to...

Well, some people wouldn't even call him a 'person'.

[ ] Ask about how the crew treated him
[ ] Ask about his rendezvous
[ ] Ask about his life back on Mars
[ ] Other
[x] Ask about how the crew treated him

As long as we're talking about solidarity.
[x ] Ask about his rendezvous
Let's find out who it was.
rolled 10 = 10

[x] Ask about his rendezvous

So who was that guy?

>ceductsD Turner,

Turners everywhere

[x] Ask about how the crew treated him

Let's check if our Husbando is alright first, then we can reminisce about our childhoods.
[x] Ask about how the crew treated him
Which should then lead into
[x] Ask about his rendezvous
rolled 18 = 18

Changing to this
Excuse me for a moment while I deal with a pot of boiling water.
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You reach out with your mind, a sensation that's gotten strangely familiar over the last few days. A comforting acknowledgment returns your query. At least he knocks first, you think.

[Hey, Socks. How are you doing over there?] For all your thoughts about solidarity, there's always a few outliers that might not get it.

[I am well, Kukyendall, apart from my recently-incurred injury. It appears I may have a penchant for cranial strikes.]

[Is that another one of your jokes, Socks?]

[Why, did it appear to be?]

Sometimes this Martian can be a bit infuriating. You wonder if it's just him, or if all Martians are like this. Quietly, though, as your mind is currently linked with his, thoughts being conveyed beyond barriers of language and (as far as you can tell) distance.

You give him a mental shake of the head. [No, sorry. Just...trying to make small talk.]
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[Small talk?]

That's a social nuance you don't feel like explaining thoroughly enough for Socks right now, even with the help of this link.

[Never mind. How has the crew treated you? I can't do much from in here, but if they haven't understood quite how important you are, I can try to edge in a few reminders.]

Socks pauses, recollecting his experiences. [I have been treated fairly well. Any transgressions are minor and to be expected given the hostility between our sides.]

[Good, good.]

An awkward silences fills the...silence. Nonverbal communication is weird, and Socks' sudden reluctance to carry a conversation on his own is forcing you to talk about what happened.

[ ] Why the hell did I end up fighting...air?
[ ] So why were you secretly meeting another Martian?
[ ] Other
[x] Why the hell did I end up fighting...air?

Get him talking first, then confront him if necessary.
[x] Why the hell did I end up fighting...air?
Oh, it's you.

>[ ] Why the hell did I end up fighting...air?
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[So, Socks. What the hell was that?]

[What was what, Kukyendall?] Through the link, you feel him grow anxious. Deciding not to dive straight in, you approach from an angle that more concerns you than him.

[It felt like I was fighting a Martian out there. I could see him bobbing and weaving, dodging my fire and my grip. The way he moved seemed fast, but not impossible. It felt so...so real, but it wasn't.] In your cell, you open and close your hand as if to grasp an invisible object. You can almost feel that Martian in your grip, only just dodging you. The memory is still clear as day.

[You have already displayed remarkable sensitivity to psionic phenomena, Kukyendall.]

You blink. [What does that mean?]

[We have studied psionics for some time, but there is much left to be explored. As a researcher it is my job to discover and map these new properties as they present themselves to me. Every incident involving you and psionics deepens the mystery.]

[...So you have no clue?]
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[In not so many words, yes. I mean, no. I have a few theories, but they are worthless until I have the opportunity to test them in a proper laboratory setting. I have no reference point from which to even begin to understand and extrapolate about Human-Martian interaction. Perhaps other incidents have been kept from me, but as far as I am aware you are the first to react so strongly and coherently to psionics. Even this simple link would be unusual to find between two of my people.]

Well, good to know that you're just as special a flower to them as Socks is to humanity.

[ ] Pursue this line of psionic inquiry
[ ] Ask more abruptly about the intruder
[ ] Other
He really is our husbando!

[x] Ask more abruptly about the intruder

Enough dancing.

[x] Pursue this line of Psionic Inquiry

Sooooo... you say I'd be special, even for a Martian?

Eh? Eh?
Asking more about psionics probably won't get us any further. I trust him when he says he doesn't really know.
[x] So who was that anyway?
[x] Ask more abruptly about the intruder
It's his fault we're in here, the least he can do is explain.
Ask about the intruder.
We've got plenty of time now, let's forget about all this war business and just schlick for a while.
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Letting him continue on might lead to some answers to the questions you're really dying to know the answers to, but knowing Socks...it could easily result in a long-winded talk about an admittedly interesting but less pressing topic.

[Speaking of a link between two of your people,] you shamelessly segue, [what's with you and that other Martian?]

The other end of the link is suddenly silent. Socks hasn't cut it off, but...he's deep in thought. The guard peeks around the corner as you give Socks a little more time to respond. He gives you a curious look, but you wave him off, pretending to make yourself comfortable on the rack. He gives you a look, but returns to his position.

[You might say he and I were friends,] Socks says at last.

['Were'? And when you say friends, do you mean like how humans say friends?]

[Yes, a form of social camaraderie between two people that would otherwise likely have no associations. We had known each other for some time, but our positions over politics, the military, and research came into conflict. I had not seen him for some time; he disappeared some years ago.]

[Wait, disappeared?]

[...Yes. No notes, no messages, nothing. Those that might have known what had occurred brushed me aside when I asked. It was unsettling, but eventually I let it be.]

[So this friend of yours disappears, dead to all the world until tonight?]

>Fucking 31 characters over the limit fffff
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[It would appear so.]

[ ] So what kind of positions did you guys come into conflict about?
[ ] How'd you know where to meet him?
[ ] Other

[x] So what did you guys come into conflict about?
[x] How did he get here?
>[ ] How'd you know where to meet him?
Also, start masturbating.

Last time, I promise. Unless it strikes me as funny again.
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[So how in the hell did you know where to find him? You looked like you were walking with some purpose to that spot.]

Socks takes a mental sigh before proceeding. [He reached out for me, much the same way you did. Elated, if somewhat bewildered to find my friend, I sought him out. It was then that our disagreements finally came to a head.]

[...You just walked out to meet another Martian, one that had disappeared for years, while you were betraying your people during a time of war? Socks, are you retarded?]

Socks, caught off guard, sputters a response. [Well, I, he...he wasn't a part of any military organization when I last knew him. There was no reason for him to be on Earth!]

[Shouldn't that have been more suspicious? Dammit, Socks, you're supposed to be some hot-shot smart guy. What did you think was going to happen? Your friend decided to hitch a ride on a big Martian Military space bullet, jump off on the Jintsu and say hello with some flowers in his hand? Maybe a few souvenirs from home? Use your head, Socks, there's a lot of it!]

He stays silent, mulling over your words.

[ ] So how's your cell, anyway?
[ ] We need to teach you some common sense.
[ ] Other.
[x] How'd you know where to meet him?
[x] Other
You do realise I'm going to hit you again when this is over, right?

[x] So how's your cell?

Also, the head thing made me laugh.
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Oh Socks, what are we going to do with you?
>[ ] So how's your cell, anyway
Let's try to get to less awkward subjects.
Common sense lessons!
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You shake your head. [You realize I'm going to have to hit you next time I see you, right?]

Fear and confusion wash over Socks. [What? You are going to inflict bodily harm to me?]

You sigh. There's a lot this Martian has to learn... [Never mind.] You grab your head, frustrated at having no one else to talk to. Socks is always a wealth of information, but right now you just want a good old person who understands human nuance to talk with. Unfortunately, you'll have to make due.

[So..] you continue, trying to pass the time, [what's your cell like?]

[Cell?] You can imagine his head tilting as he asks. [I am not in a cell.]

[What? I thought you were in the one next to me?]

[No, I am with Lt. Caulders and Lt. Kellos. They are being eyed by a trio of men I have not seen before.]

[So you're back at the bunks?]


That is a load of bullshit. You tell him so. He's confused by the sudden talk of feces. You're again reminded of why you want someone to talk to that's not Martian. Giving up, you pay less attention to Socks as he begins to talk about how strange Earth cattle are ([As far as we can tell, they have no equivalent! How strange your 'cows' are.]), letting your mind wander freely. As you do, a pair—no, a trio—of familiar voices come into your mind.
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"...thought she was fighting him, but the Martian fled."

"What if..."

"They can do it to everyone? I don't think so. They'd have exploited the hell out of it before."

"Maybe they need to be close to do it. Maybe it only works on Witches."

You bolt up when you realize what you're hearing. That's Rae, Miranda, and Yetta. You look around your cell, but their voices grow faint as you do.

[ ] Socks, are you sure they're with you?
[ ] You need some sleep...
[ ] Other.
[x] Other
Think ghost noises at them.
Socks, if we can share thoughts, emotions, and memories, can we share senses?
I am struck with inspiration...
God dammit fapfiction
You aren't writing. Might as well let fapfiction take over.
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[Hey, Socks. What the hell is this?]

[What is what, Kukyendall?]

[I can hear the others talking.]

Socks seems to be fond of pauses. Of course, you just might be fond of surprising him. [You 'hear' them?]

[Yeah, clear as day. They're talking about the incident with your friend.] At least, they were. Miranda and Rae have gone off on a tangent, leaving Yetta to watch. Poor girl. You still haven't given her that hug you promised.

[Is that what the commotion is about? Strange that I can hear but not understand...]

[Socks, try telling them I said hello.]

[I do not know how to say hello in your language.]

You furrow your brow. [What do you mean? You say it the same way I'm saying it.]

It's Socks' turn to be frustrated. [...Kukyendall, we aren't actually speaking. Our thoughts and ideas are being conveyed directly; if you are hearing words in your mind, that is your brain taking what is being thought and framing it in something more obviously understandable. I have no idea how to pronounce any of your words, let alone place them in a logical and coherent order. This is why your hearing the others is so strange; if you are understanding them, then that means their voices are being conveyed directly to you without being processed by my mind. Very interestingly, this means-]
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[Alright, alright!] you say (no, you think; Socks just made it very clear what was going on). [Look, what if I actively tried to help you? Made my knowledge known to you?]

[...That may perhaps work, but you will be letting your entire mind open for me to use. Afterward, it would be difficult for me to recall much of your language without assistance again.]

Strange as it may be, you're not quite sure if you should open your mind so freely to Socks, even after sharing so much already.

[ ] Fortune favors the bold!
[ ] Curiosity killed the cat.
[ ] Idiom-less write-in.
Exercise restraint.
[x] Fortune favors the bold!

Anything else would result in paradox.
The only thing that happened in the last thread is Socks talking. Nothing else was done; there's only one event that I can "force" to have happen. How it occurs is up to you.
Fortune favors the bold.
[x]J-Just get on with it!
My little sister and her hyperactive friend are practically dancing on my desk, it's taking forever to write this...
Just give them the dicking they so openly demand from you.
Alright, they left.
10 minutes? For two girls? That was fast.
You're not exactly comfortable with it, but if Socks having access to your mind was a threat, you've already let him connect enough times that whatever damage that might be done probably alread had.

[Well, let's do it, Socks. No offense, but I'd like to talk with someone with a little better understanding of Human culture.]

Socks considers this for a moment before continuing. [Very well. If you focus on what it is you would like to say, I believe I can attempt to replicate it. Do not attempt to resist if you feel uncomfortable; you must relax as I search for your knowledge of language.]

Nervously, you focus on "Hello, guys," as Socks mucks around in your head. It's a very strange sensation, as if he were slipping in between the cracks in the sidewalk, except the sidewalk is your head and the cracks are...hell, you're not even sure. On the other side (as you've started to call it), you can hear the others going on and on. It's boring talk, but it's still talk, and it catches your attention.

"...sister is a bit forward, isn't she?"

"Yeah, but she's still good at heart. Just...try to ignore her, she doesn't mean much."

"I guess, but she..."

Your attention is turned to Socks, or rather, the quiet sounds he's beginning to produce on the other side. You can hear him attempting to vocalize, twisting his vocal chords (if that's what they use) and other sound-altering membranes and body parts to pronounce a completely alien tongue. Finally, he manages.

"H-hello, guys."

The shock on the other side is audible. Smiling, you focus on "What, you ain't never heard a Martian talk before?" before realizing it would take Socks quite some time to get the pronunciation down. Ah well. It's a start.


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Now patiently awaiting fapfiction.
That might take a while.

Corsair Witches soon~
God you're useless.
But seriously, good luck with it.
I-is this tsundere?
Perhaps a little! Mostly I just enjoy giving you shit (Panzer also), but I only mean it in jest.
The following morning, when it came, was far too loud. Given that Chrichton lived on an airbase, that was saying something. He shielded his suffering ears with a groan. “Is there a truck exploding outside?” he grumbled.

“No, just a delivery truck heading to the base,” Marie said. Chrichton opened his eyes to see Marie already dressed. “You had best hurry if you want to get back before someone misses you,” she said slyly.

“Ugh.” He grabbed his clothes and started pulling them on. “How do you think I should do that?”

“What? Get back before you’re missed?” Marie asked.

“Yeah,” Chrichton said, buckling his pants on.

“One way,” she said sweetly. “But you won’t like it.”

“Tell me anyway,” Chrichton said shortly. Marie grinned.
Ten minutes later, Chrichton was sitting in the back of a produce truck, wedged between two crates of grapes. “I had to ask,” he grumbled.

The truck lurched as it came to a halt outside the gates to the base. “Ah, Lieutenant! You gonna let me in, or you gonna search the truck for aliens?” the driver yelled.

“Oh, shut up, Giuseppe,” the guard shouted back. The back flap of the truck opened up and the guard swept his flashlight across the contents briefly. “Go on in,” he called up.

“Sure thing. See you later,” the driver said. The truck started back up, and they were on their way.

After a few more minutes of bouncing about, the truck finally halted. The driver’s side door slammed. Chrichton tensed up, but when the flap opened, only the driver was standing there. “All right, Captain, get your ass out of my truck,” he said.

Chrichton straightened up. “Thanks, Signore Giuseppe,” he said, clambering out of the truck.

“No problem. You’re hardly the first pilot I’ve met who thought with his junk instead of his brains,” the driver said cheerfully. Chrichton grinned despite himself.

“Well, that notwithstanding, I appreciate it. See you around,” Chrichton said. He hopped down out of the truck, and ducked through the kitchen, avoiding the sight of any of the cooks. Sidling up to the door to the mess hall, he peeked around the corner. The coast was clear. He slid into the room and sat down at the first table, all practiced nonchalance.

“Man, that was close,” he said quietly.

“What was?” Giselle asked. Chrichton started and looked beside him. He had sat down at the Witch table.

“Uh…nothing,” he said. Giselle looked at him funny for a moment, before she nodded knowingly.

“Ah, I see. You snuck off to get laid last night.”
Chrichton nearly choked on his tongue. “W-what?”

“Ah, no shame in it,” Giselle laughed airily as Luisa and Letty giggled.

“Jesus living Christ, you’re FIFTEEN!” Chrichton said in horror.

“Eh, you grow up with four older brothers in a house the size of a garage and you tend to learn such things,” Giselle said.

Chrichton shuddered. “Well it’s still creepy.”

“Go get some food, Captain,” Letty sniggered. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

“Oh, joy,” Chrichton grumbled.

He returned minutes later, laden down with eggs and toast, and started in on his meal, conscious of the eyes of every single pilot in the mess. “So, Major Girotti,” he asked, trying to draw attention away from his lascivious evening. “How did you get into the service?”

Luisa thought for a moment. “Well, I enlisted back in 1940 as a combat magic researcher, but that didn’t last. Il Duce didn’t trust witches much.”

“So you have pre-War training?” Chrichton asked.

“Some. Very basic. We all enlisted when the fighting started,” Luisa said. “I was only fifteen when I registered to the Royal Magic Forces.”

“Wow.” Chrichton downed a cup of water and thought about that. When he was fifteen, he had just been learning how to drive a car and speak French. “How did things change after the Invasion?”

“Well, we finally had a reason to ignore Il Duce,” Letty joked.

“Did you hate Mussolini?” Chrichton asked.
“He can go fuck horses,” Giselle said breezily. “Son of a bitch loathed witches. DESPISED us.”

“Really? Why? You’re the ultimate force multiplier,” Chrichton said in confusion.

“Because fascisti hated any source of power they couldn’t control, and nobody tells a Witch what do to,” Giselle said. “And nobody likes telling people what do to more than fascisti.”

“He’s still alive, you know, stranded up in the Milanese Alps,” Girroti said. “Nobody cares enough to rescue him. All the blackshirts died defending Rome from the Squiddies.”

“What about the King? Is the King alive?” Chrichton asked.

“Yeah. He and Il Pontiface are hiding in First Great War chemical gas bunkers somewhere in Toscana, sending radio messages to the people to keep morale up,” Girroti said. “The Paladins are there, too.”

“Pardon?” Chrichton asked. Letty giggled.

“Wrong Paladins,” she said. “The Witches in the Papal Guard are called the Paladins.”

“And never in my life have I met a group of more thoroughly, entirely, and remorselessly UNLIKEABLE women,” Girroti said coldly.

Chrichton blinked. “What’s wrong with them?”

“They have entitlement issues the size of San Pietro’s Basilica,” Letty quipped. “Don’t worry, between their fucking dumb outfits and the aura of self-importance they project, you’ll see them coming from a great distance.”
Chrichton chuckled. “I imagine.” He swept his plate with some toast. “Do any of you speak languages other than Italian and English?”

“Why?” Giselle asked. Chrichton shrugged.

“American officers are encouraged to learn certain other languages,” he said. It was partially true. Some commands took it better than others.

“I can speak a bit of French, but that’s it,” Girotti said.

“Really? Your English is amazing,” Chrichton said.

“I’m speaking Italian.” Chrichton’s blood froze. For a horrible instant, every suspicion he had had in the conference room, which he had managed to forget in Marie’s arms, came pounding back through him “There are magical spells that can let people translate their words in realtime,” Girotti continued.

Chrichton’s heart resumed. “Oh! Oh, that’s useful. I was confused for a moment,” he said.

“Yeah, linguistic magic is the oldest surviving school,” Luisa said.

“Psssh, that’s what they say,” Letty said dismissively.

“It’s true.”

“It’s talk. Healing magic is the oldest school,” Letty boasted.

“Is that what you do?” Chrichton asked.

“Sure is,” she said, leaning towards him and flirtatiously batting her eyebrows. “What can I say, I’m good with my hands.” Chrichton chucked nervously.
“Uh…okay…how about you, Lieutenant?” he asked, nervously glancing over at the younger Giselle.

“I’m a sensor specialist. Radar, you know. That’s what makes me a good spotter,” she said smugly.

“Interesting.” Chrichton drank some more water to scare the lingering adrenaline away. “Mustangs don’t have radar. Our kinds, anyway.”

“Dumbest decision,” Giselle muttered. “How can you even fight if you can’t see shit?”

“Well, we fly escorts for heavy bombers sometimes, going to hit the enemy outpost in Sicily. They have good radar, most of them,” Chrichton said. “And if we’re working with the cruisers, we have you and the ships themselves.”

“True. What else do you need?” she asked haughtily. Letty rolled her eyes.

Luisa finished her breakfast and stood to go. “Well, it’s been fun, Captain, but I have patrol duty in fifteen. See you around,” she said, offering him a perfunctory salute before walking off. Chrichton followed her shapely butt until it was out of sight, as did every other pair of eyes attached to a man in the room.

Letty stood too. “I’m on her wing today, so I should head out. Nice talking to you, Romeo,” she said to Chrichton as she walked by. Giselle chortled into her croissant.
Half an hour later, Chrichton was sitting in a conference room with Major Heidmack and Lieutenant Colonel Algoud. “Well, Captain, it seems Command is impressed with your behavior yesterday,” Heidmack said. “That bar of yours might stay for good if you keep this up.”

“That would be ideal, yes sir,” Chrichton said.

Heidmack ignored his glibness. “Now…that means that you may be called upon to interact with your counterparts in the Italian and French air forces, from time to time.”

“Yes, sir.” Chrichton tilted his head. “Do you have something specific in mind, sir?”

“Not yet, but a permanent liaison base like ours requires a level of coordination beyond anything that the US military has experience with thus far,” Heidmack pointed out.

“Very true,” Crichton observed. “And the Witches?”

“What about them?”

“Well…whose job is it to liaise with them? They all know that instant translation spell thing, so they hardly need me,” Chrichton pointed out.

“Correct, but the Italian witches were ostracized from the Italian military in a way American and French witches weren’t. They don’t have much experience working with conventional forces,” Heidmack said. “Certainly not foreign ones.”

“So…are you asking me to do something with them, sir?”

“Not at all. But I want to hear approximately zero disciplinary problems between fourth flight and the Witches,” Heidmack said curtly. “The Witches have already reported some problems with other units on the island.”

Chrichton blinked in surprise. “What? Are you serious, Major? That’s crazy.”
“Some of the Italian units have difficulties forgetting their former institutionalized instructions of disregard,” Algoud said darkly. “And some of the French units have a hard time working alongside Witches who may well have had a hand in driving their fellow servicemen out of the Mediterranean.”

“With all due respect, that doesn’t seem to bother those American and British units who work alongside German witches in Ireland or England,” Chrichton said. “Why is it a problem here, Colonel?”

Algoud glared. “You may take that tone from your voice as soon as possible, Captain.”

Chrichton was taken aback. “What? I didn’t intend any disrespect, sir,” he said quickly.

Heidmack leaned in to defuse the situation. “We’re all working alongside former enemies, Captain. Witches from different countries may get along famously, but to expect everyone from every command to get along is unrealistic.”

Chrichton decided to lance the verbal boil before he lost the chance. “Sir, is this a reassignment?”

“Not at all,” Heidmack said. “Look. All I’m saying is that you will be called upon to work alongside other commands, other units, foreign units. They may not trust you. That’s the point. All officers in my squadron at command rank need to be able to work with people who distrust them, and I’m counting on you to overcome any inter-unit crap that may crop up.” He stood. “Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Chrichton said.

“Good. Dismissed.”
And that's a wrap, folks. See you next week.

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