Seven Fires City,
April 11, 3062
C’iye Khagi stood ramrod straight, his back a pillar of stone, his features carved from bedrock.. The young man’s posture, paired to his natural stature, made him a towering figure in the recruitment office. Around him hung the banners of the House of Davion, the Federated Suns and the AFFS, the bright oranges and golds of the blazons giving an almost festive air to the otherwise drab room.
Behind the desk, examining the tall man, sat Captain Mark Ramos, and by the look of his features, Captain Ramos was unimpressed. “So you want to join the AFFS.” His voice was thick with a near-periphery drawl, a way of stretching out the sound of the words to imply a certain rustic and earthy nature. “Why do you want to join this man's military? More importantly, why should I let you?”
C’iye looked down at the wheel-chair bound man, a dark brow lifting just slightly. “I have two possibilities in front of me, Captain Ramos, Sir. I can join the Armed Forces of the Federated Sons and defend my home, give back to my nation…” He paused here, to consider his words. There was a laconic pace to the way he spoke, sparing use of language and a guarded reserve of tone. “...or I can become a mercenary, and only take care of myself. Either way, I’m going to be a Mechwarrior.”
The barked laugh filled the banal, spartan office with its sound, reverberating for a moment. “A mechjock! Kid, everyone wants to be a Mechjock… Are you some kind of glory hound, kid? Hopped up on Solaris posters and stories of the Clan Invasions? Think you’re gonna be some kind of hero?” Ramos’ questions came rapid fire, like a machine gun reporting in staccato beat.
“All heroes are dead men.” Responded C’iye with a certain kind of clarity that dropped the verbal temperature in the room by a few kelvin. “Glory is important - coup is a tradition in my people, I cannot deny you that. But I grew up on stories of the 4th succession war. On the third. On the liberation of my people from the Capellans and our unending vigilance to ensure we never fall under Sarnan or Capellan yoke again.”
Ramos grunted - a sound that was as noncommittal as it was an affirmation he understood. “So you’re La’khota then?” There was a subtle shift in the crippled officers tone.
“My father was. T‘unkashilá was. All my t‘iyóshpaye is. I guess that makes me one too. Scouts, the whole of our band. I learned most from my t‘unkashilá. He fought for Hanse Davion in the 4th and the ‘39. He came home. I learned some from my father, he fought for Victor in the Clan Invasion of 49. He died on Tycross, in the Gash.”
“Nasty business, that battle. But son, I can assure you… but he died a…”
The younger man interrupted… “A hero, sir?”
Ramos settled back and looked over the younger man, grunting once more. “Alright then.”
APPROVED: MOS:203-M - Mechwarrior Recruit.