As he warily ventured through the passageways of the Trotsky, Bill couldn't think of much else.
When the SCRA ships William Bishop had met told him to look up their recruiting office, this was not the kind of place he'd imagined. Heavy guard, yes, that was to be imagined, but this wasn't about firepower. These guys looked mean. Every time one of the intimidating fellows made eye contact, Bishop felt a twinge in his gut; an instinctual urge to leave, to run, to go back to life as he knew it. There were reasons to ignore it; if he turned back now, he'd know he was a big sissy girl. Still, Bill's gut had never lied to him before. It certainly didn't help his confidence.
With what could only be the door to the recruiting office in sight, Bill put on his most indomitable swagger, his most unshakable expression of self-assured calm, and strutted onward to adventure. Unfortunately, it turns it could be other things; as it happened, it was a door to a maintenance closet. Bishop wasn't great at reading the signs in this place.
Practicality needed to come before fear. Bill summoned the courage to approach a guard.
"Excuse me, mate, where does one head for recruitment on this vessel?"
For a moment, the burly sentry only stared back. Gazed into Bill's soul. Oh god, he's going to kill me for talking to him.
The terrifying silence was broken when the guard beamed widely and pointed down the hall. "Yes, no problem, you just take a right, then a left, then a south!" Oh, he's good. They're lulling me into a false sense of security.
"Ah, thanks mate. Have a good one there." Bishop briskly walked off on his journey. He could still change his mind about the killing. Keep moving, Willy, keep moving.
Keep moving is exactly what he did; the half-walking, half-fleeing William Bishop took a right, then a left, then a south. Hey, it wasn't a trap, this really is the place. That desk lady looks tougher than the guard, though. Hey, is that pot plant real?
This promising train of thought was tragically broken as the aforementioned receptionist noticed the bewildered looking man standing in the middle of the doorway. "YOU!" was the short, sharp hail she decided to vocalize at him, though Bill was so startled by the noise that she may as well have shot a bullet from her mouth.
"You're blocking the entrance! Are you here to enlist? What the hell kind of shirt is that?!"
"I'm sorry! Yes! It's Hawaiian, I like vintage!"
The secretary's face wrinkled in disgust; perhaps at the doorblocking, perhaps at his fashion sense. Whatever it was, her contempt flowed effortlessly from her face to her words as she barked a command at the newcomer.
"Take your offensive shirt and sit! You will be called when ready."
