Bretonian Armed Forces Recruitment Centre (iRP)

[Gloom]

Good morning lads, name's Gallows, Irving Gallows.
I ain't exactly sure how to put this one here but my story's short an' simple.
Used to serve for the Queen already, Royal Marine, 21st Battalion, Leeds contingent, stationed on Stokes 'fore them Slants... I'm sorry, them Kusarians wiped most of us out and took the base over... think they call it 'Daisin' now... eitherway, I hear you're looking for men and I'd rather save you the sob-story of my honorable discharge were it up to me, but here goes.

Day when them Kusarians stormed the base was brutal. Cold and brutal. Blitzkrieg won't describe it and I'm sure most of y'all know darn-well the hell happened aboard. Fought for every little inch we did, tried to hold the line, evac as many as possible, get everyone out... mostly successful at that.
21st took heavy losses, most of my buddies died on the base that day. I guess you could say I was one of the lucky survivors leftover, but I don't know... been thinking I should have died that day but too many flesh wounds tend to get you a spot on an evac bird rather damn quick.

Was what happened to me and I got ferried out. Back to Derby medical at first, later back to Leeds.
Wanted to get back in service soon as I was on the way to recover, but got told no. Legs won't work proper anymore, there's days running ain't much of an option. Walking's more of a stumbling issue. Can't say I blame 'em for getting rid of me.

Had plenty of time to think y'know. Should I've died, should I've not.
Was just a couple months ago when I could look into the mirror and answer that one with a "no" and believe it. So then I sat down and thought some more. Thought what can I do. How can I help.
Most importantly though, I was thinking how, just how can I pay those bastards back in kind.

Hit me some day when I went back to my ol' home, visited my old man and my Ma. Pa used to fly cargo birds all over Sirius. Freighters and the like. So I saw that old bird rusting at pa's landing pad, remembered how he'd let me fly now and then in my young days as a wee little lad before I ended up in her Majesty's Marines.

You don't need to be able to run if all you do is fly birds through space, don't ya?
So what I did was take some of my savings, hit up a local flight school. See what I can do. Brush up my rusty skills. Couple days with the instructor and he said to me: "Laddie, ye got yeself a nat'ral talent fer flyin', ye do."

Things went on, would fly more, practice more. Basic combat in simulators, sometimes 'round the far end of Leeds, just exercises and the like. Can't say it was all a hundred percent legal but that's borderline important to Sla... Kusarians roaming the space around Leeds here and there.

Anyhow, it's months later now and here I am, an old lad who's just looking to do his part again.
Rough conditions, they don't bother me. Bad pay don't either. As long as you don't force me to run like a gazelle from somewhere to somewhere else, I'll do my part to help in the war.
All I'm asking in turn's a shot at good ol' lady vengeance.

You give me that and this ex-Marine's going to charge the gates of Slant-eyed hell for ya soon as you say the word. If you don't... well I've found the way here, I know the way out.

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