A burly, middle-aged man looks at the ranshackle office that is the recruitment centre for Bulwark Flyway. It was formerly an office of some small mining concern,before being appropriated by the Military. Over the door was pasted, in hastily written font, Bretonian Armed Forces, Apply Today!.
He looks at the door for an irresolute moment or two, then finally he walks in. The office is filled with the musty odor of a place that hasn't been cleaned in a while. The smell of cigarettes, sweat and alcohol pervade the air. Henry Cotton smiles a little. The smells of a war-torn country never change. He locates a free officer, and walks up.
The officer looks up. Well? He asks.
Henry replies in a measured tone. I'd like to join the armed forces.
You look too old to fly a ship.
Try me.
If you can't manage, you'll die really quickly.
You need soldiers, don't you? Doesn't matter where they come from, or how long they last. Don't worry, I can last a while.
We'll see. Let's fill out this form here then. Name? Age?
Henry Cotton. Fourty-five.
Fields of experience?Education?Training?
No higher education. Enlisted for the BPA at the age of twenty, joined the space-enforcement unit at twenty-five. Awarded with the Exemplary Discipline Medal. Took multiple wounds at the age of twenty-eight, invalidating me from further duties for a while. Took up teaching physical training at the age of twenty-nine at the University of Burton Springs. Served there for twelve years, joined a munitions factory at the onset of the war with Kusari. Munitions Factory was bombed two months ago.
Reasons for joining the force
I've served the crown before. Can do it again. I am physically fit, despite the age. I have prior experience with fighters. I am without a job, and without a place to live. House was hit by a debris
off some destroyed fighter a week ago. Better to do something than slouch around.
Alright. That'll be all. We'll get back to you soon. Contact details?
That was fast. Here's my neural net number, I'll check in using a public outlet.
Cotton walks away, slowly, and the recruitment officer would have something to gossip about that cranky old man who thinks he can fly a plane.
