Work Text:
When Rahlin got back that afternoon, Lieutenant Jorgan met Rahlin at the door with almost alarmingly precise timing. "I'll take the field box you retrieved, Sergeant," he said, hands already out and checking the box for damage. "And maybe next time you could bring me a live agent instead."
Only years of standing to attention for mediocre officers kept Rahlin from retorting that he might as well have asked for an end to the war. Arguing about a mission that had failed long before Rahlin had entered the field was a waste of time and energy—and yet. As Jorgan stalked back to his station, Rahlin followed close on his heels. "Is it my work you have a problem with, or me? Because it's starting to feel a bit personal."
Jorgan didn't so much as look up from the console as he began inputting data. "I've seen your files, recruit: mediocre academy scores, clumsy medical work that only scraped over what qualifies as passable because we're in such desperate need of medics. And then one bit of luck, and you're fast-tracked into heavy weaponry and possible leadership?" He turned to face Rahlin, crossing his arms over his chest. "I haven't seen anything today to convince me you're worth even half the faith command has put in you. So yes, Sergeant, I have a problem with your work."
His eyes flicked out to the side, following a soldier as they entered the room—the zabrak from earlier, Fuse. "But Lieutenant Bazran here still thinks you're mission-worthy, so it's not my call." Rahlin watched as Fuse glanced around the room, eyes lighting on the two of them. He raised a hand in greeting; Jorgan just grunted, turning back to his station. "He'll brief you."
So leave me alone, he didn't say—but the dismissal was clear. "Yes, sir," Rahlin said, putting as much irony into the two words as possible.