I try to avoid command staff as much as possible; the epitomes of Nanotrasen bootlickers. Their leadership keeps Space Station 13 efficient - or so we're told - and their word is damn near law aboard SS13. One slip up and they'll have the security gestapo on your throat in an instant; again, I try to avoid dealing with them.
That said, all it takes is an all-to-eager assistant who fancies himself a miner to fuck up my day. It's 'my' plasma cutter that sliced his arm off, they say, not his utter incompetence. I comply when security comes to my post, demanding I come with them; making a fuss means I get the stun baton and few kicks to the skull.
"You're kidding me," handcuffed, I look my interrogator dead in the eye; she can't be older than fourteen.
"Shut it," with the mannerisms of a grizzled beat cop, the security officer's eyes squint accusatorily; black shades hiding their color. "So, let's cut to the chase - scumbag - you working with the cultists?"
Cultists?
"Cultists? What are you on about-"
She slams a tiny, gloved fist onto the plasteel table, knocking over a few files and a tape recorder, "I said shut it!" Purple strands slip past her formal beret.
"It was your registered equipment that was the attempted murder weapon. Records 'say' you were on duty, excavating when the incident occurred on station; I don't buy it."
"Records 'say'? No, records 'are'. I was doing my job, kid." The kid remark nearly has her snarling, but I continue, "Are you...Is this some kind of joke? If not, nepotism at it's finest, everyone." Leave it to Nanotrasen to do something so callously incompetent; I wasn't too surprised.
The crackle of a primed stun baton lets me know just how serious the twerp-in-charge is, "We have several crew missing and an attempted homicide; your weapon is enough proof of cult involvement, given recent events." Her mind's already made, the pint-sized patrolgirl adjusting the red security beret atop her crown like a pleased princess.
Despite my shitty situation, the idea of cultists infiltrating the station and several crew members missing takes priority; I look to her badge.
'Sophie Klutz: Junior Commanding Officer'. You have to be shitting me.
"You aren't even security," my gaze narrows, "you're command staff, and a JCO at that!" The accusation is like molten lead, Sophie is the ice cube.
The jig is up; the girl's bravado quickly deflates, "W-Well, we w-were understaffed a-and I just wanted to h-help out!" Tinted shades fall from the bridge of her nose, revealing watery amber eyes.
All at once, the station's AI delivers a robotic warning: 'DANGER. THREAT ELEVATED TO RED: CRITICAL POWER FAILURE. POSSIBLE CULTISTS ACTIVITY. ALL SECURITY ARE PERMITTED TO CARRY WEAPONS. EMERGENCY SHUTTLE CALLED. AWAITING RESPONSE.' The fluorescent lights of the interrogation room flicker and dull as the station switches over to auxiliary power; I can hear faint screams in the distance. Communications go silent.
I knew this shift was going to be a mess.
My wannabe arresting officer nearly careens out of her chair, quivering in place, "M-My uncle said this would be an easy assignment! I'm going to die with a bunch of peasants, aren't I?" This kid isn't a badass in the slightest, let alone commanding officer material; I shake my shackles to make my presence known again.
"Listen, uncuff me so we can get to the armory." This girl is a mess, but at present holds all the power; her keycard is almost like a skeleton key given she's a JCO. For a moment, I see her for what she really is: a scared little girl. I'm no action hero, but it would be pretty fucked up for me to just bolt on her, and again, I need her as much as she may need me if we wanna escape.
"Fuck," a long sigh slips past my lips, "uncuff me and...I'll do my best to make sure we make it out of here alive."
The cuffs unlock with a digital 'beep', "You're d-damn right you'll do your best! I-I'm a top priority!" Behind that authoritative bark is a panicky child; tearful eyes and a quivering pout prove that.