A scientist walks down a narrow corridor lined with cubicles, inside each a man stands, awaiting his interview. His ultra-comfort boots hit the sterile floor covering with a soft thud as he enters #214ß. He slaps his thin case on the table and takes an exaggerated seat behind the desk. Leaning over the utilitarian bureau, the yellow lab-coated, grim looking man flicked at the latch of his case. It popped open; the scientist pressed a button and the interview began.
The young man, dressed in fatigues, became aware. The interviewer asked the cadet for his name, rank, batch, and training. The young man replies, "...ß, robotic recon." The stress was getting to our increasingly anxious, overworked quality assurance man. "Very good," he said as he slid open a desk drawer and pulled out a standard issue 1143 pistol. He slid it across the desk in the cadet's direction; the recruit snatched it up, twirled it around his index finger and slid it deftly in it's holster. "Thank you sir," he beamed. The scientist said, as trained, "You do us all honer." Whatever the hell that meant, he thought collecting his case and exiting the room.
Training told me one in five had to be calibrated, he thought entering the next room, #215ß. He set up slower then usual, but what was usual? He has only been on the job 12 hours. When did he start counting? He had his case open and pushed the button. The last thing he could remember before starting here was training. He asked for the info, it flowed as usual. "...ß, tan ops." Fuzzy history. "Very good," the increasingly befuddled man uttered by reflex. He set the gun on the table and turned to leave. "Thank you sir," the cadet said, blowing vapor off the tip of the gun, "you do us all honer."
