[Here he comes; sent over by Flint, who grumpily (was it grumpy? hard to tell with the man) sent Gannicus on his way over to-]
Are you Kostos?
[He just steps into the office. He looks a bit befuddled, and his hair is up in what can be termed an elaborate braid, like maybe it was done by someone who knows what they're doing with hair.
Being a slave, in some regards, was easy. You just got frogmarched, chained up, from one place to the other.
This is different. Having to find people, all while potentially regretting things you actually do have control over.]
[ He's not sitting at his desk; he's standing over it, bent to scribble a report out on its surface. The desk probably did have a chair at some point, but if so someone in need of a spare chair made off with it months ago, and Kostos has never cared enough to go look for it or steal someone else's.
But enough about the chair.
He glances up from his paperwork to see who's asking. ]
[ More likely: Kostos is around and the powers that be would did not spare a single thought for whether he would enjoy or be good at orienting a new recruit, because they expect a baseline degree of competence and decorum from everyone and don't have time to waste carefully selecting a greeting committee.
But Kostos would prefer to imagine it's personal. Gives him an extra reason to be shirty about it.
Not that he isn't going to do it. He sets the writing aside and straightens up. ]
All right. This is the Forces work room. No one in this division uses desks very often, but we have them anyway. If you need to work here, pick one without anyone else's shit on it. It doesn't matter.
[ He decides to treat the question as rhetorical. (Who hasn't he annoyed.) ]
Can you write?
[ Plenty of people can't.
Anyway, he's said all he needs to say about the work room, so he starts walking, expecting the newcomer–whose name he might remember to ask at some point, maybe—to follow. ]
The floors beneath the work rooms are full of offices for particular positions. Kostos points them out, vaguely, en route to the one that would belong to the quartermaster, if they had one.
Inside are crates and cases. He pulls one off a stack—with effort, being of somewhat smaller arms than Gannicus—and sets it heavily in front of the man. One of many to follow, for each piece of the— ]
[He pokes through, until he finds a set that looks like it would fit him. He crinkles his nose up a bit, and holds it to his chest. He doesn't particularly like the concept of a uniform, but he'll wear pieces and parts of it, at least.]
[ Kostos watches him consider the uniform. A touch of interest, a touch of resentment. Why does he get to be tall and muscled? Kostos wants to be tall and muscled. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
office; backdated
Are you Kostos?
[He just steps into the office. He looks a bit befuddled, and his hair is up in what can be termed an elaborate braid, like maybe it was done by someone who knows what they're doing with hair.
Being a slave, in some regards, was easy. You just got frogmarched, chained up, from one place to the other.
This is different. Having to find people, all while potentially regretting things you actually do have control over.]
no subject
Yes.
[ He's not sitting at his desk; he's standing over it, bent to scribble a report out on its surface. The desk probably did have a chair at some point, but if so someone in need of a spare chair made off with it months ago, and Kostos has never cared enough to go look for it or steal someone else's.
But enough about the chair.
He glances up from his paperwork to see who's asking. ]
What do you want?
no subject
[He looks a bit uncomfortable putting it that way but, well. Them's the breaks, etc.]
I was told you would give me orientation.
[He says that word like it's a bit foreign, like maybe it's the first time he's ever said it before.]
no subject
[ More likely: Kostos is around and the powers that be would did not spare a single thought for whether he would enjoy or be good at orienting a new recruit, because they expect a baseline degree of competence and decorum from everyone and don't have time to waste carefully selecting a greeting committee.
But Kostos would prefer to imagine it's personal. Gives him an extra reason to be shirty about it.
Not that he isn't going to do it. He sets the writing aside and straightens up. ]
All right. This is the Forces work room. No one in this division uses desks very often, but we have them anyway. If you need to work here, pick one without anyone else's shit on it. It doesn't matter.
no subject
[Gannicus isn't particularly bothered, but he's smiling a bit, leaning his weight back into his heels.]
I am not much of a writer.
[He indicates to the paperwork. So.]
no subject
Can you write?
[ Plenty of people can't.
Anyway, he's said all he needs to say about the work room, so he starts walking, expecting the newcomer–whose name he might remember to ask at some point, maybe—to follow. ]
no subject
No.
[He can't read, either, but he follows and doesn't offer that particular information.]
no subject
[ Outside of the workroom, down the stairs. ]
And don't be a pussy about asking people to read or write for you. You are not the only one.
no subject
You won't fuss about me learning it?
[But he's following, without more comment.]
no subject
[ means no, and, ]
Some people offer lessons,
[ means but I don't.
The floors beneath the work rooms are full of offices for particular positions. Kostos points them out, vaguely, en route to the one that would belong to the quartermaster, if they had one.
Inside are crates and cases. He pulls one off a stack—with effort, being of somewhat smaller arms than Gannicus—and sets it heavily in front of the man. One of many to follow, for each piece of the— ]
Uniforms. See if you can find your size.
no subject
This will do.
Weapons?
a bajillion years later
In the armory. What do you fight with?