CnC Chpt 4

==Cat and Crescent - Chapter 4 -==
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===A shot at a championship===
Gladiator's Arena, Home of Fortune Casino
Herotitus, Rimward Periphery
Friday, September 17th, 3024 
"Remi!" Volker Esko bellowed. He strode over to deliver a friendly one-two fake punch to Remihel's ribs. He was gentle, but Remihel still felt the potential power behind the playful gesture. "Glad you could make it. I'm so glad to see you again. Come on in! Make yourself comfortable - the show's about to start!"
 
Volker Esko always tried to live larger than life. He aspired to the philosophical creed of the New Hedons, believing humanity faced only inevitable extinction and advocating the pursuit of pleasure above everything. Volker kept fit, and bolstered his workout with steroids to bulk him up like a professional bodybuilder. At the Ècole Militaire, where he shared a dorm room with Remihel for two years, he developed a dangerous reputation as a martial artist and Mechwarrior alike.
 
On Herotitus, Volker lived in his true element. He'd always been a fan of the gladiatorial matches on distant Solaris VII. Now, with money to burn, he'd set himself up as a stable owner, lording it over a team of all-female fighters. True to his valkyrie theme, he played the role of a two-eyed Odin. He grew his blond hair and beard long, and braided them both. He wore polished steel armour etched with patterns that probably related vaguely to the Norse legendarium - at least in the mind of the artist who designed it. He even wore a helmet decorated with wings.
 
"You seem to be doing well for yourself, Volker," Remihel said, returning his friend's greeting with a soft left hook to Volker's shoulder. His hand encountered muscle, and plenty of it; Volker kept fit. "Thank you for the invitation." He looked around the owner's box and nodded in approval at the creature comforts. "Living like a Davion lordling up here, I see."
 
"Ha!" Volker settled back down onto an oversized leather recliner, and pointed to another nearby. "Should see what Klaus Pfaumann did with his box. Remodeled it six months ago and got this massive great aquarium that takes up one whole wall. Filled it with exotic fish and hired four Canopian girls to swim around in mermaid costumes. Us Taurians," Volker said, gesturing at himself and Remihel, "we make do with mortal comforts. Come on, sit down." He signaled to his serving staff. "Wenches!" he bellowed. "Bring us mead!"
 
A trio of girls, scantily-clad in rather unrealistic armor and winged helmets of their own, pranced out with drinking horns filled with amber-colored alcohol. Remihel took his seat, sampled the unknown drink, and tried to figure out where he could surreptitiously dispose of the stuff. "If you need anything, milord," one of the valkyries said, trespassing into his personal space, "I hope you'll let me know." She moved her body to indicate exactly what needs she expected to fulfill.
 
"Thanks," Remihel said, pushing her back to arm's-length. "I'm fine for now. I came to visit and watch the tournament."
 
"Just let me know!" she repeated, undeterred by this rejection.
 
"Ah, Remi," Volker laughed, shaking his head. "You never cease to amuse me. He loves to play it chill, ladies. I think he prefers to put in a bit of work! He can be as cold as Loki in the winter."
 
"Glad to entertain." Remihel grumbled. "Now, this tournament - what are we looking at?"
 
"Well, take a look," Volker said, leaning forward on his chair. He gestured toward the huge armored windows before them. "The first of the warriors already took the field!"
 
Remihel looked out over the arena. It filled most of a small valley, an oval nearly kilometer long and half as wide. A number of bunkers ringed the bowl. Spectators observed the tournament from armored viewslits or cleverly-designed periscopes. On the valley floor, natural and artificial obstacles broke up the sight-lines. A copse of trees were slowly being converted to matchwood. Six concrete pillars and two steep-sided pyramids provided solid cover for Battlemechs. A ruined village provided ambush possibilities, and a stream rambled its way across the length of the valley.
A Battlemech - an SHD-2H Shadow Hawk - prowled along the far side of the arena, but Remihel did not see any opponent taking the field. He turned to Volker. "Just a bit of exhibition, first?"
 
"Not quite," Volker snorted. "We're not playing by Solaris rules, you know."
 
"Explain?" Remihel asked.
 
"Sure." Volker sat forward in his seat. "Even with Klaus and his ridiculously deep Steiner pockets, it's not economical for us to throw a dozen mechs into the ring every week and see who's the last one standing. So we only hold twelve duels each year. Always the final event of the day, of course."
 
"Of course." Remihel saw a flash from the Shadow Hawk's autocannon, and a few moments later, the sound rattled the windows.
 
"To qualify for the championship duel, we tally up the points from these minor skirmishes," Volker continued. "Two skirmishes during the week, and four on weekends. Each pilot has five minutes to find holographic targets scattered through the arena. A computer tabulates their speed and accuracy for whatever targets they find. The top three pilots on each team get a bonus from the rest. At the end of the month, the two highest scores advance to the final tournament duel."
 
"And risk their life for the approval of the fickle crowd." Remihel said.
 
"That's right." Volker smiled. "That's what I pay them for. It's been a decent investment for me so far. I'm looking to net about fifteen million C-Bills this season. More, if we take one of the champion duels."
 
"Quite respectable." Remihel said approvingly.
 
"And it's a lot more entertaining than squeezing taxes out of your cranky hill people," Volker added. "How much are you bringing in, again? A million a year?"
 
"One-point-four," Remihel corrected, annoyed that Volker wanted to rub that in his face. As if it matters.
 
"So little money for so much work," Volker grinned. "Remi, you really should have bought into this business when I gave you the chance."
 
"Oh well, I'll know better next time." Remihel murmured.
 
Halfway through the Shadow Hawk's run, an UrbanMech stomped out onto the field next. Despite derisive commentary from the tournament announcer, the Urbie pilot pushed his machine to the limit. He moved efficiently, and pumped out accurate fire from his AC/10 autocannon. Meanwhile, the Shadow Hawk continued battling the final pop-up targets on its way to the northwestern end of the arena.
 
Remihel continued to watch the Shadow Hawk as the clock ticked down. "Is this one of yours?"
 
"No, that one belongs to Klaus," Volker said. "A hotshot Steiner veteran to start things off with style. Though..." a klaxon sounded to indicate expired time, and Volker grinned. "He only drew a final score of 39.6. That's good - for me. Some of my second-stringers can do better than that."
 
Remihel leaned back in his chair. "Speaking of your second-stringers, I hear you've got a Lyreton girl."
 
Volker turned and gave him a sly look. "Josie Wallace. Yeah, she's up fifth in line." He signaled one of his attendants for a nearby noteputer, and toggled a holographic display. A life-sized glamour shot accompanied a long list of performance statistics. "I first hired her as a pit girl, since she's got legs for days and looks great in a valkyrie costume. But I stuck her into my lineup pretty quick. She's not half-bad for someone trained by apprenticeship and not an academy."
 
"Ehm," Remihel said.
 
"I don't think she's ever going to nail a championship," Volker continued. "And I'd probably pull her from the lineup before she got close enough to try."
 
"Sorry, what did you say?" Remihel asked, leaning forward and looking at Volker in confusion.
 
"Oh, I'd hold her back from winning a championship," Volker repeated. "Look, Remi - I've got a stable of eight girls. They can't all win - and I don't want them all to win. When one of my girls scores high enough for a tournament slot, I want one that really snaps with my fight promotions. The fans need to obsess over her. A few of my pilots - Simone and Marilena - have that celebrity draw. I push them to the front and keep Josie in the middle. She's good enough to pressure my top three and contribute to teams point bonuses, but that's all I need from her."
 
"And you called me cold," Remihel said, tasting a bit of disgust in his mouth.
 
"This is a business," Volker said. "And the money comes first."
 
Remihel sighed and shook his head. "If you say so."
 
Out in the arena, the Urbie pilot accrued a respectable 34.3 points, and a Vulcan sprinted out of the starting gate, immediately thrilling the crowd with its use of flamers. A twenty-ton Wasp followed - and only then, the pilot Remihel came to watch.
 
 "Next up, from Volker's Valkyries," the announcer declared. "We've got Josie Wallace, callsign 'Teacup,' piloting a fifty-ton TBT-5N Trebuchet. She's had a mixed season this year, placing second in the Majesty Metals Invitational back in August. But a four-week suspension leaves her trailing in season points, and there's little chance for her to overtake the current leaderboard..."
 
"Four-week suspension?" Remihel asked, looking to Volker for explanation.
 
"That's right!" Volker replied, giving Remihel a broad grin. "She slapped Denise Nixon after the Invitational ended."
 
"Why?"
 
"Bad blood between 'em all season," Volker said. "I don't care about the little details. Read the e-tabloids if you want all the fun pictures. Short story, though? They both wanted to smash the same hot blond beefcake surfer. I guess they still prefer monogamy. Josie played best girl for a few months, then Denise stole her man and gloated about it. Out comes the hand, whap! Oh, Remi, it was a thing of beauty to see." Volker looked smug. "Cost Josie a shot at a championship duel this season, of course. She's never going to make up the lost points from her suspension. But it's great publicity, and we'll milk that rivalry for next year's season."
 
"The money comes first." Remihel repeated.
 
"Exactly. And I got so much publicity from that. It was worth it. I wish they'd do it again."
 
Remihel wondered if the bad taste in his mouth still came from the mead. He kept his eye on the Trebuchet, moving swiftly through the arena and picking up targets. "A bit slow on the medium lasers," he noted. "Good use of LRMs, though."
 
"Yeah, she's not a knife-fighter," Volker agreed. "I've run her through most of the mechs in my stable. The Treb fits her piloting style best."
 
Remihel watched as the mech reached the halfway point, spotted a new holographic pop-up target, and flung a salvo of thirty long-range missiles. The pilot didn't wait to see the result before moving onward, but the LRMs did their jobs as advertised.
 
"She's a good shooter." Remihel noted.
 
"She's going to be at the party tonight at the Home of Fortune," Volker added. "I get all my girls to show up every few weeks. I've never wasted time on her, myself. But why don't I introduce you?" He looked particularly sly. "Just your type. Long legs, short skirts. I know you go for that sort."
 
"Ehm," Remihel mumbled. He wanted the introduction, but was somewhat irked by Volker's approach. He continued watching the Trebuchet as it sprinted through the second half of the course. Would make an excellent Griffin pilot, he mused to himself. "I wasn't planning to go."
 
"You're never planning to go anywhere," Volker said. "I have to drag you along for everything. Imagine where you'd be without me."
 
Remihel entertained this intriguing idea for several moments. The Trebuchet fired off a last salvo of lasers before the klaxon sounded, bringing the pilot's final score up to 46.4. "I might be interested in seeing more..."
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===Recruitment for new Gig===
Remihel followed Volker through the crowded bar. I regret my choices, he told himself.
 
For the last ten years running, the Home of Fortune Casino hosted a party that showcased all of the best and worst of Herotitus's infamous entertainment industry. The event advertised itself as "wild all night long." Costumed dancers performed on small stages scattered across the casino floor, or in cages suspended from the ceiling. The casino's staff provided for every sort of common vice, and quite a few of the uncommon ones as well, all freely available to anyone that paid the entry fee. It cost Remihel five hundred C-Bills just to get in. He couldn't conscientiously use either his secret account from Taurian Military Intelligence nor the discretionary funds he'd set up for the Blue Crescent Rangers.
 
"Let's try looking back here," Volker suggested.
 
"You don't really know where to find her, do you?" Remihel said.
 
"Not a clue!" Volker laughed. "I'm looking, same as you... Aha!" Volker abruptly said, gesturing to two women seated in a poorly-lit alcove. "Contact left, ten meters!"
 
Josie was a young woman, almost twenty-three years old. She showed all the physical traits of someone born and raised on a low-gravity world: slightly taller than average, with thin shoulders and narrow hips. She'd bound her metallic pink hair into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and pinned it up with a flashy comb covered in fake but very sparkly gemstones. In contrast to all the scantily-clad women at the party, Josie wore a simple pilot's bodysuit in black and red, knee-high white boots, and a leather jacket branded with the Volker's Valkyries team logo.
 
 "Ah, Josie! Found you at last," Volker said. He strolled up to the alcove, dominant and confident that wherever he went, he'd become the center of attention. He turned to the second woman at the table. "Hello, Tatina. Good to see you again."
 
"Volker," the other woman said. "I didn't know you were here." Remihel, drawing on his training at reading people, saw annoyance in Tatina's body-language, and nominal relief in Josie's face.
 
"I arrived late." Volker grinned. "Met with an old friend of mine, you see - he stopped by to visit me this afternoon, out of the blue. One thing led to another, and - well, let me introduce you, hm?" Volker turned back to Remihel, summoning up his most formal voice. "Permit me the privilege - nay, the very great pleasure - of introducing my college roommate... my co-conspirator... my esteemed friend... Baron Remihel Greenbrier, of the Taurian Concordat. Remi, this is Josie Wallace."
 
Remihel extended a hand. "The pleasure of this meeting is mine, Miss Wallace." He found Josie's grip stronger than he expected - long fingers, nails clipped short, two plastic rings connected to the bracelet on her wrist by a fine chain. Viewed from up close, she had an attractive smile trying to compensate for deeply unhappy eyes.
 
"And I'd be remiss if I did not also introduce Tatina Cruz," Volker continued. "One of the resident celebrity reporters here on Herotitus. If you stay on Herotitus for very long, she'll launch her campaign to charm your darkest secrets from you."
 
"How do you do, Baron?" Tatina said.
 
Her voice sounded like the screech of a half-dead animal. Even ignoring her career choice, Remihel developed an instant dislike for the woman, and gave her the barest minimum of politeness before turning back to Josie. "I watched your match this afternoon. Quite a respectable performance for a young pilot."
 
"Thanks!" Josie said, and hiccupped loudly. "Oops. Scuse me."
 
 Volker leaned forward into the moment, and gave Remihel a hearty slap on the back. "A respectable performance, is it? Respectable? Remi, you're just too stingy with your praise." He turned back to his pilot. "I think he's trying, quite incompetently, to compliment you!"
 
"Oh," Josie giggled, and took a quick sip from a colorful and half-empty drink. Remihel estimated she must have downed at least one already. "Don't worry! I took it as a compliment."
 
Volker cast a side-glance at Remihel, and then with a fake whisper, added: "He's not very good with the ladies. I have to help him a lot. For instance, I'm sure he'll forget to tell you that he's a mechwarrior himself - and a pretty good one, too! How many pirate kills do you have, now, Remi?"
 
"That's classified," Remihel said, giving Volker a quick but not entirely threatening glare. "I can admit to six."
 
"Wow!" Josie sounded impressed, and Remihel saw a bit of life straining to get back into her eyes.
 
"In any case," Volker chuckled, "I'll leave you two some space to get acquainted. Tatina, can I buy you a drink at the bar?"
 
"It's an open bar."
 
"Yes, but you have to pay for the really good stuff... like the cholobara."
 
"Hm." Tatina looked back at Josie, snorted piggishly, and slipped out of the alcove after Volker. "If it's cholobara, I'll accept. I'm not getting any action here."
 
Volker made a show of offering Tatina his arm, but turned back to give one more sly comment. "Oh, Josie... a bit of a favor, hm? When you drag Remihel back to your place tonight... don't break him. He's getting old and soft!"
 
Remihel gave a low snarl that carried a promise of future retribution, but Volker retreated with a carefree laugh.
 
"Why don't you join me?" Josie giggled, gesturing toward the seat Tatina so recently vacated. Remihel accepted the offer and slid in across from Josie. She swirled the ice in her glass and took a quick drink. "I've never seen Volker play wingman before! And I suppose I'll have to thank the two of you for drawing off Tatina."
 
"Ehm?" Remihel said, carefully caging his answer to the most neutral possibility. "Was she bothering you?"
 
"She spent the last half-hour giving me a stealth interview," Josie sighed. "Annoying voice and annoying questions. I'm required to come to these parties and talk with people like her." Josie hiccupped again. "And I don't care what Volker said - don't get your hopes up for tonight. I'm not a first-night kind of girl. One of Momma's Rules. Don't ride it 'til you're ready to buy it, she told me."
 
"Seems like a decent standard," Remihel replied. "What are the others?"
 
"Others...? Oh! Momma's Rules. Uh, there's a lot. Not sure I even remember them all. But let's see..." Josie counted on her fingers. "If you left it unattended, don't drink it. Momma really pushed on that one. His hands don't go there. And her favorite, Set high expectations." Josie looked thoughtful, tilting her head to the side. "Maybe I should write them down sometime."
 
"I think you should," Remihel agreed, still trying to gauge how inebriated she was.
 
"I should!" she repeated, her voice bubbly. "Tomorrow. Um... I'm really sorry, but Volker talked too fast and I forgot your name."
 
"Remihel Greenbrier."
 
"Remihel, Remihel... interesting name," she said thoughtfully. "Where's it from?"
 
"Hebrew. A variant of the ancient Jerahmeel," Remihel said. "My mother is Jewish. But I'm actually named for a character in the opera Zion is my Home. My parents met during a performance on Taurus."
 
"Huh! That's so sweet!" Josie smiled. "Volker said you're a baron?"
 
"So they tell me," Remihel said. "A little slice of land on our family's homeworld. Entirely unearned by me, of course. My grandfather wrote a few best-selling historical novels. The Taurian Concordat rewarded his contributions to literature with the Barony of Blackfoot."
 
"Blue-eyed Baron Greenbrier of Blackfoot, then?" Josie said. "You're a colorful person!"
 
"...yes," he sighed. "It's a short-term patent of nobility. It stays in the family for five generations. My father used the title for building some business ventures, and I - well, I'm arguably squandering it here on Herotitus, playing mercenary chief."
 
"Mercenary chief, hm? And a mechwarrior, too... Well, what've you got to pilot?" she pressed. "I'm gonna guess..." she studied him for a moment. "Blackjack?"
 
"No."
 
"Trebuchet? Dervish?"
 
"Still no."
 
"Whatever it is, you're not a brawler," Josie said. "You like to sit at a distance, keep the enemy somewhere over there, and send things down range." She grinned and giggled again. "Of course, now you're gonna tell me you ride a Centurion... heh! Or a Hunchback."
 
"Your original analysis was correct," Remihel finally answered. "I inherited a MAD-3R Marauder."
 
"Ach!" Josie said. "So I was right. You're a distance shooter. I just guessed a size category too small." She giggled. "Usually, when a guy tells me he's a mechwarrior, I get fifteen minutes worth of bragging. When I finally ask him what he pilots... yup, it's a Locust. Ego is bigger than his banger, and that's bigger than his machine."
 
"Might be different if I earned my mech through merit. I might brag then." Remihel shrugged. "But it came to me the same way I got my title, my surname, and the family's blue eyes." He decided to turn the topic around. "Tell me about yourself, though. I understand that you hail from Lyreton."
 
Josie frowned at this mention of her former home. "Yes. I'm a political exile. I can't go back, and only had enough money to pay my way to Herotitus. Not a good place to be Dispossessed..." She looked down at the table. "I'm trying to save up some money, and have a good time while I do it."
 
"There's good money to be made as a battlemech gladiator, then? Ehm - pardon - I believe gladiatrix is the correct term."
 
"There's good money if I win," she said. "And I do - enough." She swirled her drink again, now nearly empty. "It's less degrading than most things I could do to make money on Herotitus. I get to keep most of my clothes on. I don't need to break too many of Momma's Rules. And I'm a pretty decent mechwarrior."
 
"I understand your father trained you."
 
"That's right," she said. Her eyes dropped and focused on her glass. "I grew up learning to pilot his Stinger. He wanted me to inherit it. Wasn't much. Definitely no Marauder - but..."
 
Remihel leaned forward. "I'm going to Lyreton to fight de Souza's Reavers."
 
Her head came up, her eyes wide - a moment of shock, and then she turned guarded. "Why?"
 
Remihel frowned and hesitated. "Mercenary contract. A few people set bounties on their heads."
 
"Sure. Of course," she said, looking peeved. "You're lying."
 
He raised an eyebrow.
 
"Oh!" she yelped, slapping a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry! That just came out..." Josie apologized hastily. "I mean, you had this look on your face when you said that. Okay, sure! You're a mercenary, I get it! But you're looking forward to it. You're angry. What did de Souza do to you?"
 
"Not to me." Remihel looked at her steadily. "I've never met de Souza before. But I've read reports on him. He landed a dropship on a slum district and flattened it. He mowed down surrendering enemies. He sprang a bunch of the Fjaldr pirates from an Aurigan prison. He hits defenseless settlements filled with people who have very little, and he leaves them with nothing. That is what angers me. It offends my creed - the oath I have sworn to uphold - that I protect the innocent, and fight those who'd harm them. And I'm pleased that I have this opportunity to end de Souza's career before he does anything further."
 
"You talk like my dad. And that stuff got him killed." Josie looked away and tried to avoid his eyes. "I think you already know what happened."
 
"I know the general idea," Remihel said. "Your father served as a mechwarrior for the mandrinns of House Crivoi. First Marlon, and then his son Jairo. He eventually broke with Jairo, and tried to depose him. Jairo hired de Souza's Reavers to suppress the rebellion."
 
"Which they did," Josie whispered. Remihel could barely hear her over the music. "They suppressed us, all right. They hunted us down. I barely escaped. My dad didn't. That's where his creed got us."
 
"You know that's not true." She twitched and her face flushed red, but she still refused to meet Remihel's gaze. "Yes, Josie - sometimes evil wins for a time. Sometimes the good people lose, and sometimes they suffer. But that doesn't invalidate my creed. Or your father's."
 
She glanced up to meet his eyes for a few moments, but then looked away just as quickly. "Now," Remihel continued. "I've got a Griffin - a GRF-1N model - without a pilot. I think you might have the skills, the motivation, and the local knowledge I need."
 
"I'm under contract to Volker's gladiator stable. I can't break the contract."
 
"Actually, that's not true," Remihel said. The music in the party - the drums particularly - threatened to give him a headache, and he felt the rising need to leave. "There's just a fee."
 
"Yeah. Fifty thousand C-Bills," Josie said.
 
"Leave that to me. If you want the Griffin, I'll cover it."
 
Josie finally looked up again, and fixed him with her unhappy eyes. "I don't know..." she finally said.
 
Remihel reached over and snagged the now-empty drink from her hand, set it aside, and handed her a card. "Think about it tomorrow after your hangover wears off. Here's an address where you can find me. Drop by and we can discuss it over dinner."
 
"I'm not free on weekends," Josie said. "Maybe during the week. And is it a date? Or a job interview? I need to know which to dress for."
 
Remihel rose from the table. "As the old saying goes, 'Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.' Have a good evening, Miss Wallace…"
 
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===Unit Profile===
The Blue Crescent Rangers personnel as of the end of Chapter 3-4. I haven't named the poor bloody infantry aside from their section leaders.
 
As a unit that originated out of Aurigan Coalition space (albeit prior to the Directorate's coup), they follow Aurigan ranks. Mechwarriors receive the base rank of Cornet (which is also the lowest rank of officer). Subalterns command a mech lance, while Captains command a mech company (three lances). Aviators also qualify as officers, with the base rank of Pilot (equivalent to Cornet) and Section Leader. 
 
Enlisted personnel receive the entry rank of Recruit for their first six months, then receive an automatic promotion to Corporal. Enlisted personnel with expanded responsibilities are promoted to Section Leader (not to be confused with the aviator rank of that same name). The Rangers also have a single Force Sergeant (general security officer) and a Lance Sergeant (mech-tech chief).
 
Due to the... funny business with the past owners, Cinnamon the Cat bore the rank of Subaltern, and outranked Ramram.
The Blue Crescent Rangers
Command Staff:
Captain Remihel Greenbrier: commander and owner of the Rangers (male, 30).
Cornet Sarah Cao: financial officer (female, 28).
Subaltern Ramadian "Ramram" Rameshbhai: legal officer (male, 56).
Subaltern Cinnamon: company cat, supreme commander.
Mechwarriors:
Captain Remihel Greenbrier: Taurian mechwarrior, Marauder pilot.
Cornet Wes Reno: Taurian mechwarrior, Phoenix Hawk pilot (male, 28).
Cornet Luke Skinner: Aurigan mechwarrior, Stinger pilot (male, 25).
Aero Pilots:
Section Leader Marius de Vries: H-7 Warrior pilot (male, 34).
Pilot Jason Diao: H-7 Warrior pilot, married to Madison Diao (male, 26).
Techs:
Lance Sergeant Charlotte "Lottie" Lewis: chief technician. (female, 45)
Section Leader Nahuel Aksu: senior technician (male, 73).
Recruit Mia Lewis: astech, Lottie's daughter (female, 17).
Corporal Marco Espinosa: astech, brother of Jorge (male, 26).
Corporal Jorge Espinosa: astech, brother of Marco (male, 24).
Corporal Cesar Rimac: astech (male, 47).
Corporal Stephanie de Pascale: aero-tech (female, 39).
Infantry:
Section Leader Harish Narang: leader of Alpha Squad (male, 37).
8x squad members
Section Leader Drusilla Britton: leader of Bravo Squad (female, 33).
8x squad members
Support Staff:
Jari Ozcan: lead corpsman, aka "Doc Oz" (male, 42).
Madison Diao: junior corpswoman, married to Jason Diao (female, 22).
Force Sergeant Mike Reich: gunny sergeant, physical training officer (male, 30).
Cats
Cinnamon: friendly fluffy orange mascot.
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Chapter 4