Recruitment Centre: Assignment

This was the introduction to the character Joseph Reynolds as part of the comedy fan fiction Hopeless Storyline centered around the fictional characters assigned to the training ship, Strike Cruiser Hopewell. Writen by Wes Belden.

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The subject of this brief personal history would comment, only if prompted, on their progress through life to date as, “Still trying to find himself.” Anyone who knew him, or for that matter looked at him, would give the slightly different opinion that he was, in fact, an abject failure.

From the tender age of six Joseph Reynolds had been constantly frustrating and disappointing his father, William Reynolds, a well to do entrepreneur who dealt mostly in shipping and specialised delivery. Despite good teachers and insistent prompting from his parents, Joseph did not do well in the realms of academia. He wasn’t much liked by his peers, but there were one or two that didn’t regularly try to stove his head in with various pieces of classroom equipment, and those few knew him as Jo. With them he formed steadfast bonds of agreement not to hit each other and they remained in correspondence for some time, mainly attempting to call on or shirk off various debts and favours.

At the age of seventeen his father took him out of school and as a last resort decided to bring him into the family business and have him trained as a specialist delivery pilot, leaving him in the capable hands of his best and most trusted instructor. After many offsets that extended his training period of a year to two and a half, breaking a total of thirty eight bones and several ships (the exact number appears to have been covered up in the company archives), Jo’s instructor deemed him ready to take his delivery flight, graduating him into the company’s pilot corps with no honours and some unhealed scar tissue.

Joseph was to deliver a package of great importance to his father, a piece of invaluable art that would stand in exhibition at the centre of his new venture, a state of the art cruise liner. Jo made company record time, flying his retrofitted snub fighter through a small asteroid field and plotting a hyperspace course that shaved off a few minutes from the standard jump calculations used by most employees. His father’s eye had twitched several times upon being informed of his arrival, more so when he came within visual range, those near thinking themselves capable of understanding the emotions he was going through as a proud parent; what little they knew.

The reports of the incident are still sketchy at best. Local authorities are yet to gather all the statements and indeed recover all the bodies, although what is certain is that Joseph Reynolds somehow managed to find a weak spot on his father’s mammoth ship and smash his snub fighter into it at high velocity. On the rescue ship, in front of all the crew and other rescued passengers, William Reynolds disavowed and disowned his son, after which his left eye was seen to twitch a great deal more before he marched into the craft’s cockpit and sealed the door behind him, never to see his son again.

Jo did not fair well alone. He received a little money from his mother, but lost most of it through muggings, the odd stint of gambling and reparations (which he is still paying off) for ships he would damage upon trialling for companies looking for pilots.

In the end, a bleak future ahead of him, Jo decided that the best course for him and the galaxy as a whole was to do what was right, to move on to a more noble cause, a purpose greater than he himself; to sign up for the NR military and pay off his debts.

Jo’s cadet profile shows him to be physically 23 years of age, with a face that is not unpleasant to look and could be construed as ruggedly handsome if viewed in bad light and through thick beer goggles. His eyes are blue and while not piercing, do not appear sappy or lifeless. His frame is broad, yet not filled out and he stands at six feet and one inch tall, although it is said he spends most of his time sitting or lying down.

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Major Dunstable looked up from the informal intelligence briefing he had before him. He recognised the sardonic prose and wondered at the officer whom he assumed had written it, one whom he knew from a past life, somewhat saddened that such potential and previous acts of fealty to the Rebellion had gone to waste, reporting on the likes of this candidate rather than the secrets of the Empire.

The youth fidgeted slightly, but met the Major’s gaze squarely as he notice it fall upon him. Dunstable looked at him more closely, taking note of the well tailored yet drab and worn clothes. Jo sat with his legs spread slightly, hands clasped together, his frame slumped slightly in the chair. Dunstable raised an eyebrow,

“It states on your record that you have well over two thousand hours of flight in various snubfighter craft types? That’s quite impressive for a non-com who’s been flying for as short a time as you have.”

The youth shifted in the chair, sitting more upright, an almost relieved look about him, “Yes sir, that’s correct.”

“Good. Perhaps then you could clarify something for me; despite your logged flight time, I see you have only twelve logged landings. Is that correct?”

Joseph swallowed hard, the colour draining from his face slightly. Dunstable kept his polite yet quizzical gaze firmly on him and Jo shifted once more in his seat, managing to mumble, “I haven’t quite mastered that part yet.”

Dunstable’s face remained emotionless, taking no small effort on his part. He looked down at the datapad once more as if to study something. A thought struck him; the lad had passed the required reflex tests and this little discrepancy must have gone unnoticed by any of the bean counters for him to reach this stage in the process. He smiled broadly and looked up at Jo, who in turn shifted uncomfortably.

“I think I have just the thing for you son. You’ll do fine in the fighter corps, yes.” He paused for a moment, as if considering something, “I think you’d do best as an Xwing pilot. Your instructors will finalise that decision of course, but I’ve an X-wing oriented course in mind. I’m assigning you to an old colleague of mine and I’m sure he’ll be glad to have someone with your flight time.”

Jo beamed at the Major, “Thank you sir, thank you.”

“No need son, now just sit tight while I push a few buttons and send you on your way.” His smile widened, “Your CO and instructor will be a Lieutenant Jarn Faron. Please do pass on my regards and greet him with my compliments.”

“Oh yes sir, I’d be happy to sir.”

The Major finished with the datapad and then looked up again, his face a picture of sincerity, “There, all set. There’s a shuttle that leaves on the hour, be sure not to miss your flight.” He passed over a data cylinder, “Here are your assignment orders and travel pass, you’ll be assigned your gear and billet upon arrival at your place of instruction, the Strike Cruiser Hopewell.”

“A ship, sir?”

“Yes son, a ship, you should count yourself lucky to be one of the few trained on one.”

Jo stood at the Major’s gesture, data cylinder in hand, “Thank you sir.”

“Welcome to the fighter corps son, good luck..”

Joseph nodded, beaming, “Thank you sir.”

When the recruit had gone the Major placed his elbow on the desk and lowered his forehead into his hand, doing his best to stifle the noise that seemed to be attempting to escape his nose and mouth, then added under his breath, “You’re gonna need it.”

‘Ah Faron, I don’t mean to kick you while you’re down.’ He thought, ‘But I find sometimes, I just can’t resist.’

His data pad beeped, alerting him to the fact a new recruit was ready to be seen to. The Major pressed a virtual button on the pad to acknowledge and waited to see what type of moron would be sent to him this time.