[No Dachi]

Crazy
(Character accepted)

You are on guard duty, which for the moment consists of standing next to the reinforced sliding door leading from one of the main perimeter corridors on the third underground floor - one of the entrances into the actual research labs area of the base. The perimeter corridors are four on each floor, forming a square box around the other rooms and corridors on that floor, with stairwells and lift shafts connecting one perimeter corridor to the others. On the smaller floors, like the second underground floor, which only has a few security rooms the armoury and firing range on it, there's a lot of dirt and rock separating the perimeter corridors from the actual rooms of the floor. Guard duty was easy; all you had to do was stand next to the door with your gun to reassure the scientists that the base was secure...or something. Every now and again, a labcoated scientist or research assistant will walk past you up to the door, swipe a keycard through the slot next to the door, have a retina scan performed on them and then enter the rooms beyond - which you are not authorised to go into. Or look into. Or talk about. You don't even know what it is they work on at this base. Presently, you see a male scientist with grey hair walk up to the door. His badge identifies him as "Dr Mortley". He swipes his card through the register, and bares his left eye to the reader for a retinal scan. Red light throws his face into sharp relief for a moment, then there is a negative tone from the door. He mutters something foul under his breath, before turning to you.

"You there! Corporal! This damned lock won't retina scan me properly. Open the door for me." He says, irritably. Of course, you don't have access to open the door, and of course he's going to blame it on you. The scientists were like that.

Fluffie
(Character accepted)

You look grimly out of the thick, bulletproof glass window that occupied the middle two thirds of the wall the entire way round the Durasteel square room - five metres by five, not a whole lot of room. You're on perimeter guard duty, at one of the Towers. Outside, you can see one of Novagorsk's many blizzards in full storm, white snow whirling passed the windows and building into miniature drifts on the rim of the window on the outside. It's freezing outside, but fortunatly the Tower's heating system is working fine, and you are pleasantly warm. For a moment, you think of your little daughter back on Earth. She loved snow, and she really would have enjoyed watching this blizzard. And, of course, when your daughter was happy, so was your wife, so she'd have enjoyed watching the blizzard as well. It was going to be a lonely Christmas. A cold, lonely Christmas.Behind you, Private Mathers clears his throat. Private Mathers was the Marine you'd been partnered with for this session of guard duty. Private Mathers didn't talk much, and you were bored out of your skull. Maybe you should try engaging him in conversation to pass the time.

Bakan
(Character accepted)
Being stationed on this freezing, godforsaken rock for Christmas really did suck. Especially for a draftee. It'd been done by lot, with one man in every hundred from the Inner Sphere being conscripted into the military. You'd been shipped out to some battle on the Western Fringe and blown to pieces by a shell, and after returning to active service after six months treatment and rehabilitation, you'd learned that your unit had been completely destroyed when their transport got wrecked by an asteroid storm in some distant system. You'd been transferred to this stand-alone Battalion then, promoted to Corporal and given a heavy weapon. Of course, you didn't have your heavy weapon at the moment, since there wasn't really any need for it in the facility and it was cumbersome to carry around. You didn't have any weapon at the moment; you'd been assigned to assistant clerical duty in the administrative sector on the fifth underground floor. And, oh man, did it ever suck. You started thinking about home, about what your family would be doing at the moment, probably getting ready for Christmas...

"Morgan...Morgan! Corporal! Pay attention!" Abruptly, the voice of the Office Manager cut across your idyllic images of home. The Manager was in charge of the whole administrative office - which was ten people crunching the numbers and keeping the staff records. He was far too jumped-up for his own good, but you had to do what he said, and you had to keep a civil tongue. "As I was saying," He continued on, clearly enjoying this latest oppurtunity to impress his authority on you yet again. "I need you to take this memo to the Technicians on sixth-underground. Can you do that for me?" So patronising, so insanely irritating, "Systems Maintenance, sixth-underground." He hands you a slip of paper, the memo, which likely has something utterly uninteresting written on it. He probably could have emailed it to the Systems Maintenance technicians on duty. "Off you go." He says, before turning around, probably to go order one of the other office workers around...