Log:First Order: 904's End

Hadrix resigns from the First Order

OOC Date: December 2, 2019
Location: Nar Shaddaa Ziro Outpost - Offices
Participants: Oran Arcantael and Hadrix Kora

Locked flimsy and an official data pad in hand, Hadrix has himself announced upon his approach to Oran's office - hoping to simply have the door open upon his arrival... Though he has a juice pack secreted away in his armor in the anticipation of waiting. He's easy to smell coming too, expensive cigarra smoke in the air.
Once arrived, whether via a wait or not, the items are set down on the desk, formal resignation forms in written and digital form. The big man stands, jaw working as he expects to be put into a wall, or something.

Oran has an office! Somewhat pared down here at Ziro since the official headquarters moved to Spearhead, but still very on brand for all things Oran. An expensive, extremely clean and tidy space, all perfect, glossy surfaces. Not a speck, not a ring of caf stain, not a scratch, not a crumb, nothing whatsoever out of place. There are no doubt messy, imperfect things here just as there are within Oran himself, but as always, you won't see them unless he wants it so, or something is drastically wrong.
The wait is long enough to contemplate juice but not long enough to begin sippage. If Hadrix has been playing the moment out in his mind in anticipation, it's finally here, as his small 'older brother' holds the forms in his hands and reads.
The silence is excruciating, and Oran does nothing to alleviate it just yet, eventually lowering the forms he's reading, raising one brow at Hadrix, and he just waits.

The cigarra in Hadrix's mouth bobs, one armored hand out to catch the growing ash and casually rub it on the hip of his suit rather than let it tumble to the ground, he looks back to Oran, his own eyebrow slowly rising like the hand of the nervous kid in class.
"The Order doesn't follow the Cause anymore... I can fight smugglers, pirates, and criminals without a CoC questioning me or throwing more of my friends in the meat grinder? How long till I end up out an airlock again at this rate?"
Said bluntly, as he ever does - no need to mince words, he's not on mission to require doing so.

Oran has had an objectively terrible week so far, and there is still a caution to his movements that suggests he's in some kind of pain and determined by training and willpower not to reveal much about it. He stands smoothly from the chair he occupied, shuffles the forms into a neat pile, and sets them aside. "You will return your armor, weapons, and other Order-issued equipment to the Quartermaster; you will return your TIE to the appropriate hangar. You will perform an exit-interview with the appropriate egress officer, and following your escort out of the base, you will not return to Spearhead or Ichren without escort. Please confirm your understanding."

"Equipment and armor already has been placed on Spearhead base, quarters and locker codes Zeroed to defaults. My TIE is currently racked. All has been accounted for. I understand all that has been told to me here." Hadrix manages finally, swallowing hard and staring down at Oran with the net of scar tissue on his face drawing tight with his frown. There are deep breaths, and at the all to overused swirling vortex of inconsolable rage that is the core of the man - fear has finally made it's appearance and gnaws at the edges.

Oran looks down in order to make a brief note on one of the flimsiplast forms with a stylus, and continues, "It goes without saying that you are released from service in the expectation that you will undertake no actions and foment no alliances which are inimical to the goals, principles, and military or governmental necessities of the First Order." After a moment he looks back up and dryly adds, "Fail to meet this standard and someone will be coming along presently to have words with you about it." Hadrix has been around a while, now. By 'someone' it's clear Oran means himself, and 'have words' means 'I will break you in half.' Can he? Absolutely.
Would he?
Harder to say.
Oran sets the stylus down again, and folds his arms. "I trust it won't be an issue."

"If I find myself in a combat zone with the Resistance it'll be crushing skulls into the dirt, naturally, Oran. I believe in the Cause. I'm still open to working with the Order on outsider terms if I'm ever called in to assist in a combat zone." The big man studies the smaller man.
He understands what's being said under terms.
If that somehow happens there's going to be a lot of news coverage on the crater. But he still is sure it will never be an issue.

Oran steps away from the desk, slowly - he got shot in the spine this week, it takes some time to recover from that, no matter how diligently one pretends it's not an issue. It hurts. "The Order expended no small amount of capital in your training and education," he points out. "You have been inculcated with an extremely specific and valuable set of skills and training which you are now demonstrably taking to somewhere other than the service of the Order. You are about to become a small line-item in a series of metrics which reflect poorly on your creche, on the Vanguard, and those who trained you after your arrival to the Vanguard." Which means Oran, again. Someone might be speaking to him about exactly how and why he encouraged such free-thinking individuality in the troopers. He is facing the room's window as he states, "You are a poor return on investment."
A pause lingers there and then Oran turns around, and this time, finally, there is a flicker of humanity, the crook of an upturned smile that Hadrix does know well. "But you are a very good man."
Another pause. "Which is shocking, because you've known me the entire time you've been allowed to think."

Being called a poor investment does hit him like a blow, Hadrix's response is immediate and his frown deepens into a crescent canyon in his face. When the next part is spoken, his eyes flicker and re-focus on Oran and a look of relief when the smile comes.
"I suppose sometimes even when trying to mold someone again, you're bound to make mistakes and I'm the result eh?" Hadrix tries to smile, but there is still concern there, and fear at the core. But of what? Both men likely know.

"Mistakes," Oran sighs, and his expression is, overall, perhaps bittersweet. He's done his bit as the Representative of the Order, and now the veil drops a little; he's not the Knight Responsible For This, he's just Oran. "I don't know, Hadrix. Was it a mistake, any of it, all of it?"
The pause lingers there, and then he shakes his head. "I don't think so. I tried with all of you, when you came to me, and you were the finest of your kind. You were the one who didn't break, you were the one who got back up, you were the one who listened to me even when I infuriated you, confused you, and endlessly frustrated you. You were the one who tried, also. And now," he gestures briefly at Hadrix, "The one who learned to see the monsters in the machines."
Oran shakes his head just a little. "No mistakes. But I don't think I'd do again for others, as I did with you."

Hadrix's head cants to the side at that as his expression evens. Confusion is there yes, but as ever Hadrix becomes inquisitive. "Why? Why would you not try to mold another like so?" to some possibly a stupid question, but he seeks answers to some inquiries.
"And as for monsters, there's just the one, and the ones being forced into a shadow." Stated with the same conviction the man has ever had for an ideal that's managed to set up shop in his bizarre combination of morals.

"Oh, Hadrix." The meeting has the feeling of nearing a conclusion, perhaps because of the way Oran takes a few steps towards Hadrix and the door, maybe because of the way the bittersweet tone intensifies a bit. 'Bittersweet' isn't normally his thing, but it's a rare moment, a rare chance to see those human bits that make his wheels turn.
'Why would you not try to mold another?'
Oran touches Hadrix's forearm, resting his hand there briefly. "Because it is difficult when you leave," he points out, and then turns to go. "Remember that there is power in restraint, please. If you need me, I'm not difficult to find; someone will be along to show you out presently." Just at the door, he pauses. "Oh and Hadrix --" A pause, then, "Let the past die. AO-904 stays here. You're just Hadrix, now." Then he steps out, and away.

AO-904 stays. Hadrix leaves. The concept is something he couldn't have possibly come up on his own. The touch on the arm, Oran's leaving. The sudden realization making everything a good deal darker for now. Something missing, but a space to be filled. So the man stays for now, for the exit officer, and the ushering into real life.