The Raid: Roose in Custody Part 1

Like the others, Roose found himself in a sterile room, chained to a steel table. Any and all weapons he might have had on his person at 0100 have been confiscated. In the realm of positive news for the old man, he was feeling considerably lighter and moving much faster than he was used to.

The metal chair was cold beneath his one piece union suit, where he’d been sitting for the past -- he wasn’t sure how long. There was no clock on the wall, and nothing to stare at besides the gray walls and floor to ceiling mirror across from him.

He grimaced at his own discomfort, not just for the fact that his ass was cold, but that it was bothering him so much. How long had he been on that ship that he was so soft already? It used to be that he could walk home after losing his shirt in a bet, but now this chair was giving him the shivers. He stopped for a moment though as he realized he had been drinking a whole lot less as of late, even if he was still drinking enough to drown the younger passengers.

Lieutenant Dennis Bowen walked into the room carrying with him a large manilla file. Unlike the officers who stormed the ship, he wore his alliance dress uniform and sat carefully as to not disturb the creases in his trousers.

He opened up the large file and glanced across at the underwear clad man. “State your full name for my records, please.”

The old man scowled at the prissily dressed officer and clicked his jaw to the left. He hadn’t liked alliance types before, but alliance types who woke him up at 1am. “David Cornwall Roose” he responded, flatly, but with the kind of low growl that he hoped communicated his displeasure at the officer’s very existence before him.

“And your occupation aboard the ship, the Lunar Veil?” Bowen asked.

It should have been a happy reaction to it, given that his new ‘occupation’ as he had put it, was something that Roose had wanted to be doing for so long, but still his scowl only grew as he responded, “Chef”

“How long have you been employed as a chef on the ship?”

He shrugged his shoulders, he had been poor at keeping time if it didn’t pertain to the age of a kill or tracks, “About a month.” His answers continued to be short and to the point, but each time he wished he could crack this officer’s skull something fierce.

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