Mech Pilot who forgets to check if stock boosters were equipped when they swapped the legs for their Mech, but realizes their Mech when they try to dodge incoming fire.
"No excuse, sir," Tarragon says.
She'd asked to transfer out of the cities. She'd thought, maybe, that it'd be simpler if she wasn't looking down a chaingun at underfed schoolkids who already knew to hate her on the reg.
Instead, she's seeing action out in the wastes, against the underequipped fanatics that underfed, hateful schoolkids grow into. 'Terrorists.'
It's not better.
The 112th's CO came up through the ranks; not-very-secret painkiller addiction, visibly has flashbacks if a door slams too close. She stares across the desk like she's looking a million miles into the onrushing heat death of the universe, and feels ambivalent about it. She knows what Tarragon's fucking problem is.
"Trooper," she says exhaustedly, because nobody's got any other tone of voice, not after six months out here. "I asked you to tell me, in your own words, what happened. You can have no excuse for it after that."
"We were taking fire, sir," Tarragon says. "Muscle memory from the light urbans, and — I was hungover."
"You lit up jump jets on top of a fuel dump because you're used to piloting light urbans." Her CO pronounces every word distinctly.
"No excuse, sir," Tarragon says stolidly.
"You're one of my better pilots," her CO says. She fumbles out a cigarette, strikes a match, lights up, and flicks the spent match onto the NO SMOKING sticker on the top of her desk. "Gods help us. You're grounded. Two weeks. Get the fuck out."
"Sir," Tarragon says.