#hoffmanese

Bernie scuffed her boot against the dirt with a frown. She wasn't a crop farmer but her brushcraft knowledge gave her some insight to the land; it was awful. Vectes was a gorgeous island and the Pelruans had years to work their soil, but the ground near the naval base needed some tender love and care. It wouldn't grow anything delicious for a while. Oh, it would still grow something--all soil did, no matter it's condition--but there was a difference between a shriveled crop and a juicy one. Not that it was any of her business. No one asked her about crops when it was a known fact she had been a beef farmer, but damn was it depressing. She'd share the knowledge with someone eventually.

 Boots thudded in the grass behind her. She knew that gait; strong, trying to hide a slight limp from age and battle. She turned and offered Hoffman--no, Vic--a smile that quickly disappeared when she noticed his tense jaw. The man could try to hide whatever he was feeling at any time, but it was always the jaw that gave him away; it reminded her a little of Marcus.

((You could try to track down someone and search the barracks, or go through the mess to find coffee after your personal stash has run out.))

“Sounds like you found a protege, sir.”

((And don’t I know it. I can’t believe I tried talking to one of those things.))