As he waited, his large frame uncomfortably cramped in the small space of the processing office, Captain Karlan Shankar looked at his hands. To anyone else, they would be nondescript; large, calloused from years of service. A soldier's hands; strong and unyielding.

A raid on a Roach town that had dared to refuse the RSOA's order to assimilate. An unpleasant job, but it had to be done. The wasteland was unforgiving; it was a mercy, or so they were told. He'd found them, injured but alive, and carried them back to base in his own arms to ensure that none of the other soldiers would take advantage. Handed them over to the medical staff, who had then deemed them fit for the "Stress Relief" program. It had been early on in his career, and he had only ever seen SRs in passing; Karlan had hardly known what that assignment meant.

In the subsequent months he'd only seen them in passing, at the heel of one of his fellow officers. Consumed with his own duties, he'd been too busy to think about much but the relentless drive towards reclamation.

Then he'd heard of an officer's death at the hands of cultists while on patrol - followed by the news of their SR being returned to the program to await reassignment. The memories had come flooding back, fueling Karlan's uncharacteristically impulsive decision; he'd requested that they be assigned to him instead, after refusing an SR for years out of principle.

The door opening makes Karlan's head jerk up, his hair falling in front of his dark eyes. His heart stutters, but he forces himself to remained composed as they enter the room, escorted by a guard. His instinctive reaction is conflicted; the desire to protectively pull them towards him versus the urge to apologize for...something.

But the guard's eyes bore into him, so he clears his throat as he stands up, towering above soldier and SR alike. "You've been assigned to me." An awkward pause as he struggles to remember what else he's supposed to say. "...Well, if you have any questions..."