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“Captain Jake Jensen. Where can I find him?”
Clay will admit it’s probably a little much, using his Lieutenant colonel voice on the bored-looking desk clerk right off the bat, but he’s already had a long, trying day and it’s barely 12:30.
Searching out a new tech specialist was always going to be a pain in the ass, but if he’d known the pickings were going to be this slim, he would've done what Roque’s always on his back about and delegated.
The receptionist snaps to attention about as much as a body can when he’s got his ass planted in a cheap plastic swivel chair. “Captain Jensen’s over in C Block, sir. Out the door to your right and two buildings over.”
“He’s in the stockade?”
That gets him a nod and a quick double-checking of Jensen’s file. “Since yesterday.”
Clay runs a hand across his face, pinching hard at the bridge of his nose. Figures. “Drunk and disorderly?”
“No, sir.” There’s a definite tone to the desk jockey’s voice. If Clay didn’t know better he’d call it almost gleeful. “Impersonating an officer.”
Well hell. Clay can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that one. Which is more interest than he’s let himself show for any of the other candidates, that’s for damn sure.
Out the door to his right and two buildings over, Clay finds himself face to face with a broad-shouldered bleached-blond with a buzzcut. There’s nothing particularly exceptional-looking about the guy, if you ignore the fact that he’s currently standing in a military holding cell.
The kid standing guard looks young enough to still be getting excited over hair growing in new places, but Clay lets him do his job and handle the introductions.
“Captain Jensen, this here’s Lieutenant colonel Clay. He’s got a question for you.”
Jensen nods instead of saluting, but he’s got enough respect left in him to meet Clay’s eyes when he speaks. “Why. That’s your question, right? You want to know why I did it?” He takes a step closer to the cell bars and slumps, leaning a shoulder against them in an easy pose more suited to a discussion in a bar over drinks than an interrogation by a superior officer while stuck on the wrong side of a jail cell door.
“Look,” he starts, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his voice, “I don’t know what Colonel Bullzomi told you but this isn’t about me taking some joy ride in his precious Jeep. Okay, it’s not only about that. I mean, yeah, I took the Jeep, sure, and there may have been some stuff about requisitioning some tech under his name--”
“Eleven thousand dollars worth of tech,” the guard looks just as tickled by this whole situation as the kid at the reception desk had, and Clay’s starting to wonder just how much of an asshole this Colonel Bullzomi really is.
“Requesitioning some tech,” Jensen steamrolls over the kid’s interruption, “but did anybody even bother to stop and ask why the hell I’d do all that to begin with if I knew I was gonna get busted before I’d even get a chance to use it? This wasn’t some prank, sir. I didn’t do any of this for shits and giggles.”
The guard looks like he’s never had to shave a day in his life, and Clay can believe he’s just as new as he looks when he scrunches up his baby face and interrupts Jensen a second time. “The file says you parked his Jeep on--”
“Okay can we all please just forget the damn Jeep for a minute?” Jensen pushes back from the bars and rubs his hands across his face like he can scrub away the frustration and idiot questions if he just presses hard enough. “I can’t do my job if my superior isn’t doing his. That involves making sure the gear we’re sent out with is operational. And sir, I promise you, the gear Colonel Bullzomi was--”
Clay holds up a hand, surprised at how quick Jensen stops talking at that small signal. He’s heard enough.
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
Jake doesn't look particularly put off by the interruption. Or that surprised, really. “It’s not?”
“I don’t care why you did it, son. I want to know what got you caught.”
Now there’s the confusion Clay’d been expecting. Both Jensen and the guard wear matching expressions of uncertainty.
“Nothing, sir,” Jensen answers him at last. “I didn't get caught. I turned myself in.”
And once again the kid has Clay’s full attention.
“I’d rather face dishonorable discharge for requisitioning tech under false pretenses-- even if that tech was really, really needed-- than go out on deployment with a man who doesn't give two shits if his men are out there working with faulty equipment. At least this way I know the team will be working with gear that’s actually operational, even if the best guy to actually use said gear is gonna be too busy rotting in a cell to actually take advantage of that.”
Clay nods to himself then looks to the guard. “I’ll take him.”
“Sir?”
“Take him? Take him where?” Jensen looks to the guard for answers once he realizes he’s not getting them from Clay. “Take me where?”
The guard has an equally shell-shocked look on his face and doesn't seem to be able to offer him anything more than a half shrug and some soundless stuttering. Jensen turns back to Clay, who’s already headed towards the door. “Wait, who’d you say you were again?”
“Get him out of there. I want him ready for deployment in fifteen,” Clay orders.
The guard hovers by Jensen for another half second before moving to follow Clay. “Sir, this isn't like adopting some stray dog from a pound, you can’t just—”
Clay’s not listening. He has things to do.
Roque falls easily into step beside him before he’s even made it a quarter way across the base.
“Where are we going?” he asks once it’s clear Clay’s not going to volunteer the information himself.
“To pick up some newspaper and kibble. I got us a new puppy.”
***
Jensen’s always had an affinity for playing dress ups. His psychologist (if he had a psychologist) might trace it back to having