My Airman Boss

SitRep 2. Training Day

- Eula -

"You're an artist, right, Eula? Then, consider this: Your soul deserves to be a carefully curated museum that you set up yourself, selecting the pieces that define you--everything that YOU are.

Sometimes selection is a tedious chore, sometimes it's an "oh, yes, this one!" moment.

But everything featured is your own selection, at your own pace, and no one else's. Build it, and they will come.

You just might bump into someone admiring the work  on the walls, and they might stay, and admire it a bit more. One day, you might even find your patron, who will help you grow. Treasure your patron, as you will--no doubt-- be his patron yourself."

----

"... la..."
"... Eula...!"

I came to in a haze, the low hum of the machines in the war room seeping into my consciousness.

"O..." I muttered groggily.
Maia stared mischievously at me as she tapped away at her desktop computer. "Sarap ng buhay lang, Ma'am?" she chuckled.

"Naku Maia, forgive me," I said, sitting up straighter in my office chair. I was on the early morning shift of the online scanning rotation, and I was in dire need of a coffee.

"Joke lang," Maia said with a grin. "It's almost 2 PM kaya ginising kita."

I checked my watch and bolted upright. "Ho shat! Maia, thanks!" I exclaimed as I hastily swept my desk clutter into my bag. Today was the first day of my OSINT training sessions at Unit 7, and I had to be there at least an hour early. I left instructions with Maia and shut down my own work desktop, grabbed my water bottle and left the war room. As I walked through the Department of Security and Defense's crowded parking lot to my little red Mitsubishi Mirage, I checked off a mental list of what the people of Unit 7 needed to know about information scanning. I also wondered how much I could get away with.

Unit 7, while still inside my workplace Camp Serrano, was one of those places too near to drive, too far to walk. I ran a detangler brush through my mess of curly hair as I drove carefully past one squat building after another, each uniformly painted in the Armed Security Forces' bland khaki walls and olive green roofs. I eased my Mirage into the gate marked "U7", and easily found an unmarked parking spot near the main building's entrance. Unit 7, for all its public affairs activities, didn't seem to get very many visitors. Little did I know that the inside of the building was a completely different story.

I opened one of the twin glass doors at the entrance and was shocked at the sudden noise and the succession of flashing cameras. I realized that I had walked into a press conference. All the local media outfits were there, and I noted (with much interest) that there were a few stray international reporters present.

At the front of the lobby was the General, calmly holding court behind a podium emblazoned with the Armed Security Forces coat of arms. He was fielding questions about the Koronadal video, which had gotten social media attention since I first showed the group at the war room last week. So far, he was on point with the briefing from Sir Manny. I relaxed a bit, walking around the commotion, looking around for one of the U7 civilian staff in their crisp teal uniforms.

A Ground Defense Force lieutenant colonel approached me as I was about to make my way around the reporters congregating at the main lobby. He had the nut-brown tan and the calm, yet sure demeanor of an officer fresh from field duty, and sharp, observant eyes that were now silently assessing me. I felt a bit self-conscious.