You’ve been up for two hours already. Calisthenics, before-dawn run around the parade grounds, five laps, more calisthenics, then taking down the unit’s laundry and putting back the washing-up from last night. To be honest, you’re running yourself a bit ragged, and even ***** from Training Scale Three looks at you like you’re mad when he sees you already doing extra chores when he’s just waking up.
It doesn’t surprise you that they gave you the hard-luck soldiers. Scale Twelve is the slowest and weakest out of all of them, and unmotivated, to boot. The children of nobles not notable or motivated enough to rate officer and too used to being spoiled—you could assign KP and laundry duty, but it’s come out badly too many times for you to risk another unit-level reprimand. And you know better than to think that recommending them unfit for duty won’t reflect poorly on you.
The first bell’s past, now, though, and there’s been nary a rustle from the bunks after your last pass. You reach for the brass bell you keep near the door as a backup for the heavy sleepers, and realize that not only is it missing, a row of tacks laid in its place, ******* in bunk four is gone as well.
Fuck. A sinking feeling fills the pit of your stomach; missing a soldier who’s probably decided to cut exercises for the day and having the rest of your unit oversleep will be the end of it for you—
You brace yourself, and slam your fist against the corner of the nearest set of bunks as hard as you can. “Wake UP you holler, and the boy in the topmost bunk almost startles off the edge. “Dressed and beds made in five minutes, and if anyone knows where ******* went, you’d better tell me now.”
“Who?” yawns one, and the rest erupt in titters. You drag your hands down your face. It’s going to be a long day, and an even longer conversation if you have to explain this to the Commander.
Notable:
Dark-haired, tan-skinned Shrike this time; she's probably nineteen or twenty.
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softlyfalling) wrote2019-01-24 12:53 am
memory 017
It doesn’t surprise you that they gave you the hard-luck soldiers. Scale Twelve is the slowest and weakest out of all of them, and unmotivated, to boot. The children of nobles not notable or motivated enough to rate officer and too used to being spoiled—you could assign KP and laundry duty, but it’s come out badly too many times for you to risk another unit-level reprimand. And you know better than to think that recommending them unfit for duty won’t reflect poorly on you.
The first bell’s past, now, though, and there’s been nary a rustle from the bunks after your last pass. You reach for the brass bell you keep near the door as a backup for the heavy sleepers, and realize that not only is it missing, a row of tacks laid in its place, ******* in bunk four is gone as well.
Fuck. A sinking feeling fills the pit of your stomach; missing a soldier who’s probably decided to cut exercises for the day and having the rest of your unit oversleep will be the end of it for you—
You brace yourself, and slam your fist against the corner of the nearest set of bunks as hard as you can. “Wake UP you holler, and the boy in the topmost bunk almost startles off the edge. “Dressed and beds made in five minutes, and if anyone knows where ******* went, you’d better tell me now.”
“Who?” yawns one, and the rest erupt in titters. You drag your hands down your face. It’s going to be a long day, and an even longer conversation if you have to explain this to the Commander.
Notable: