!IMYfe1j54Y 01/22/11(Sat)02:02 No.13613067|
>Right, before the battle begins. I promised I'd drop it, and by the Landers, I'm going to fucking drop it.
Second Class Sergeant Miguel Hartford sat up from his cot. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Hartford carefully swung his legs off the cot and onto the ground, taking care not to knock over the basket containing the sleeping kitten. Once again, Hartford expressed thanks to Colton for his gift.
“Morning, Miguel. Up at the crack of ‘dawn,’ as usual?”
“Morning, Nathan. And yup, that’s my thing. As you know –”
“Momma always said that you start the day right by starting the day early,” both men said in unison, followed by laughter.
“Hahaha, alright, so what’s the menu for today?”
“Sergeant, you always ask me that, and I keep telling you, it’s always the same thing:”
“Reconstructed wheat-based cereal smothered in a calcium-rich cold-broth, ‘jacks made from reconstructed wheat and bovine milk, scrambled or sunny-side up reconstructed chicken eggs, reconstructed pig fat strips and –”
“Nutrient tubes, strawberry flavored,” both men said in unison once more.
Private Vaylen began dropping various food from the hot trays behind the counter, none of which were what he had just described, before handing them to Sergeant Hartford.
“Eat up, bro.”
0630 – 0745 Hours:
Hartford caught the punching bag after his last barrage of punches. Sometimes he missed the days when he could go around picking fights as the local gang’s muscle. He sighed, and dropped into his stance once more. His left hand punches were too high too often; he needed to work on that otherwise his side would be open during an attack.
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