[u][color=82ca9d]Francis Newman - Another morning, Another day at Haoma[/color][/u]

The morning was cold enough not to be too unbearable for Squad 1, yet not too comfortable especially with the extra ten kilograms which was tightly strapped to Francis's waist, a terrible repercussion which served as punishment for losing a game of Capture the Flag against squadron 20, apart from their "personal issues." Though it certainly wasn't his fault for his fellow "comrades" being as simple-minded or even hot-head as they were but that was the life of working in a squad, if only he could work alone. In solitude, he could find himself not being limited by a such a nuisance. If only they were to his level. Why of all people should he be subjected to punishment when it was clearly their insolence and insouciant behavior such which everyone including him in trouble? Luckily, however, it was only a morning run. If it hadn't been, the heat would definitely done some significant physical damage or bring back terrible memories of poor boy's friends dying of heat stroke. Although running at 4am was certainly much better than running in the middle of the day where he would sweat so bad, it would soak his entire gear and make him, and the others, smell of a very terrible odor which lasted for days. 

During the jog, like always, the team spoke among themselves while the boy remained utterly silent, and never uttered a single word or even so much as even a gesture of complaining as he always did most of the time. Not only did the silent, intelligent young soldier had a disdain for people and small "chit-chat", he always found that his words could potentially harbor his own weakness and expose himself to his enemies, whoever they may be among his own squadron. All of these were mainly the reasons for residing in the privy in his own thoughts while his comrades spoke among themselves, as he could truly care less about what they think about him or anything at all. 

[i]But thirty-three Kilometers? In under an hour?![/i] He egregiously thought to himself, while the weight of his belt quickly shifted up and down which seemed pull on him while he jogged behind the others discreetly, trying not to be noticed. An extra ten kilograms certainly wouldn't hurt him, although they were quite a lot but he found no true reason to complain; Either you run the day, or the day ran you. Although this is much different than what he was used to. Nonetheless, Francis found himself jogging at a somewhat reasonable pace before finding some comfort during the vigorous morning run and the number of kilometers he had to travel (which itself happened to be a number divisible by three) - All while he made the calculations in his head to assure that he was not only running a pace which would most certainly bring the most desired outcome for the squad and himself which of course included taking an amount of steps which were divisible by three by the time he got back to stretch afterwards for a cool down. Francis jogged along the rough, dirt road, behind the squad, yet not too far or even directly behind them to the point where dirt would be kicked in his face or his PT gear. There definitely wasn't a problem in being behind, just as long as he could maybe show off a little and sprint ahead of them towards the end of the track. This habit was what he loved being in endurance runs as as was habitual for Francis, at least this way he could easily spread his legs far enough in order to assure that he definitely ran a number of steps which, again, were divisible by three, a number he never feels comfortable without. Although there were quite a lot of things Francis found unsavory. 

First off, Francis hated cadence. Mainly because it threw off his careful counting as he realized that the number of steps he would take were not taken into account before he went to the finish line to condition. The obsessive compulsive could easily find himself in an even, prime, or any other number that wasn't divisible by three by accident which would make him feel uneasy; though accidental whole numbers which weren't in threes weren't as terrifying to Francis as fractions or even worse: Infinitesimals, the worst but most interesting number of all. Then were the incompetent "initiates" he worked with and their "personal issues" as Castle would put it, but if there was one thing he could be fond of, it was Valke's sophomoric sense of optimism. Although he truly never found Alex funny in any sense, especially when he began to mimic voices in falsetto which he found incredibly annoying, it still was nice to see someone with not with such an aggressive behavior as the rest of the initiates in his squadron. There was some aspects about the soldier which he honestly found quite fond of such as his joyfully simple pleasures in life, a care-free attitude and most importantly, his seemingly trustworthiness, and how connected he felt around him which make the young troubled boy feel at ease since the time his two friends died tragically of heat stroke. But if there was one thing that they all had in common, it was the hatred each one of them shared, which was that "prick commander" Castle and their rivals, squadron 20. Francis did his best to remain quiet while he ran a good pace along the track slightly behind his fellow comrades.