[center][h1]Private Zeal Ashart[/h1]
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Despite the relatively nice weather and all the free time he had, it was a depressing day for Zeal Ashart. Today, he would be sent back into  the line of duty after only a month or two of training, and there was no way in hell that he would feel confident at all in his fighting abilities. The Mags MXX was a good, reliable gun that didn’t jam and was easy to clean…but the roar of the submachine gun, as well as the jittering recoil of it was really damn scary.

And he’ll be using it to gun people down in the frontlines as well. Kill or be killed. No hiding and scouting allowed. Zeal chewed his thumbnail as he sat in the mess hall, watching other trainees and fresh recruits going about with no concern at all on their face. Those lucky reserve bastards, able to just have fun and patrol about within the confines of this fort. Jealousy and anxiety clouded his eyes and silenced his hungering stomach, as the chicken and wild rice soup before him grew cold.

Ah, what he would give for the Imps to just go home already. What he would give to be reunited with his sniper friend. What he would give for his mom’s spaghetti. He heard that some people would shoot themselves in the foot to avoid military service, but he wasn’t even a Scout anymore. It probably didn’t even matter if he was ordered to limp towards the enemy like a proper meatshield.

With a melodramatic flop, the ash-haired boy planted his face onto the wooden mess table, sighing like an old widow that just lost his animal companion.