[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/nROT7ay.jpg[/img]
[color=9e0b0f]SOLDIER Base; Firing Range[/color][/center]

Feet spread, shoulders steady, back straight, arms not-quite-rigid, breathe calmly, aim down the sights, pull trigger slowly. Bang. Epitaph repeated the mantra in his head with each round fired at the sheet of cardboard, which simulated a man-sized target thirty meters away. Out of the last six rounds he had fired, three had struck the center of mass, one had struck the head and two had gone wide and missed. He fired two more rounds, another miss and another body hit, and set the pistol down on the barricade.

Epitaph breathed slowly, grappling with the idea that he was wasting his time. He didn't even use a pistol in the field, why was he training his marksmanship in the dark hours of early morning? If he wanted to, he could conjure some excuse for himself that flexibility in combat was of dire importance, but he would be ignoring the real answer. He just wanted some time to himself. His hours spent asleep in his quarters were the only guaranteed solitude he had left, and so he savored any more alone time that he could scrounge up. He discovered some days ago that the firing range was usually deserted in the morning, and even if there were one or two other SOLDIERS in it, they wouldn't bother him. It seemed that the others were hesitant to approach him as long as he was carrying a loaded gun.

The morning was drawing on, however, and Epitaph's precious solitude would soon come to an end. The thought irritated him subtly. He knew that he was under orders to socialize and become acquainted with the other SOLDIERs in his unit, and honestly it wasn't usually a very painful experience. It was just tiresome in a way that he had never known before. An hour surrounded by people, listening to their inane chatter and being forced to acknowledge their pointless opinions was as draining as ten hours spent in a forward encampment. Only after being assigned to this unit had he begun experiencing the inexplicable desire to crawl under a piece of furniture and pass out. It didn't seem to get easier, either; every day was a little more tiring, and left him slightly more disoriented by lights-out. He wondered how long it would take until he had nothing left to offer to these people, when his facade of goodwill and camaraderie ran dry. 

Epitaph returned his weapon to the Combat Arms technician manning the firing range. The weapon and remaining ammunition were turned in, Epitaph signed a receipt, and the technician returned the SOLDIER's identification card to him. The man said, "Have a good day," and Epitaph said, "Thank you, you as well," back to him. Epitaph wished all conversations were that easy. A transaction, almost like an exchange of code. All he had to do was say the correct words in the correct sequence, and both parties could walk away satisfied. It didn't matter what the words actually meant. "Have a good day?" What did that even mean? Was he supposed to have "a good day," now? Was that an order or a request? It was arcane and ridiculous for Epitaph to think about it, much like many other facets of etiquette and courtesy that he had learned. Even pondering these mysteries exhausted him.

Orders went out over the intercom. Epitaph was being called for orders. Making his way to the correct conference room, Epitaph passed many other SOLDIERs going about whatever they did in the morning. For most of them, as far as he could tell, their routines were highly strict, almost ritualized. Epitaph had a similar schedule in his non-deployed hours as a SCION, but that had been assigned to him, he didn't choose any of it. Their queer habits and routines struck Epitaph in much the same way that, "Have a good day," did: it was... superstitious. SOLDIERs were very strange people that put a great amount of time and effort into concepts that Epitaph didn't consider real. "Luck" was the primary offender. Epitaph certainly did not believe in luck. He believed in training and equipment, and that had been more than enough for him throughout his entire life.

Epitaph entered the conference room, and took a seat without pause or fanfare. Compared to the others, who had only been serving the government for the barest fraction of their lives, Epitaph was a queer sight. The pallor of his skin and the silver stubble on his scalp contrasted sharply with the flat black of the standard-issue PT tracksuit he wore. His dark eyes swiveled about the room, glancing briefly at the others as they flitted about. The faces were nominally familiar, but he didn't have names at hand to put to them. Instead they were Glasses, Beard, Blonde One, and so on. To a casual observer, he seemed tense and flighty, as though he would jump up and run out the room at the slightest provocation. This was actually a fair observation, but it wasn't because he was nervous. That was just Epitaph. It was how he was raised, and how he was trained (for the little distinction that existed between the two). His hands quivered; he still wasn't used to being in an enclosed space like this with so many people without a weapon. He pressed his hands to the table to stop them from shaking. It didn't exactly help, but it would have to do. The meeting was commencing.