[color=0072bc][b]NEMO ALTARE[/b][/color]


[i]...Well, this certainly wasn't what he'd expected. Oh, for certain, the wraith had predicted the wild glee of the dozens of Garrison-Wanna-Be's, as well as the obnoxious clouds of lung-choking gas they'd left behind in their frenzied wake; the way the mob had fluttered off like a startled pack of geese was of little surprise in comparison to the...eh-hem...*error* made in the measurements of his gear...

[color=0072bc]"Parfait...cette est tres marrant merde."[/color], "Nobody" rumbled within the enraged prison of his mind. He sat crouched upon the warmed stones of the designated testing grounds, quietly hanging back from the action, though also *as much* attention as he could avoid without further embarrassment. For some reason, this was the *one* thing he hadn't even thought upon going wrong -- should he have even expected such an unfortunate outcome, to have straps two sizes too small for one's self? The tan-skinned boy growled, thumbing his digit over the pathetically useless equipment, before his glance --though still blank to outsiders, save a peculiar knitting of the brows towards one another-- shifted upwards into a long gaze about the huddled, deserted streets. 

What was this feeling that picked apart his expectations -- his glorified sense of achievement and reality. 'Shame', or perhaps an odd sense of 'Karma'...? Whatever it might have been, it was none too welcome with its unnerving presence, and the youth quickly attempted to subdue the angst that threatened to overflow its intended brim, where upon it would presumably melt the outer shell that comprised the entirety of --and what little there even was to speak of it-- his sense of *Identity*.

...Taking a moment to alleviate this worrisome stress with a few expired breaths, the soldier-to-be rose to his full height, straightening the arch of his back and --to the best of his ability-- taking measured swallows of his pride. He'd just...have to ask for a new set, that was all --it wasn't as if anyone el--

The lean silhouette stopped, goggles fixated in internal terror over the distant sight--

...Apparently he wasn't the *only* one with a 'mis-match'. That was alright...that was...just fine...he'd wait until they'd all left -- then he'd get his gear and move out with the rest of the group.

Confirming this pride-fueled 'Plan-B', the boy slowly returned to his previous position down on the chiselled stones. The gleam of the sun at this hour helped to accentuate the lengthy shadow he normally kept about himself -- all the more ironic given how it would more than likely have dwindled by the time the 'others' had left *recognition-range* from the various instructors.

[color=0072bc]"...cette est parfait..."[/color][/i]