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He couldn't believe he survived training...

Two months of rigor, he made it through, in one piece. As a sapper, this was a pleasant surprise. An engineer's task was always a tough and demanding role in the army. Not only would he have to carry over half his weight of helmet, gun and boots, but he also have to be hurling around tools that made up the identity of the title of the man. He did receive some slack with the basics, but ultimately at the end of the equation, it wasn't a good bargain. Perhaps he always had it in him, in spite of people's impression of such a filthy rich bastard from a noble white-collared family. Or perhaps it was pure survival instinct. A testament to Nietzsche's famous quote of resilience. He'd be inclined to believe it was the latter. But would it be enough for what was to come? For what awaits in the No Man's Land, what lies before the muzzles of Imperial machine guns?

Sometimes, Michael envied these young comrades, barely old enough to form a wisdom for themselves. The looks on their face, the smile on their lips, their shaking fists glimmering with excitement. If that was enough to survive war, it would have been a fairy tale. But history is violent. Do you think that those one million young men at the outbreak of the war full of sorrow so that they got themselves killed? How about billions of others in previous wars that soaked history with rivers of blood. There's no way they could put so many men to the swords so willingly if they weren't enthusiastic about it. 

Despite not having seen it for his very own eyes, and perhaps this was a bad thing, Michael saw beyond the world that was carefully constructed by the rose scented dome of propaganda that the Federation attempted to build around the soldiers, so that they fight fiercer, charge faster, and die quicker. Perhaps you could experience relief knowing you die with honor of fighting for your country, but what about those you left behind? What about those who loved you, who was waiting in vain waiting for you to return, only to never hear from you again, and not even know where you have laid to rest to pay tributes?

Just as he said that, it hurt. 

From his shirt pocket, he pulled out a small piece of paper, folded in eighth. The first letter from mother. He had read it to the point he already memorized every single words. He was hoping for a reply perhaps soon, but would he live to see another letter like this? 

Michael was the only son of the Daunte family. He was at the very end of the line. His family wasn't one for many offsprings. His mother was an elegant and noble lady, but she was fragile. Strange medical problems plagued her youth, and her carriage almost led to her death. But for some miraculous reasons, she still lived on, with a healthy and wonderful child, although short statured, that is Michael. But a miracle wouldn't happen twice. Not so easily. And they wouldn't be taking the risk. And now their only son was leaving for war. A war that should've ended by now. 

Michael put away the folded letter as he looked up to the sights of his comrades chatting in the cabin of his train wagon, gradually taking him to the spot where he would call home for the next few months perhaps, or maybe even his grave for an eternity. The group were particularly young. Fresh conscripts brought from home, though there were mixtures of the old veterans, a few even from the very beginning of the war themselves, and the middle ones, those who had bathed in the dirt and mud of the trenches, but had yet to feel the flesh and blood being redirected from a man's veins. They were among themselves, talking about what was to come, paying less attention to the short man with his book. There were occasional questions here and there, but mostly it was them mistaking Michael for a boy, despite him actually older than most of the conscripts in the cabin. He didn't mind it however. Despite the early morning, almost everybody were awake, as the train came near its destination, and that the [b]Big Show[/b] is about to begin. 

Being ushered out of the train, Michael was already forced in line, just like the drills designated him to. Greeting the commanding officers. And just like he was told to, he raised his hands in salute as the officer walked by. His first impression of this man who would decide the fate of Michael's life was that of shrewdness. His aura boasts of the stereotypical strictness that a child could imagine the military being. Michael doesn't know if he should be relieved or afraid. Strictness was a perfect tool to order, but placed under the wrong circumstances could lead to terrible consequences. There was only one thing that could prevent that from happening, and he wondered if Lieutenant Middleton would have it. 

[i][color=bf00ff]'8th Platoon, 15th Atlantic Rifles.'[/color][/i]

Seemed like this was the right place.

As the two NCOs seemed to be occupied, Michael found his own spot at one of the tables nearby. Unstrapping a bit of his stuff down, he swung his rifle over before having an inspection over the parts. The bolts, the muzzle, making sure everything's in check for combat. He wouldn't want it to jam right in the midst of a gunfight. And once done, he would do the same for those a few others who came to him. His role and rank were embellished in his uniform, so people in the field would know who to visit.