Jonny Ricochet hadn’t even had the decency of a decent night's sleep before the sergeant had them all up and standing to attention. The barracks lights snapped on like a sudden ambush, followed by the bellow of the man who seemed more myth than flesh. “Feet on the deck! You’re burning daylight, and there's no time to waste in my Corps!” Ricochet's body jolted to consciousness, muscle memory from the last four days hauling him out of his bunk. He stood at attention, eyes fixed forward, heart racing the morning run already. Around him, the rest of the fresh meat were a symphony of groans and clattering boots, but they all knew the drill; the sergeant’s voice didn’t carry suggestions. “Eyes front, Ricochet,” the sergeant growled, his gaze a piercing drill. “You signed up to fight, not to sleep.” “Yes, Sergeant!” The words shot out of Ricochet’s mouth, crisp and automatic. The barrack room was a sea of green and black, uniforms not yet worn in, boots not yet scuffed from battle, faces not yet scarred from war. But the sergeant’s job was to change all that, to turn these raw recruits into warriors fit for the cold expanse of space.
