Fragile (Slow Updates)

Chapter 13: Rising Tension

October 7, 2021
0600
Azur Lane

Routine can never change you. It's ingrained into your neural pathways. For Sous-lieutenant Vogel waking up at six in the morning was the new norm whether it be for morning PT, foot march or in fear of his abusive father. You tend to hear things at night and despite having a paper weight on top of him and the walls being paper thin. Don't ask, don't tell, he honestly couldn't care less what people did next door as long as it wasn't a barracks bunny.

With an exasperated sigh, he pushed Captain White aside and wrested himself from Sergent Dubois's restraining grasp. The American, clad in nothing more than a sports bra and shorts, while the Chasseur, sported her issued camoed tank top and shorts. A shiver coursed down Vogel's spine as he recalled the events of the previous night. "Merde (Shit)," he muttered. The bedroom was in disarray, clothes strewn about from the trio's activities, Dubois's undergarments adorning a lampshade, and bed sheets entangled around them.

Moving as silently as possible, Vogel attended to his morning ablutions, taming his unruly hair, hiding his miss ghastly left cheek wound and concealing prominent love bites with band-aids, though their visibility remained. "Merde (Shit)," he cursed softly, noting the bruises and marks on his collarbone and neck, unable to suppress a wry smile at the impending storm of jealousy. Reflecting on the Commander's handbook, particularly its misguided notions on love and relationships, he considered it an erroneous guide. Despite its flaws, love remained undeniable, unstoppable.

Recalling the handbook during a drunken rant while composing his memoir, "From Playground to Battlefield: Navigating Military Power and Politics of Azur Lane," anything negative, critical or otherwise he wouldn't say to someone sober or face to face was noted down. The Legionnaire dressed in F3-style combat trousers, a T-shirt and a workout sweatshirt bearing the emblem of the 2e REP over his heart. Before departing, he left a note in case his companions awoke, ensuring he had his phone, lighter, a traded pack of American Spirit Black cigarettes, and his Glock 17 Gen 5, a necessary precaution for any male on this rock. An unwritten decree of the Azur Lane Commander handbook and emphasised by U.N. Military Command as a mission requirement.

The base was quiet, crickets as in when the teacher asks the class a question and no one's answers, level of quiet. Sure there was the odd early bird that gets the worm Kansen or Commander about. A brief hello or wave, that was it while others out right ignored him out of hate or shame. Nothing more nothing less even if he was the Commander of the U.N. mission or the former possibly still Overall Commander of Azur Lane. Human beings being human beings.

His workout routine was something else. Doing five laps of the 400 metre track, "Barrage... Aurait pu être une star de l'athlétisme (Dam... Could have been a track star)." He half heartedly joked with him as it was for him an easy 2 km run. Quickly out pacing the few who were awake and getting their exercise in before the rest of the crowd showed. From passing Baltimore, South Dakota, Georgia and Commander Avery.

"How many laps is that?" Asked the Commander curiously watching the former Commander doing laps. Legs gracefully hitting the pavement, arms moving in an in and out motion, and zero panting. He looked robotic. 'He used to hate running and for a smoker he's doing pretty good.' She remarked to herself.

"Five and he's still going. In boots, sweatshirt and service pistol mind you." Answered South Dakota, smiling at the sight of seeing the Commander out and about and alive though the scars and wounds were a worrying sight.

Before anyone knew it he just ran 3000 metres or seven and half laps in combat boots. "Imagine that but in full kit plus a rucksack." Commented the 2IC, to say she was impressed was an understatement she was blown away. "He makes it look like a walk in the park."