#forwardstarter

I really don't want to get out of bed.

There is nothing quite like breakfast at five in the morning. Before the military, back in a time that Carter can't remember more often than naught, he loved sleeping in as late as possible; some days, his buddies couldn't get him out of bed unto noon. Food, women, parties, there was nothing that could rouse him from at least eight hours of sleep. Once Carter's body became accustomed to boot camp standards, there was no going back.

At four fifty-five, the rubber soles of his boots echo down the long corridors. His uniform's pressed, his hair is right at regulation length and his shoes have a shine that takes entirely too long to achieve. It's a quiet, easy walk to make, with only a few familiar faces and small smiles down the hall. He nods to one group of students, and calls out a hello further down. Morning pleasantries are exchanged, but no one attempts to stop him. There is no doubt that James Carter lives and breathes military just as easily as air. He reaches the Mess doors exactly at five in the morning, as always, and is the first to step into the spotless dining hall.

'Orange juice,' he thinks to himself, 'They better have orange juice. I want some fucking orange juice.' Tables in Mess aren't segregated like he's used to. Officers can sit with followers, students and instructors alike. It's a good way to open communication, but it lacks.... structure. Oh well. Carter sits down at a random table with his food, eyeing the line of beverages. He forks something in his mouth as he looks from label to label. Before he can complain or rejoice, a student steps in front of him and sits down, snapping him out of his man hunt for orange juice.