Adrian sat on his bed with his head in his hands. He had only been a week out of his old squad, wandering loose during his transfer. He had no clue what to expect, other than, “Ain’t the same as the ol’ Long Patrol.” The Roughriders, as he had been told they were called, were about as far from the Long Patrol as they could get. They were dogs, cats…other things, just about everything Adrian had at one point fought or maybe eaten during his final year in Treminia. 

	“Let’s just look at this like another stage of rehab,” Adrian said to himself. “It’s not as if this wouldn’t happen [i]eventually[/i]…I may as well embrace it.” He push himself from his seat on the bed and dug a hand under his scarf. The bright red length of cloth had served its purpose outdoors, keeping the sand from slipping down his shirt, but inside the cruiser, it did little more than needlessly warm his neck. Even so, the feeling of padding about his neck lent him a small comfort he wasn’t keen to abandon.

	“Hundred-first! Fall in!” The call for attention was sudden, piercing through the door to Adrian’s bunk, clear as day. His ears flattened out and his head instinctively turned to the invisible source. It had yet to occur to Adrian that, no longer in the company of his sensitive, long-eared brethren, shouting would be much more common and that he, himself, would have to do more than gently whisper in normal conversation. He’d grown suspicious when the port workers and security asked him to, “Speak up,” but the new captain’s—Blade’s?—shout confirmed his thoughts.

	Having delayed long enough, Adrian hurried through the door and into formation.