[b][u][center][h2]Pvt. Reginald Weber[/h2][/center][/u][/b]

Reg approached the Coach House, leisurely taking his time. He had only been in the militia for a few days and already they were throwing him orders. He didn't even get any training, not that he needed it. He came to a stop outside the door of the Coach House, pulling a pocket watch and checking the time. He was five minutes late, just a bit under being fashionably so. Snapping the pocket watch shut, he shoved in back into his uniform, pulling out a cigarette and lighter in exchange. Lighting it up, he stuck the cigarette in his mouth and the lighter back into his uniform before opening the door and stepping inside. Walking through the Coach House, Reg made his way to where he was told to report too. Finding a chair, and brushing it off with his hand, he sat down and let out a puff of smoke. The military wasn't something he had ever planned on joining, nor did he ever think he'd see himself in a uniform. Despite all there, here he was, sitting in a run down building all uniformed up. He chuckled to himself, if any of his old 'friends' saw him like this he wouldn't hear the end of it. Luckily, half of them where either dead or far from the frontline and the other half would probably shoot him first before laughing. Crossing his legs and letting out another puff of smoke, Reginald looked forward, waiting to be told what he had to do. It felt odd to be at the bottom rung again.