The moment I step out of the tent, I am amazed yet again. The sky is black and filled with stars. Purple nebulae swirl across the heavens, weaving intricate patterns above. A huge planet looms to the side, filling nearly a quarter of the sky. A faint outline of a galaxy can be seen in the background. There is no atmosphere, but somehow I can breathe. For the first time in more than ten years, I feel peace.

I am jerked out of my reverie by a hoarse, earsplitting yell.

I turn around, and behold a huge man looming behind me. "CADET! WHY ARE YOU WANDERING OUT UNATTENDED?" he screams. Before I can reply, he gets close enough so that I can see the detail in his face.

"I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, CADET," he yells. I blink. I would rather not fight him; he's more than a head taller than me and just as muscular. My throat suddenly feels dry.

"I, uh," I splutter, "The Field Marshal told me to go to Sergeant Major Woolridge?" My hand itched towards Riptide, but deep down, I know it is of no use here.

The man's eyes soften, "Ah, an officer cadet? Follow me," he says gruffly. He turns around and begins walking towards a row of tents. Each tent was pitch black in colour and lined with fancy golden trim, some fancier than the others. A dim bluish glow emanates from each tent, giving off a neo-futuristic vibe. However, judging from the occupants of the tent-row, the army was anything but neo-futuristic. The row was alight with movement, with some men sitting around playing cards, some sharpening their bayonets, and others cleaning their muskets. As we pass by, we were largely ignored.

I look at the man leading me. His stature is one of someone who has seen lots of combat and breathes on military regulations. My ADHD driven curiosity eventually gets the better of me as we continue to walk through the camp. "So, ah, I kind of forgot to ask, but who are you?" I ask. Then I remember how I am now part of some kind of military, and hastily tack on, "Sir."

He grunts before he answers, "My name is Corporal Shane Havegroven. You will address me as Corporal. You will address anybody under the rank of Ensign by their respective ranks. This includes the Sergeant Major."

Havegroven stops by a relatively fancier tent, pitched at the far end of the row. "We're here now, cadet," he says, doing a swift about face. He begins to walk away as he finishes, "Go on in. The Sergeant Major has already been notified of your incoming presence."

I gulp nervously, and go in the tent. Apart from a heavy wooden desk, a black and gold flag in the corner, and a musket-rack by the entrance, the tent is nearly bare. Sitting behind the desk is an extremely well-built man, with golden-tanned skin, very short black hair, and sky-blue eyes. He sprouts four chevrons on his shoulder, probably signifying that he was Sergeant Major Woolridge himself.

Upon seeing him, I do what everybody does in the movies: I instantly stop, and stand a little straighter to my full height. The man walks up to me, examining me from head to toe.

"At ease, cadet," Woolridge says in response to my presence, "You took a damn long time to get here. Why's that, cadet? The Field-Marshal's tent is only a 2 minute walk from here. You took 10."

"I may have walked in the wrong direction, sir," I explain. I realize my mistake too late.

He explodes.

Woolridge's eyes bulges out and a vein becomes visible on his forehead.

"YOU BLEEDING SHITBAG, YOU DO NOT REFER TO ME AS SIR! I'LL BET MY STRIPES THAT THE FIELD MARSHAL AND WHOEVER BROUGHT YOU HERE MADE THAT ABUNDANTLY CLEAR! DO YOU NOT KNOW HOW TO FOLLOW DIRECTIONS?" Wooldridge screams at me, stepping up into my face.

I decide that if I respond, I'll get more of a tongue lashing. Biting my lip hard enough to draw blood, I stay quiet, silently cursing my forgetfulness.

Wooldridge steps within my (now nonexistent) personal space and glares down at me, but I hold my ground.

"Now listen here you worthless waste of space, you get it into your thick head that until you graduate from the academy, I am your superior. That means whatever I say will be law to you. If I say you're a lost little baby cadet, that's what you are. Do you understand me, cadet?!" Wooldridge yells, with spit flying at me at killer velocity. I didn't move a muscle, partially in fear that he'd cover me with more spit.

Woolridge walks to his desk and sits behind it, beckoning me closer. He lowers his voice to a more normal tone, seemingly calmed down.

"In case you haven't noticed already, this army rotates off rule, order, and discipline. Without those three, we are no better than the hordes of monsters in Terra, or Earth, nor are we better than any of our adversaries," he says, rubbing his forehead.

The sergeant major waves his hand towards the musket rack by the entrance. He notices my raised eyebrow and quizzical expression. "It was quite the transition for me too. I used to serve in the United States Army, eventually climbing up to Sergeant-Major of the Army," he chuckles, "First the M1 was the go-to weapon, back in the kraut war. After that, it was the Springfield. Then, in 'Nam, the higher-ups decided to replace everything with the M-14 and M-16. Then, I get placed here and discover that the musket is the intergalactic weapon of choice. Quite the headache for me."

Woolridge takes out a brilliant-golden iPad. He scrolls through the screen, while saying, "I'm in charge of initial cadet-reception. Judging that you have come from the Field Marshal's tent and not Lieutenant Vol Raag's, you are presumably an officer cadet. I am placing you with the other new arrivals, in company OT1131. Remember that code as if it is your lifeline."

Woolridge stands and escorts me to the entryway. He points at a glowing building about 500 yards east.

"That's the armoury," he says, "Report to Quartermaster Vraxias. Tell him your company code, and he'll give you your equipment. Good luck, cadet."

"Yes, sergeant major," I echo. I walk off.

As I walk to the armoury, I pass by two bickering officers, dressed in extremely ornate uniforms. I manage to hear some snippets of their conversation.

"Bah, Arthur, you fool. Artillery is the main component of La Armee," one says with a heavy French Accent.

The other chuckles, "Then explain why I defeated your oh-so-mighty Artillery, supported by your 'elite' Old Guard, Bonaparte?"