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Jarod toed off his boots and lay back on the cot as the first strains of Tattoo floated over the camp. The traditional bugle call for securing the post was no longer played by a bugler, but piped in through speakers.
Jarod was tired, bone-tired, and the brassy notes spoke of rest and peace. He’d done pretends in the military before, but he had more respect for the enlisted man now. Turns out that his childhood in the Centre wasn’t too different from here. Cinder-block barracks, life scheduled down to the picosecond, unimaginable physical strain. Yes, the Centre was a lot like boot camp.