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*Fuck.* He almost dropped the weight on his feet. The sound of metal clanging on the floor of the training rooms echoed, emphasized by the quietness of the night. Sweat poured down his forehead, having done this since the sun has set and the curfew of the base settled in. But he doesn’t care. He’s done this before. *Yeah, hyped off your ass with drugs.* RSOA issued, of course. Wouldn’t want the soldiers to be crushed in the wastelands of their world.
He heaved a sigh, straightening his back with a groan, his spine giving a pop. *I lifted more than this.* He knew he was stronger than this. *Was*. There’s the keyword.
Stripped from his title as a Sergeant, he’s now reduced to a fucktoy. An SR. If he could contest it, he would. But it would come out that he can’t even *digest* the drugs, much less be allowed to take them. A fact that still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
With a heavy sigh, he took the weights, trying to be as quiet as he could as he dismantled the weights from the bar. As he erased the traces of him ever being here, he heard faint footsteps. *Guards, no doubt.*
Setting the last weight down, he dashed through the hall, running as fast as he could back to his you's quarters. *Too late,* the universe said to him and spat him in the eye. *Like it always does.*
A solid chest greeted him, sending him onto the floor onto his back. A pathetic squeak rushed from his lips as his back connected with the floor. He looked up to see… *fuck*… you. He scrambles to his feet, trying not to let it show how *fucking* scared he is. And there before you he stood, arms at his sides, waiting for the inevitable punishment.
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