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Private. Aeslin Vrostock stroked the brush against her fur, she was 5'5". Tall for a Lynx. but she never really fit in with the entire traditional image of anything. Ever since she was a kid, she was a shooter. Growing up in a blue collar stereotypical family, where the girls are supposed to be cute and play with barbies, she was interested in the Army. She never wore skirts, the only dolls she had were GI Joes, and wasn't afraid of getting dirty. She never really was happy as a kid, because she didn't want to play dolls with the girls, and the boys made fun of her.

Guns never talked back to her. She got her first rifle when she was 12, a present from her Great-Uncle Gary. A veteran of the Korean war, she would listen to his stories for hours. Tales of camaraderie, of passion, of terror, of loss. He captivated her. He never romanticized his experiences either, she always got exactly what he experienced, from the jokes of his partner Steeles, to the extremely violent loss of his Sargent. No question was too stupid for him, he loved his niece. He died of Cancer at the age of 70, when Aeslin was halfway through High school.

Much to the chagrin of her parents, she turned down the scholarships offered to her, and joined the army when she graduated from High School. Her parents disowned her after that, not wanting anything to do with what they called "Sanctioned Murderers". They never really understood though, she joined for them, she was fighting for their freedom.

She put the comb down on the counter. Running her hands through the buzz-cut the army gave her, not that it was all that different from how she usually wore her hair, but then she had a choice. She'd never really had anyone regulate her life like this, not that she hadn't expected it, she just didn't have to be thrilled about it.

Slipping the sleeveless top over her sports bra, she got up and reached for her Standard issue army jacket. That was another thing she wasn't particularly thrilled with, how the army literally supplied everything you needed, and didn't allow a whole lot of wiggle room. Standard issue toothbrush, socks, boots, and to top it all of, the only things that weren't "recycled" were intimates, like you're toiletries, your underwear and whatnot. Everything else had been used at some point by some other poor sap. It kind of reminded her of playing dress up as a kid, except she hadn't raided her Mothers closet of dresses and such, she had raided her Uncles closet, full of old uniforms and leather.

She sighed as she thought about him, he was the reason she was here, wearing green everything, in someone else's boots. Her own parents, her Father an Immigrant from the Former USSR, and her Mother a small town country gal, both wanted here to go to college, meet some nice guy, settle down and have a family. But her Mother's only sibling, her Uncle Greg, was a veteran of Korea, and held strong beliefs about the military, and thought that everyone should at least know how to fire a weapon, if not use them regularly.

He had taken her shooting first when she was only eleven, under the ruse of getting some ice cream, so that her parents wouldn't fret. But of course, the smell of burnt cordite was a dead giveaway. It's enough to say that Uncle Greg got an earful from one very angry Mama Lynx. She had a lot of fond memories of him, in his own way, he was as much a Father to her as her own Father was.

"Vrostock! Wheels up in ten! You better get that cute li'l butt of your on the Herc' before the L-T leaves without you!" A voice invaded her thoughts. It belonged to Sgt. Carter, who had taken her under his wing during Basic. He was on the same flight as her to Baghdad, it was his 4th tour overseas, he never said why he keeps going back, and Aeslin never really asked. Everybody fought for their own reasons, and those reasons were personal.

"I'll be there in five!" She shouted back, doing up the final button on her jacket, then grabbing her small bag of personal possessions she was allowed. The rest of her gear was going to be shipped separately in true bureaucratic fashion. And was bound to get shot down, or detoured into the Bermuda triangle or something.

Aeslin shouldered her pack and walked out the door. The mid afternoon Ontario sun was warm on her fur in the chill of late February. A stark reminder of how different the deserts of the Middle East would be. She fished her sunglasses out of her pocket and slid them on, the shades had several unique touches to them, they had mirrors taped along the far side of the lens, so she could see behind her, the lenses had a highly reflective coating on them, so nobody could see her eyes, and she had taped a small penlight to the frames, so she could read and whatnot in the dark. They were possibly the most prized possession she had ever owned, being as how she had worn them for almost fifteen years now, adding little things to them here and there. Her Father had called them her "Swiss-Army Glasses".

Walking up the ramp into the back of the Hercules Cargo Plane, she stowed her gear in the overhead webbing and strapped herself into the harness, the twenty or so other soldiers were either doing the same, or had already done so. She closed her eyes behind her shades and almost immediately fell asleep. It was a 14 hour flight, so why the hell shouldn't she?

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Meanwhile, thousands of Kilometres away, Fireteam 2 of The Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry, third Brigade, First Battalion, Second Company, Charlie Squad; was waking up, following their usual rituals of bitching about everything.

"Do they have to make these things so damn uncomfortable?" Tim moaned as he sat up, his ears still ringing from the wake up call, which in reality was just a really loud air horn.

Spall threw a venomous look at him, "Try spending your entire day in one, only 'then' can you complain."

"Ah, bite me Robert," Tim shot back at the mostly hairless cat. Lacing up his boots and grabbing his C-7, he stopped and kicked Hank on his way out of the tent, "Wake up sleepyhead, It's time for our watch." This was promptly met with a moan and a meekly waving arm from the still mostly asleep Hank. "Make sure he's dressed and he's tidy-widies are properly for me, would you Tank? I have to go clock in before Slick pisses in my canteen again." Tim said, talking about the Fox in Bravo Squad that was a mean prankster.

"No prubl'm Boss." Tank yelled into his pillow. Giving Tim the thumbs up with the hand that wasn't underneath his huge snout.

Tim rolled his eyes and muttered something about responsibility before shuffling out of the tent.