Charlotte

I weren't born into nobility, despite what the uniform says. I grew up in one of Praetoria's factory districts, where the air always smelled of smoke, machine oil, and rain. Dad worked the manufactorums until they worked him into an early grave. Mum took in washing and somehow kept us fed. We never had much, but we got by. School never did me much good. Letters danced about the page, and before long I was skipping lessons to earn a few extra Thrones. I can stumble through a report if I have to, but I'd sooner strip and rebuild a laslock than read a manual. Joining the Guard weren't really a choice. On Praetoria, everyone serves. Training was brutal. They put me in scarlet, handed me a rifle, and shouted until drill became instinct. Every button had to shine, every salute had to be perfect, every boot polished like a mirror. Slip up, and you'd be route marching, scrubbing barracks floors, or drilling until your legs gave out. Thing is... they never quite beat the Cockney outta me. I still answer back. Still sneak off for a lho-stick when I think no one's looking. Still undo me top button after a twenty-hour march because I'd rather breathe. Every little infraction earns me another punishment detail. Reckon I've spent more evenings polishing floors than sleeping in me bunk. Funny thing is, they can't fault me where it matters. My rifle's spotless. My kit's immaculate. My boots shine. And when the shooting starts, I don't hesitate. That's why I'm still a Private. Every sergeant says I'd make a decent corporal... if I'd only learn when to shut me gob. Then the Munitorum merged our regiment with another. New command, new organization, same war. Nobody's told us much beyond, "They're not Praetorians." The old hands mutter they'll be undisciplined. The officers keep reminding us to uphold Praetorian standards. Me? I'm just curious. Haven't even seen one of 'em yet. Word is the first of 'em are due any minute. Guess you're about to be the first.