Standing a little gingerly in his shower stall, Donovan keyed in a spray of hot water that never failed to make him flinch. It was scalding, just as he liked it, leaving his skin red and a little raw as he moved, turning and slipping his stubbled scalp beneath the hot spray. Nothing like a hot shower to remind a man that he's alive. Donovan shifted again, more than a little uncomfortable. His ankle was acting up again - it had never fully recovered from that bad break years back. Three steel pins and some artificial bone growth, and it still gave him trouble in the morning. He applied a little more pressure to it, wincing slightly. He could practically hear the old, familiar scrape of bone on bone, feel the searing agony of damaged tendons and shattered joint. Another scar, another war wound.<br/><br/>The rest of the shower was brisk and short. Standard-issue soap, standard-issue shampoo, a tooth-brushing with standard-issue toothpaste and a rolling-on of standard-issue deodorant. All taken from company stores, all very much the baseline of common comfort as he was used to it. Better than life in the trenches, anyways. At least there was something resembling comfort here. Donovan dressed plainly - fatigue pants and a standard-issue tee, long socks, and boxer-briefs. A pair of well-used boots. Very much the off-duty soldier, he thought, running a calloused hand over his scalp. He was getting a little thin, a little peaky around the features. Trouble sleeping, coupled with MREs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. A charming enough life, and he was wasting away to muscle, sinew, and a well-repaired organic undercarriage.<br/><br/>Donovan brought nothing with him - aside from his sidearm in a comfortable sling a little above his waistline - as he made his way to the cafeteria. It wasn't early anymore - must have spent more time in the shower than he'd thought - and people were milling about the halls. Familiar faces, friends and countrymen, marines and technicians alike. He had a bevy of small smiles and casual remarks for them, mixed in with the occasional salute to a plainclothed officer or mild criticism for an ill-turned-out ranker. There were no excuses to be made - presentation was everything, and even people like him - who didn't do mornings very well - had to be expected to meet the standards of the marine corps. Checking his chronometer, Donovan quickened his pace a little - there was just enough time to grab a hastily-reconstituted meal before the scheduled briefing began.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>