Morning came slower than usual at Atlas Base.
Not because the sun rose late.
It rose right on time, spreading pale golden light over the watchtowers, hangars, barracks, and training fields like any other morning.
But the base itself moved slower.
The celebration from the previous night had left its mark everywhere.
Empty bottles sat near the long tables outside the mess hall. A few wooden crates had been knocked over and forgotten. Someone had left a half-eaten piece of bread on top of an ammunition box, which immediately earned a lecture from one of the quartermasters once he found it.
Several soldiers were asleep in strange places.
One infantryman had fallen asleep sitting upright beside the barracks wall with his helmet still on his head.
Another was lying across a bench near the mess hall, one arm hanging loosely toward the ground while his boots rested on a crate.
