I adjust my tie and grab the door handle. I twist, but... It won't budge. Did Tyrone break the door? I glance at the hinges and sure enough, the middle hinge is dented. I tug harder at the door but it still refuses. I pull out my phone to call my neighbour, but before I start dialing, I see the time. 9:58. I don't have time to wait for my neighbour. My cybernetic arm, on the other hand...

I look to the "Extend" button. I've never used it before, but there's no reason it wouldn't work. Right? Holding my finger above the button, I reposition my fist to aim at the middle of the door. This better work.

Beep.

Nothing happens. I try again.

Beep.

The arm starts to move. This is a good thing. I mean, if it decides to do something. It's been a few seconds, but it still might.

I groan. If I don't get to the meeting in less than three minutes- the middle finger begins to move. What? I pressed the "Extend" button. Oh... I just realised what the arm is doing. I scoff, not being able to believe what I see before me. The arm is currently flipping the door off. I have similar feelings toward the door right now, but seriously?

Well, I can work with this. I aim the tip of the extended middle finger towards the middle hinge of the door. If I just remove the hinge, there won't be anything to get in the way. I begin bashing the hinge as hard as I can with the finger. The top immediately gives way, but the bottom of the hinge doesn't show any signs of wanting to move. I try prying it off, but that doesn't work, either. The arm starts to move again.

Beep. This one's higher pitched than usual.

The middle finger curls back into the fist and with a jolt, the fist flies forward and into the hinge, breaking it into pieces. Not bad. The door creaks open when I pull on it and I dash out the door into the long decorated hallway. Finally. I look at my watch again. 10:03. Great. The conference already started.

I get to the elevators, press the button and shortly after, the doors open. Behind the doors is a man wearing jeans that aren't even zipped up yet and a wrinkled undershirt, transparent enough to show his bushy chest hair. His hair isn't brushed and he has enough crust in his eyes to feed a family of crows. More importantly, he's holding a huge white cat with a pocket strapped to it. The cat looks directly into my eyes.

"Private Bentley, good to see ya!" He says in a thick American accent. I feel like I've heard that voice before.

"Do I know you?" I ask, unsure of how he knows my name.

"It's Private Jackson."

Of course. Jackson has always been a bit... different.

"Oh, good to see you, too."

"Is you going to the meetin', too?"

"Yeah. Tyrone told me about it. I would probably still be asleep if it weren't for him." I zone out a bit, thinking back to his "Wakey, wakey" joke. Did he seriously not know I'm vegetarian?

The elevator bell dings and the doors slide open. Private Jackson pulls up his jeans and zips them. I guess that's as formal as he's going to get.

"What, you wanted me to keep my barn door open, Bentley?" Jackson asks, putting his hands on his zipper again. I think he's being genuine when he says that.

"No, thanks, Jackson."

We walk into the conference hall. Tall windows stand behind the spokesperson's booth, casting rays of sunlight into the whole room. Two massive carved pillars tower above the hundreds of rows of seats. The pure white color scheme of the room is pretty, yet at the same time, slightly unnerving. Everyone's pretty quiet for a conference that's already started. Jackson's cat begins purring loudly. At least she seems to like it.

Everyone glares at me as I make my way down to the second front row. What about Private Jackson? At least I'm
properly dressed.

I plop down next to Lieutenant Andrew and he glares at me. I glare right back into his eyes.

"You're 5 minutes late. How do you even manage that?"

Before I can respond, Admiral George clears his throat from the spokesperson's chair. Everyone looks up at him and his white hair. He's much older than I imagined. As in much, much older.

"Private Bentley," he starts, looking at the soldier 3 rows behind me. I smile. I didn't think his vision was that bad.

"Sir, I'm over here."

"Oh, yes. You all look the same." I feel like telling him it's because he's halfway blind. "Would you like to explain to me why you're 20 minutes late?"

20? For real, who made this man leader of our army? Whatever. "I was not told that we had a meeting today. I woke up 15 minutes ago."

"You mean I woke you up?" Tyrone shouts from the other side of the room. He smiles at me.

"Enough, Frederick." No one even bothers to correct Admiral George. "It shouldn't take an hour and a half to get to a conference in the same building." Wow, even his math is off.

"And you, Private Jackson," he continues, "I have many questions for you."

I look over to Jackson. Oh, dear.

"Yeah, mate? Ha, that's Australian slang fer 'friend'. I learned that yesterday on Buzzf-"

"Quiet. Explain to me why you are dressed in blue jeans and an undershirt, eating pasta out of a pocket strapped to your cat." That's a pretty challenging question, if you ask me.

Jackson holds up a finger as he swallows a mouthful of pasta. "So. My partner's out of town and no one else is willin' to take care of Fluffy, I just woke up and I was wearin' these already and I did'n have time to eat me some breakfast so I put this 'ere leftover pasta in a pocket and put it on my cat fer easy carryin'." He handled that better than I expected.

Right as Admiral George is going to reply, I notice something in the corner of my eye. A white sphere about the size of a soccer ball rolls into the room from the entrance. It has a red flashing light that seems to flash faster every second. I try to decipher what it could be, but it's difficult from this distance.

Then it hit me.