Not five days after the inquest, the call to muster went out.  Team Cerberus filed into a cavernous hangar.  They took up space between two mammoth dropships.  Some sat on equipment crates, some on the floor as the team waited for the CO to appear.

When Lang walked in, they attempted to stand half-heartedly at attention.

"As you were," Lang said.  A liter of the hard stuff dangled from his hand.  He slammed the oversize bottle onto the desk.

"Bad news?" Alex asked seeing the gallon jug.

Lang nodded, facing the squad.  "This unit is to be folded . . . effective immediately."

A shocked silence settled in, then a series of anxious questions rushed at Lang.

"Quiet!" Alex barked.  "Let him speak."

"That's the decision," Lang said.  "Cerberus just lost its qualification . . . and is pulled from active duty.  I'm sorry." 

The shouting from the floor merged and echoed in the hangar, reaching riotous levels. 

Alex hollered at her men, "Shut up and listen."

Lang paused until there was complete silence.  "We don't make policy here, gentlemen.  We are its instruments.  I have nothing else to say.  Take time to talk among yourselves."  He stepped back with arms crossed and head bowed.

"Do we have any recourse, sir?" Someone asked.

"You'll have the chance to rejoin other units in circulation -- but you'll be in non-critical functions and under a gag order not to reveal your background."

A slew of angry reactions flew at him.

"As rear-echelon pukes, cooks and shit burners?" a man called Grouper protested, his thick mouth jutting out like the fish, bearing teeth.

"I didn't go through all that pain to peel potatoes.  Shove it up your ass," Sal, a big Italian howled.

"Who decided this?"  Alex demanded of Lang.

"It came from the top," the besieged Lang replied, his answer empty.

"Which top?" she said with disdain. 

"Does it matter?" Lang said.  "It's out of my hands."

"We gonna let this happen?"  Cox, another irate man rose from the floor. 

"We have to fight this all the way," Papa joined in.

"Yeah," a chorus resounded.

Warchild was reticent, sitting by himself.

"I'm told you have until tomorrow to fold into other units or resign," Lang said.  "Regardless, everyone must pack their things and leave quietly."

"We want a review," Alex insisted.  "Is JAG even aware?"

"And what do we do then?"  Papa said.  "We have families, dammit, wife and kids.  You can't cut us loose like this."

"Papa's right, how in hell are we supposed to live, eh Cap'n?"  Alex asked.

Lang hung his head low, shame dragged on his posture.

"Tell us this, Cap'n," Alex said.  "Is there anyone who would defend us?"

"You could try going through the channel to file a complaint.  But I doubt the Judge Advocate will review it."

"Cause we don't exist, right?" Alex said.

Lang didn't need to reply.

"Easier to get rid of garbage you don't see." Warchild chuckled, a bitter grimace on his face.

"Like I said, you could opt into another unit," Lang said.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"That's an insult." Alex grabbed Lang's jug and headed out.  "After kicking us in the nuts, Cap'n."

The men followed her out, one by one, disgust and anger etched on each man's face.

Team Cerberus commandeered three tables in the cafeteria.  The kitchen was between shifts and empty.  Papa went to the back, rummaged noisily and returned with two stacks of glasses.

Alex poured and filled three rows of glasses.  

"Enjoy every bitter drop, boys," Alex said, starting a toast.  "To Team Cerberus, a short stint however sweet."

"To being shafted," Saul said.

Each man picked up his glass and raised it. 

Alex offered, "It was an honor serving with you."  She emptied the glass in one gulp and poured another.

"Fucking-A!"  Nineteen voices chorused as one, shots downed as one, and slapped down as one. 

Anger boiled seeking someone to burn.

"Wouldn't be in this mess if Warchild hadn't shot that girl."  A gripe surfaced among the bitterness being aired.

"What?" Warchild bristled with affront, spinning to face Cox.   "Well, begging your pardon, what was the fuckin order?" His eyes wet with fury. "No one left alive, that's how I remember it.  Cold-blooded killing is our business, asshole.  There's no second-guessing and no place for bleeding hearts.  Or find another job."  His ire flashed at Alex who was uncommonly quiet, looking away.

"Take it easy, Warchild," Papa said.  "We're all in this together." 

"Then nobody better be telling me I did something wrong."  Warchild snarled at all their faces. 

"The fact is someone leaked the feed, that's what started all this," Rotter hissed, gulping a glassful of moonshine as if it were fruit juice.  "And he should come clean."  He hurled his glass against the wall, shattering it into a thousand shards.  Several others felt the same way, mumbling threats.

"You mean -- she."  Warchild gave Alex an icy stare.

"You have something to say to me?" Alex said, at last, squaring her shoulders to him.

He shrugged, a bitter grimace lingered on his lips.

Alex said, "You've been looking at me funny ever since.  I bet you told the feds that, didn't you?"

"What feds?"  Papa asked.  "What are you talking about?"

"We had visits from Bureau people," T-Bone told them.  "Me, Warchild, and Marlboro Red."

"About what?"

"Fishing about the leak," Alex said.

"So, what came out of it?" Saul asked.

"They found dirt, haven't they?  Else how come they wind us down, right?" Rotter carped.

"I don't like your tone, mister," Alex warned.

"The feds are sure of one thing -- one of us did it."  Warchild spat.  "Way I see it, three people in that room -- T-Bone had no cause to spill dirt.  And sure as hell, it ain't me.  So, who's left?"

"Hey, fuck you, Mars," Alex exploded.

"All I know is I'm out of a job and I got mouths to feed," Papa muttered, more to himself.

"We got a bigger problem," Alex said.  "If they cut us loose, how do we get our monthly serum refills, you think of that?"

The group went quiet.

The same thought and anxiety passed over every man's face.  Then the finger-pointing restarted: "Somebody said something they shouldn't."

"Yeah."

Accusing eyes glared at Alex.

"You morons think I did it.  You think I leaked my own feed?  Cause I didn't want to kill a girl, is that it?  I've broken men's bones, left the trenches wet with guts and brains.  But I'd never hurt little girls." 

"No surprise there," Warchild answered with a cruel chuckle.  "Cause you prefer to eat them, right?"

She didn't miss a beat.  "I heard your wife ain't happy with your limp dick.  She might like a good rug munching for a change." 

"Let's all calm down," Papa said, stepping in.  "We're all amped up this minute."

"Now we know why combat shouldn't be led by estrogen," Warchild continued to push.  "Too much sense and sensibilities."

"You want to take a shot at me, Mars, try it on for size." Alex held her arms wide, beckoning him.

"Considering insubordination don't matter no more, I'll take ya," Warchild said, putting down his glass and licked his lips.  They came face to face, noses inches apart.  Then she shoved him.  He lunged suddenly and grabbed Alex by the collar, twisting her toward the ground. 

She spun and broke free from his grasp. 

The enhanced combat trigger kicked into gear.  The others leaped up, pulled the tables apart to give them space.  A makeshift ring formed.

Matching size and strength, the pair circled in a low fighting stance, their mutual enmity long overdue to manifest into a physical resolve. 

She lunged with one arm, going for a leg grab.  Warchild swung out with his right elbow, connecting against her temple.  The blow staggered her, weakening her knees.  He dove in fast and head-butted her on the bridge of her nose. 

Stars exploded in her eyes.  She fell back holding her face, blood gushing from her nostrils. Shouts of encouragement for her washed over while others howled for Warchild to finish her.

Seeing victory, he moved in for the coup de grâce. 

At the right moment, Alex dropped to one knee and delivered a crushing blow to his crotch.  Warchild fell to the ground clutching his testicles, curled up in a fetal position, coughing in spurts.  Luckily, all the liquid metal had been drained from every Cerberus when they returned, or else this fight could have ended in the goriest way.  She was sure Warchild would have used it, if his reservoirs were filled.  Which meant she would have too.

Blood and mucus streaming down her chin, Alex stood over the crumpled mass, triumphant.  She bent down and lifted his chin, then snorted like a bull, "Estrogen got no use for balls." And slapped his head back down.  She stepped over him like unwanted trash and left the gathering. 

"All right, break it up."  Big Papa Smurf shouted at the others to disperse.  "I said, stand the fuck down everyone!"

Rotter helped Warchild to his feet, undamaged but for his ego.  The latter straightened his clothes, indignity on his face toward the others.  "You go ahead and think what you like, I'm through with all this bullshit.  I'm out.  Y'all can piss off."  He shrugged Rotter off and stomped away. 

Team Cerberus splintered and headed off.