Morozov, feeling that the zero hour was approaching, waved his goodbye and strutted over to his own unit, but not before giving Dirk a light punch to the arm.

Light for his standards, of course, it would still hurt like hell if the latter didn’t expect it.

The assaulted man shook his head in a kind of tired, but content way, and moved to the back of the truck, avoiding any more unwanted social interactions.

He passed the mysterious “shy” group on his way, taking a long way around to not tempt fate. Exchanging short and uninterested glances with one of the men, the one in the ghillie suit he’d seen way back during the briefing, and moved on.

The back door soon made its appearance, being more of a steel gate than an actual door. The compartment seemed to serve as both a little deployment zone for troops, with benches lining the walls, separated by a big empty space in between, and a garage for smaller modes of transportation, such as ATVs and motorcycles, with the “door” also serving as a small, but sturdy ramp when fully open.

No lighter vehicles were sadly present at this time, and Dirk was not holding out much hope in that regard.

Still, the thing looked at least somewhat workable, even if the truck’s design was growing more misguided with every look the old dog took at it. Having a central deployment zone was good for mass, coordinated assaults, so he doubted it would be that handy with the few people his unit had.

Still, a large exit was always better than a small, cramped one. Cramped exits combined with panicked movement were a recipe for a disaster during a sudden deployment.

Putting his military deliberations to the side for the time being, Dirk ushered Jason in, and the big lad obliged with a groan and a low hiss one could expect to hear from an angered alligator. If Dirk had to give one thing to Jason, it was that he went all in once his head was in the game.

He’d have to ask him later how Chrysos Jr even manages to make all those sounds.

Inside was rather dark, but navigable thanks to the ambient light from the outside. In the cold, gentle glow, Dirk could see multiple harnesses, both for people and cargo. Hanging drawers meant for munitions and other necessities, all in the same rough hues of gray and deep dark green.

The old vet swept the place with his eyes as he always did in a new environment, and seeing there were no apparent cameras anywhere, bounced to the side, prompting Jason to follow silently.

Reaching up, he opened one of the drawers and lo and behold, there it was - the cold and stale dinner that Dirk squirreled away for the “boy”.

He handed him the tray and took the liberty to pull the big red lever by the exit, spurring the great metal cage to life as the ramp lifted off the ground and the gate behind them closed, leaving them in darkness. Only for a brief moment, though, as the compartment soon turned red as the low-voltage lamps inside flickered on.

- I’ll stand guard, so you do your thing. - he reassured Jason with a pat on the arm, then walked towards the door that led further into the truck.

Walking through, he closed the door behind him and nonchalantly leaned against it with both arms crossed over his chest. Staring down the corridor, he could tell that the interior was deceptively spacious, for how cramped it seemed at a glance.

Even though there was barely any space for two people to stand shoulder to shoulder, the design had a row of doors on each side leading into, as yet, nondescript holding spaces.

Their contents weren’t exactly on his priority list.

What was quickly making its way up said list was the matter of grunts of pain echoing down the dimly-lit corridor from somewhere even further in.

- Ah, shit. Be careful, you quack! This is my face, not some fucking rope in a tug-of-war. - a familiar sounding voice yelled in pain, accompanied by a loud thud and a metallic bang

- Old as dirt and acting like a child. Sit still, or this will become an unwanted plastic surgery. - someone answered calmly and almost indifferently, but with a distinct stern note.

- Are you fucking drunk? Your hands are shak– Argh! - another grunt of pain cut the statement short.

- They always shake. I work better when they do, actually.

Dirk would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in whatever was going on, but stuck to the door as he was.

Relying on imagination to paint the picture of amusing scenes taking place just beyond his reach. Still, duty-bound as he was to guard the–

Suddenly a loud belch, way too long and guttural in its nature made the soldier's thought process turn to shit.

Apparently the kid didn’t bother eating like a human as Dirk assumed he would, and just shoved the whole thing down the chute, regenerator-style.

With a clear sign from Jason that he was finished, Dirk knocked on the door twice, letting the lad know that he was leaving to scout ahead and promptly moved on.

The corridor turned to the right at the end and then left again, making space for a bigger room. The door leading inside was wide open and inside Dirk could see Black, sitting in a metal chair with a bloody nose and a gash on his brow. There was also one new face, though “face” was perhaps a bit of an overstatement.

A tall man in a messy, checkered vest put over a white shirt stained with sweat and what looked like dried blood stood right in front of the old gun enthusiast. His hair was black, short and unfortunately for him, a little thinning, though to his credit his hairline was mostly intact. His face was covered with a surgical mask, and in his shaky hand he was holding a needle.

He was in the middle of putting Black’s face together. Having just sewn his brow tight, he reached for a gauze to clean the old man’s nose.

- There. - he handed him the white rectangle with little care, then turned around to wash his hands in the nearby sink.

At least that confirmed they had some sort of running water in this moving 1-star hotel. The man clearly showed little care in the “cleanup” part of first aid.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

- Now my face’s going fucking numb. Great. Why couldn’t it have done that 10 minutes ago? - Black grumbled under breath, messily wiping his face. - Came to have a giggle? - he shot Dirk a displeased question as he caught him staring in the door.

- Hardly. - he shot back with little thought. - I’m not the kind to laugh at a guy when he’s down. Unless we’re good friends.

- Point taken. I’m off to my quarters then. I’d advise you to get the fuck out of here, unless you want to get your face remodeled by this quack of a doc.

- You got your face rearranged yourself, mister Brzoza. - the supposed quack commented, neither offended nor particularly amused.

- Hey! No names! Don’t make me get in your face! - Black growled, ready to pounce, but scoffed and pushed his way out of the room.

Dirk followed the old man with his gaze for a brief moment and watched him disappear behind a corner, back where he just came from. He heard a door screech open, then shut.

“So those little cubbies are our ‘quarters’...” - Dirk thought, a little disappointed, but not really surprised. - “Reminds me of those capsule hotels from Kintsugi Union”.

- Can I help you with something? Injuries? Illnesses? Or are you just standing there to steal oxygen?

- So you’re our medic? - Dirk asked, rather stupidly, but it didn’t hurt to make sure.

- That I am, contrary to what mister Brz– mister “Black’s” rash opinion of me would imply.

- The sewing looked rather neat. Weird how displeased he was.

- He damaged a nerve in his brow ridge during a pointless scuffle. I’m not going to waste anesthetics on something trivial like that before we even departed. Ouroboros might be a medical company, but they weren’t very generous with medical supplies. - the stranger clicked his tongue. - Do mercs always have to establish hierarchy the very hour they meet? - he threw his hand up in frustration, the first display of strong emotion from his side, paradoxically not showing on his face, now free of the mask.

He looked to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties. He had deep wrinkles around his mouth and a 5 o-clock shadow.

- A clear chain of command is vital to any operation.

- Thank you for this unrequested wisdom, mister Chernobog.

- Oh, so you know my name. I didn’t catch yours, though.

- I didn’t give it to you. - he stated matter-of-factly. - You can call me Armistice, since mister Black insists we go by aliases.

- Since you know his name, I assume Ouroboros gave you some insight into our squad?

- They generously bestowed me with your medical files. They are empty aside from names and photos, though. I’ll have to fill those out myself as needed. - There was some bile building up in his voice. He clearly wasn’t happy about the arrangement. - Well? Do you want to declare anything? Any life-threatening conditions? Allergies to common medical substances? A tumor in your brain that might affect your hormonal balance?

- Nothing of the sort. For now at least. I’ll be sure to get back to you if I remember something, though.

- Right… If you live that long, that is. Since the introductions are over, and you are not bleeding, I assume that is all for now?

- That sounds about right. - Dirk nodded ever so slightly, one foot outside the door.

- We’ll be leaving soon. I’ve been on my post, working, for a while now. You should get acquainted with yours, behind the wheel.

- Right… - Dirk exhaled, reminded that he’d be the driver of the squad. - Then I’ll be seeing you, ‘Armistice’. - he really let that one roll around his tongue.

Doing that only enforced his personal opinion that the nickname didn’t feel right. Too fancy to effectively scream during combat situations.

- I’d rather not. At least not anytime soon. - Chernobog managed to catch those last few words from the other man before disappearing in a side passage.

Retracing his steps, Dirk closed the door and took a left turn, where the corridor forwards continued.

Barely a meter in were another door with a pristine pale plaque riveted to them. A single word written on it only hammered home what the upcoming days held in store for the former Heavenly General candidate.

The man with the most illustrious service record in the history of The Empire.

The man who organized, taught and armed the strongest special forces unit in the whole world.

The man whose title could only be said in hushed whispers by any group that dared to raise arms again The Empire

Without words, he clasped the cold handle, fitting more for a train than a truck. Grasping it, the steel click ringed in his ears, so close to the cocking of the gun’s hammer. Pushing it open, the steel curtain rolled across the track sinking in the ground, revealing what hid behind it and leaving no more place for doubt.

The man simply walked in, took a deep step across the many gauges and levers separating one g-force resistant chair from two more to its right, and took a seat.

Dirk felt like he was sinking into the cushion made from unknown synthetic materials. Part of him really wanted to simply sink into those depths and not have to deal with what was ahead, metaphorically and literally speaking.

No.

No, he didn’t want that. That was some bullshit. Some last-moment regrets, the rusty soul of a beaten man pleading for the return of status quo.

Just waking up, moping, drinking, smoking, sleeping and repeating that damnable cycle ad nauseam.

Dirk slammed his fists against an object protruding before him, almost sneering at him in its idleness. Even if what was a gross underutilization of his talents and knowledge were to be his prison for the foreseeable future, “Ares” wouldn’t throw in the towel.

People under his command wouldn’t throw in the towel. That’s not how he taught them. How they acted, how they behaved.

He was the single best soldier of the whole bunch of riff-raff Ourboros employed to take part in the Moses convoy.

Dirk made himself comfortable, reached to the side of the seat and fiddled with it to ensure nothing would escape his watchful grasp when sitting on it. Once that was done, he firmly grasped that abominable apparatus in front - the steering wheel.

- They wanted a driver? - the old soldier whispered to himself. - Okay, I’ll drive. I’ll give them the best fucking driver they have ever seen.

Without reservations, he pressed the ignition button on the dashboard and the machine roared to life - slowly and steadily like proper tonnes of steel and chemicals should. So many things to keep track of, so many people to appease and interact with.

Those within, those outside and those that were trying to worm their way in.

The old soldier smirked.

“Quem di diligunt, adolescens moritur” - a phrase he coined for the unit's badge all those years ago. Some called it pretentious when their badges went into production, but to him…

There was no other, more apt way to put what they were all about.

At that moment, the fact that he missed the curtain-call began to pay off. The others will have to wait a bit more for him, there were way too many eyes who were watching him now and most certainly many more he was unaware of.

Underperforming under such a vainglorious spotlight would be a large gash on his pride and their memory.

Way too large of a blemish for him to bear.

- Let’s get this show on the road.

The engine roared in agreement.