Levin stared at the clone tanks with irritation and fatigue, the pale blue light reflecting off his weary face. “I can’t believe they lost another contingent… that’s what? The second one this cycle?”

Sherwin leaned against the console, adjusting a readout screen to show the latest statistics. “third. This batch isn’t exactly impressive either,” he muttered, glancing at the clones floating in the tanks—half-formed, pallid shapes suspended in nutrient-rich fluid.

Levin frowned, tapping the glass of one of the tanks. “This is quite the order, though. It must be urgent. I noticed they’re also ordering more ground troops to be placed on standby.”

Sherwin scoffed. “Figures. Whenever they mess up a planetary assault, they send in the cannon fodder. The command doesn't seem to care how many get wasted.”

“Or how many we have to replace,” Levin added bitterly. “I swear, half the time, it’s like we’re running a production line for corpses.”

“True enough,” Sherwin agreed. He paused for a moment as if considering something. “You think this push is different? They’ve been losing battles, but this order feels desperate, like there’s something more at stake.”

Levin rubbed his temples. “Hard to say. Maybe they’re finally feeling the pinch, or someone up top has a new scheme. Either way, it’s not our concern—unless they push for double shifts again.”

“Don't jinx it,” Sherwin said with a dry laugh. “Last time that happened, we were here for forty-eight straight hours.”

Levin gave a half-hearted chuckle, but his eyes drifted back to the tanks, his expression growing grim. "I wonder how many more they'll send to the meat grinder before this is over."

"Probably more than either of us wants to think about," Sherwin replied, pushing off the console and heading to the next tank. "Let's just make sure this batch makes it to the drop ships. At least they’ll get their shot—however brief it might be."

***

The maintenance supervisor grunted, rubbing a hand over his unshaven chin as he squinted at the specs on his handheld tablet. “New armor, huh?” he muttered to the tech standing next to him, his voice as rough as the welding scars on his coveralls.

The tech, a wiry man with grease smudges across his forehead, nodded. “Yeah, just came through today. Compressed variant. Higher density, less space.”

The supervisor’s eyes narrowed as he skimmed through the details. “Huhm… where did we get this?” he asked, half-skeptical.

“Came in with the latest haul from the asteroid belt,” the tech replied. “We managed to secure a reliable source for the raw materials. Same quality as the imports, but with less wait time.”

The supervisor grunted again, this time with a hint of approval. “Anything wrong with it?”

“Not really,” the tech shrugged. “It’s armor. We ran the usual tests, and it holds up fine. Plus, since the components come from the belt, we have readily available replacements. No more delays waiting on shipments from halfway across the sector.”

“Good. About time,” the supervisor muttered. He scanned the details a moment longer, then paused. “The mining’s still above critical thresholds, right? The last thing we need is a shortage down the line.”

The tech nodded quickly. “Well above. Extraction’s exceeding demand, so we’ve got some buffer. Even if things get hot on the front lines, we should be good.”

The supervisor gave a rare, satisfied smirk. “Good. Let’s see how it fits on the frames. Make sure the welds hold. We’ll get ‘em field-tested before command throws ‘em into another mess.”

The tech made a few notes and hurried off to inform the installation teams. The supervisor took one last look at the specs, muttering, “Maybe this one’ll do the job… maybe.”

***

Pitt stumbled as she was pushed out of the transport, her boots crunching against the loose gravel beneath. She yanked off the blindfold swiftly, her face red with rage. Her eyes, adjusting to the harsh, pale light reflecting off the salt walls, blazed with fury.

“Who the fuck is in charge of this shit show?” she roared, her voice echoing through the cavernous space. Her glare swept across the ragtag crew scattered around the makeshift construction site—drivers hastily repurposed as laborers, mechanics adjusting to engineering roles, and a few confused-looking foremen trying to maintain order.

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One of the foremen, a wiry man with a clipboard clutched to his chest, cautiously stepped forward. “Uh, ma’am, that would be—”

“I don’t care who it is,” she cut him off sharply. Just tell me where the hell they want this gear set up, or so help me. I’ll break more than just protocol!”

The foreman gulped and pointed toward the far side of the mine, where several large frames were waiting to be assembled. “Over there. We’re prioritizing the heavy lifters first.”

Pitt grumbled under her breath, then spat on the ground. “Right. Let’s get this over with.” Without another word, she stomped off, already barking orders at anyone in her path. She wasn’t here to play nice, but she was damn sure going to get the job done.

Pitt stormed over to the cluster of disassembled heavy lifters, each half-covered with tarps and surrounded by flimsy barricades meant to deter idle hands. The workers looked up, confused by her sudden arrival and the urgency in her stride.

“Alright, listen up!” she roared, catching the attention of the entire crew. “Get that crane operational, and someone finds me the schematics for these damn lifters! I want things moving now.”

The techs scrambled, clearly unsure of who she was but eager to avoid her wrath. Pitt's eyes quickly swept the setup and settled on a makeshift command center tucked in the corner, where a middle-aged sergeant hovered over some maps and hastily rigged comms.

“You!” she shouted, stomping toward him with a determined stride. “You the one running this mess?”

The sergeant looked up, startled. He had a weary, disheveled look—more administrator than a field commander. “Uh… yes, ma’am,” he stammered. “Sergeant Callum, I'm in charge of operations here. And you are…?”

“Pitt,” she snapped, glaring. “And that’s all you need to know. Who sent the gear?”

Callum blinked, clearly thrown off. “Gear? I… uh, I’m not sure, ma’am. We were just told to expect a shipment, but there were no details on who was bringing it or what it was for.”

Pitt’s expression darkened, her eyes flickering with recognition. “Figures,” she muttered under her breath. “This came through Slippery Jim, didn’t it?”

Callum hesitated. “Slippery, who? I don’t know anything about that. Orders just said to clear space and be ready for incoming supplies.”

Pitt clenched her jaw, her frustration building. “Of course, they didn’t tell you anything,” she growled, more to herself than to Callum. “This shipment wasn’t even on my list. I was sent here by Alphonse, and I’d bet my last wrench he’s pulling something I haven’t been clued in on.”

“Ma’am, if this wasn’t the equipment you requested, then—” Callum started, only to be cut off by Pitt’s sharp glare.

“No, it wasn’t. But that doesn’t matter now,” she replied coldly. “What matters is getting this heap set up before someone comes down here and asks why we’re behind schedule.”

Callum looked bewildered. “Right… but I still don’t understand what’s happening here.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Pitt retorted bluntly. “Just know this: if we don’t have these lifters running by dawn, you’re the one who’s gonna answer to Alphonse.”

Callum gulped and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll… I’ll get more hands-on it right away.”

“Good,” Pitt said, already turning back to the crew. She paused to compose herself, then bellowed at the workers, “Move it, people! We don’t have time for this confusion!”

She bent down, grabbed a heavy wrench, and got to work herself. Whatever game Alphonse was playing, Pitt would sort it out later. For now, she was stuck in this salt-stained nightmare, surrounded by unrequested equipment, and expected to make it all function. And she’d be damned if she didn’t.

One of the men, a rough-faced miner with arms as thick as engine pistons, watched from the edge of the work site, trying to suppress a grin. Seeing this older woman tearing into Sergeant Callum like a drill sergeant made his day. Callum had always been an arrogant, bureaucratic annoyance, and seeing him cowed by this newcomer was a rare pleasure.

The miner didn't know who this "Officer Alphonse" was or what rank the woman held—if she had one at all—but it was clear she commanded respect by sheer force of will. He watched with growing amusement as she verbally cracked the whip, her sharp words cutting through the haze of confusion that had plagued the operation since the start. Men who had been half-heartedly fumbling with equipment suddenly snapped to attention, tools in hand and purpose clear.

Then her eyes locked onto him, and he knew he’d been spotted. Her finger jabbed out like the barrel of a rifle, sharp and direct. “You! Over there with the smirk,” she barked. “Think this is funny? Good. You’ll have plenty to laugh about once you start unloading those crates. Get your ass moving!”

The miner’s grin faltered, but he couldn’t help but admire her intensity. “Yes, ma’am!” he shouted back, surprised at his response. He moved toward the crates she’d indicated, feeling the weight of her gaze on his back.

As he hefted the first load, he couldn’t help but mutter to himself, “Well, she may not be here for the long haul, but she sure knows how to get things moving.” And maybe, just maybe, she was the kind of hard-nosed leader this mess of a project needed.

***

“Sir, who—who is that horrid woman? She’s demolishing my schedules!” Sergeant Callum blustered, jabbing a finger toward Pitt, who was directing traffic with the efficiency of a battlefield general. “Just look at her!”

Pitt was a whirlwind of authority, barking orders as she pointed the men toward their tasks. She guided them as they lugged heavy crates and equipment across the salt-stained ground, her voice cutting through the air like a whip. The workers, who had been dragging their feet before, now moved with urgency, driven by the sheer force of her presence.

The younger officer, a lieutenant who seemed to be taking the chaos in stride, looked at Callum with pity and amusement. “Sergeant, give her this,” he said, handing over a rolled-up tube of papers.

“What’s this?” Callum asked, unrolling the tube in confusion.

“That’s the equipment layout,” the lieutenant replied calmly. He watched Pitt for a moment, clearly intrigued.

“But, but who is she?” Callum repeated, his voice tinged with desperation.

“Fuck if I know,” the lieutenant answered bluntly. “But I do know this—you sure as flying fuck on a rolling doughnut weren’t motivating the men. And I’m not dumb enough to get in her way.”

Callum looked back at Pitt, who was now personally helping to lift a stubborn crate while still managing to direct three others at the same time. “But she’s—”

“Effective,” the lieutenant interrupted. “Now go deliver that layout to her, or you’ll be the next thing she’s rearranging.”