A faint blip flickered on the radar. Normally, this wouldn’t have raised any alarms—Home was a remote, nearly invisible speck in a star system that barely registered on charts. Watch duty was a monotonous affair, which was exactly why Crew Commander Romuald Markarov and his team often volunteered for it. The four air crews stationed at the airfield were trained to fly the Karnov UR transport VTOLs and the great Union-class DropShip DuctTape. Their proximity to these vehicles kept them away from the main base and spared them from menial tasks in the Mech bays or barracks. The routine was predictable: drills, repairs, upkeep—and radar watch. Nothing ever happened.
Until now.
Markarov blinked as the blip turned into a steady, pulsing proximity alert. The shrill sound cut through the usual quiet, and his team dropped their pencils and dice mid-roll. As one, they sprang into action, scrambling to their stations in a tangle of limbs and half-formed curses.
“Who the hell is it?” Markarov demanded, watching the screen flash red. He barked orders to begin arming the base’s defenses, the cold sweat forming at the back of his neck betraying his nerves.
“It’s a Leopard-class DropShip, sir! Heading straight for us!” one of the techs shouted over the rising chaos.
“That’s impossible,” Markarov muttered, shaking his head. “We don’t even show up on any sensors.”
But the screen didn’t lie. The small ship was weaving expertly through the asteroid field, heading straight toward Home. A sinking feeling lodged itself in Markarov’s gut.
“Get me the commander. Now.”
----------------------------------------
Back at the main headquarters, the klaxon blared through the halls, rousing the MHSC from the morning lull. In an instant, the base erupted into a flurry of activity as crew members rushed to their posts, grabbing weapons, tools, and scrambling toward the hangar. The panic was controlled—drilled into them from the very start. Commander Graham made sure they knew exactly what to do in case of a proximity alert, no matter how unlikely.
Rachel Gale was halfway through her coffee when the alarm went off. She shot out of her chair and sprinted toward the ready room, expecting to see the old man, Commander Graham, in his usual spot overseeing the chaos. Instead, when she arrived, there was no sign of him—or Sarah.
“Where the hell is the boss?” Marcus grumbled, half into his comms, his face twisted in confusion as he headed toward the mech bays.
“No time for that!” Rachel called back, already halfway to her BattleMech. But something tugged at the back of her mind—Why didn’t the commander respond? The hangar doors rumbled open, spilling sunlight into the cavernous interior. The towering mechs, shimmering in the light, stood like sleeping giants waiting to be roused for battle.
As Rachel began shedding her jacket and preparing for suit-up, her eyes caught movement outside. There, in the courtyard, stood Graham. He wasn’t scrambling like the others. He wasn’t even concerned. In fact, he was smiling—smugly.
“What the—?” Rachel muttered under her breath. She dropped her suit in a heap and tied her shirt around her waist, heading for the commander. The alarm still rang in her ears, but it seemed distant now.
“Captain Gale!” Graham called out cheerfully as she approached.
Rachel wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. She crossed her arms and gave him a look that spoke volumes. It was the expression she wore when she was one second away from throttling someone. I was enjoying my coffee, and if this is some kind of prank, someone’s going to pay. Graham met her icy stare with his trademark, I’ll explain in a second smile.
More crew members began to notice Graham’s presence outside, and slowly, the hurried preparations for battle gave way to confusion. Techs, astechs, and mechwarriors filtered out of the hangar, gathering in a loose semicircle around their commander, muttering to one another. Some had half-pulled their gear on and now stood awkwardly adjusting belts or pulling their pants back on, squinting in the sunlight.
Graham casually raised his radio and gave a command. “Turn off the alarm.”
The klaxon began to fade, the noise replaced by murmurs of confusion. Graham, ever the showman, took his time before addressing the gathered company.
“Great work, everyone. Excellent response time!” He beamed at the bewildered faces staring back at him. “Now, I do apologize for the scare, but I figured this was as good a time as any to kill two birds with one stone.”
The murmurings grew louder, a mix of disbelief and annoyance rippling through the crowd. This was a drill?
“We’ve got a very special guest arriving today. An old friend of mine, in fact—Ferdinand Sinclair.” Graham paused for effect, gauging the reactions. The name sent a ripple through the crowd. Even those who didn’t know of Sinclair could tell from Graham’s tone that this was no ordinary visitor.
“He’ll be staying with us for a while as a consultant and working alongside me as field commander.” Graham's grin widened. “His DropShip is what set off the proximity alarms. No, we haven’t been discovered. I just thought you all deserved to meet him with a little... fanfare.”
There was a collective sigh of relief, but it didn’t take long for the questions to bubble up. Who was this Ferdinand Sinclair, and what kind of shake-up was his arrival going to bring?
Troy finished yanking his boots back on and stepped forward with a smirk. “If your goal was to give us all heart attacks, old man, I think you just about nailed it,” he said sarcastically. “Next time, throw in some explosions and gunfire for the full effect.”
Graham chuckled—a rare sound from him these days. “Yes, I’ll admit this was a bit unconventional.”
Marcus appeared behind Troy, looking like he had gotten the furthest in changing back into his casual clothes. His shirt was still half-tucked, but he’d managed to pull his boots on. “Where’s Sarah? She wasn’t in the ready room either.”
Graham turned, gesturing casually over his shoulder toward the aerospace hangar. “She’s meeting our guests when they land. Should be along shortly.” He glanced up, reversing the motion of his hand and pointing to the sky. “In fact... here they come.”
A growing silhouette appeared against the brilliant blue of the afternoon sky. The unmistakable shape of a Leopard-class DropShip, its hull brightly painted in garish colors, passed over the valley. The ship was small—built for a single lance of 'Mechs—but its presence dominated the sky as it descended in a slow arc. Graham lifted his radio, confirming with the tower that it was indeed the ship they were expecting.
“So who is this guy?” Troy asked, still eyeing the incoming vessel. “Ferdinand Sinclair. A war buddy?”
Graham gave a short nod. “Something like that. We both fought for the Lyrans, special operations. When the Clans finally pulled back and the civil war broke out, we both slipped through the cracks. I don’t think anyone even noticed we were gone—they were too busy shooting each other.”
“Lyran, huh?” Rachel muttered, her brow furrowing. “Haven’t exactly had great run-ins with them.”
“No,” Graham corrected, “He’s not a Lyran by birth. He’s from some place far rimward. How he ended up in Lyran space, though? That’s a story he’s never told me. Just mutters something about ‘a series of stupid mistakes.’”
“So, what’s his deal then? Another grizzled old war vet like you?” Troy teased.
Graham laughed again, a genuine sound this time. “You’ll see soon enough. Sinclair’s... one of a kind. You’ll pick up on that pretty quick.”
Before any more questions could be asked, Graham’s radio crackled to life. The voice on the other end reported that Sarah was on her way back, just minutes out. “And you won’t have to wonder long,” Graham said, his eyes still on the road leading from the aerospace hangar.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, a wheeled vehicle rounded the bend, kicking up clouds of dust as it approached the base. Sarah was at the wheel, a red scarf holding down her short hair as it flapped in the wind. Seated beside her were two figures, though the distance kept their faces indistinct. Behind them, the dust plume trailed in their wake, signaling the arrival of the Sinclairs.
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The crowd gathered in the courtyard began to murmur in anticipation. Rachel shot a glance at Graham, who stood there with his hands casually clasped behind his back, that familiar smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Here we go,” he muttered under his breath, as the vehicle rolled closer.
Now came the challenge of describing Ferdinand Aloysius Percival Sinclair de Valois—better known as The Duke.
As the vehicle came to a halt, one of the passengers stepped out with the kind of practiced, elegant grace that seemed utterly out of place in a mercenary company. The man who emerged was tall, about 6'3", with a lean, almost aristocratic build. He carried himself with impeccable posture, the kind one might expect from someone born into wealth and power. His dark brown hair, streaked with silver, was slicked back with such precision that it looked untouched by the dust swirling around him. His angular face, with high cheekbones and a narrow chin, was framed by a well-groomed pencil-thin mustache and a small, pointed goatee. His piercing green eyes sparkled with a knowing amusement that suggested he was always one step ahead of everyone else.
The man was dressed in an outfit that immediately turned heads—a deep-purple military-style coat embroidered with silver, the high collar giving him a regal, almost theatrical appearance. Beneath it, he wore a crimson vest over a pristine white shirt fastened with a cravat, because of course, someone like him insisted on a cravat, even in the middle of a mercenary outpost. His pants were immaculately pressed, and the knee-high black leather boots he wore gleamed as if they had been polished for hours before stepping foot on the ground.
In one hand, he casually held a walking cane—seemingly unnecessary for someone so poised. Topped with a silver wolf’s head, the cane doubled as a ceremonial sword, though it was doubtful he would ever draw it unless he felt the need to settle something in the most dramatic way possible. Rings adorned his fingers, glinting in the sunlight, and as he took a step forward, his movements were marked by the kind of theatrical flourish usually reserved for royalty or actors on a stage.
“Well, well,” he began, his smooth, richly accented voice rolling over the assembled crowd. The accent was hard to place, as if it had been carefully cultivated from years of tweaking to sound both exotic and refined. He gestured grandly with his cane, a slow smile forming on his lips. “I must say, your humble outpost is... charming.” His green eyes glinted with amusement as he took in the scene, clearly enjoying the attention he had drawn.
There was something unmistakably sharp beneath the flair, though—a keen intelligence that belied the theatrics. It was easy to see how someone might mistake him for nothing more than a pompous noble, but those who knew him understood that beneath the flamboyance was a man who could command a battlefield as easily as he could an audience.
As the crowd watched in stunned silence, Graham stepped forward and—much to everyone’s shock—embraced Sinclair warmly. Among the known facts about Commander Graham, fact number two was that he didn’t hug. Yet here he was, giving a bear hug to The Duke. When they broke apart, Sinclair held his old ally at arm’s length, looking him over.
“My, my, my, my, my, Vulture,” The Duke grinned, using the old codename with a playful glint in his eyes. “You’ve grown old!” He laughed heartily and patted Graham on both shoulders before turning toward the crowd. “I should have been more prepared, after seeing dear little Sarah! How time flies, mon cher.” He winked at Sarah before calling over his shoulder, “Ah, but I have someone very important for you to meet. Nicholas, come here.”
The Duke waved over the third passenger, a rather plain-looking young man who appeared to be about Sarah’s age.
“No,” Graham exclaimed, stepping closer. “This can’t be Nicholas, can it?”
Graham extended his hand, which the younger man shook once, firmly, before releasing. Nicholas Sinclair, Ferdinand’s son, looked every bit the hardened mercenary. Standing just shy of his father’s height at 6'1", Nicholas had a broader, more muscular build that spoke of a life spent in the cockpit of a ’Mech, not in the opulent halls of nobility. His movements were efficient, purposeful, and lacked the deliberate flair of his father. Everything about him screamed practicality.
His short-cropped dark hair, just a shade lighter than Ferdinand’s, was tousled from the ride, and his square jaw was shadowed by faint stubble—a far cry from his father’s carefully groomed facial hair. A small scar ran down the side of his cheek, a permanent reminder of his profession. His eyes were the same piercing green as Ferdinand’s but without the playful sparkle; instead, they held the cool, steady focus of a man who’d seen too many battlefields and was always prepared for the next one.
Nicholas wore a reinforced combat jacket and cargo pants, clearly chosen for function rather than fashion. The jacket, dark gray with scuffs and patches, had seen better days but was well-maintained. Strapped to his thigh was a heavy sidearm, and a pair of utility gloves hung from his belt. His combat boots were worn and caked with dust, proof that they were more familiar with the battlefield than a parade ground.
“Commander,” Nicholas greeted Graham with a curt nod. His tone was respectful but measured, carrying none of his father’s theatrical flair.
Graham smiled slightly, taking in the younger Sinclair’s appearance. “It’s been a while. Welcome, Nicholas.”
Nicholas simply nodded again, his gaze already drifting to the hangar, assessing the 'Mechs inside. “Looks like you’ve got a good setup here.”
“Indeed, that’s the boy,” Ferdinand said, throwing an arm over his son’s shoulders. “Looking just like his mother, thank the stars!” he said with a wink to Graham. "My pride and joy, the infamous Nicholas 'Stonewall' Sinclair, who absolutely refuses to take after me in any visible way."
Nicholas rolled his eyes but didn’t resist the affectionate display, though it was clear he had long since grown accustomed to his father’s antics. “Just doing my job,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed by the dramatic introduction but too disciplined to protest.
As the introductions settled, Graham gestured toward the HQ. “Let’s get inside. We’ve got a lot to go over—mechs, lances, and how you’ll both fit into our operations.”
Ferdinand’s eyes twinkled as he followed. “Lead the way, my dear friend. After all, the theater of war waits for no one!”
Nicholas, falling into step beside Graham, glanced sideways at his father and muttered, “Don’t mind him. He’ll settle down. Eventually.”
Graham gave a dry chuckle. “I’m counting on it.”
As the group made their way through the compound, Graham pointed out various facilities, keeping the explanations straightforward. The 'Mech bays stood tall against the valley backdrop, with reinforced walls and massive hangar doors wide open, revealing the towering silhouettes of BattleMechs under repair. The sounds of machinery and tools echoed as techs moved around the legs of the Orion, Wolverine, and Thunderbolt, working with focused precision. The newly acquired Ryoken stood at the far end, its sleek Clan design in stark contrast to the older, rugged Inner Sphere models.
“These are the 'Mechs we keep up top,” Graham explained, gesturing toward the hangar. “Mostly the ones in use or on standby. The rest are stored below, in cold storage.”
He paused, his gaze shifting toward one of the nearby workstations. “Our head engineer, Avery, has been spearheading the effort to reconfigure the base. He’s done a great job so far, but there’s still a lot we don’t understand. Some of this old LosTech… well, let’s just say Avery claims it feels like the base is actively fighting him some days.”
As they walked, the staff started peeling off, returning to their duties. By the time they reached the end of the tour, only the senior command team remained—mechwarriors, vehicle commanders, and tech leads. They converged in the ready room, a large chamber dominated by a circular table with a holographic display in its center. The walls were lined with screens showing mission logs, battlefield maps, and unit status reports.
Graham handed Ferdinand a datapad. "Here's a detailed list of what we’ve got operational, and the current state of our vehicles, VTOLs, and suits."
Ferdinand took the pad with a flourish, his sharp green eyes scanning the list quickly. “Ah, mon ami,” he said with a knowing smile. “You’ve certainly been blessed with some fine toys here, but I can see where you’ve been held back.”
He flicked his wrist, sending the data to the table’s holo-imager. A projection of the MHSC’s forces sprang to life above the table—'Mechs, vehicles, and battle armor floating in mid-air.
“The Warhammer—my Warhammer—of course, is a masterpiece,” he began, his tone grandiose. “The Ryoken, too. But these are not toys to be handled lightly. They’re Clan tech, mon grand, and when they break—and they will break—they will bleed your resources dry. Look at this.” He expanded the Ryoken’s profile in the projection. “Extra-light engines, endo-steel frame. Terribly efficient, yes, but also terribly expensive. You can’t afford to throw this into every mission.”
Graham nodded, taking his seat at the table as Ferdinand continued. “You’ve done well, Vulture, leading your band to this point. But you’ve been thinking like a lance commander—too focused on the 'Mechs and their mobility. What you have here is a company. A real, combined-arms force. And you’re not using it to its full potential.”
Ferdinand gestured to the vehicles in the projection, zooming in on the Schrek, the Partisans, and the Demolisher. “Four tank crews, fully trained, yet they’re gathering dust. Minor contracts, little action. And these?” He highlighted the Karnov VTOLs. “Three missions in total. For highly mobile, multi-role aircraft, that’s… how do you say… a shame. Your infantry teams, your scout suits, your flamer squads—barely touched. Meanwhile, you keep sending the same mech teams into high-profile contracts, time and again, without adapting to the mission. Why?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, continuing his critique with the sharp precision of a commander who had seen too many mistakes on the battlefield. “Your crews are capable of so much more. If you’re to grow into the big leagues, mon ami, you cannot rely solely on the brute force of a few 'Mechs. We need to think bigger. We need to use everyone. Tanks for fire support, infantry for holding positions, VTOLs for rapid deployment and recon.”
Ferdinand’s gaze moved to the gathered staff. “Look around this table. You have commanders for each of these assets. You have the tools, the people. The question is: Are you willing to step out of your comfort zone and embrace the combined-arms approach?”
Graham leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. He knew Ferdinand was right. The bigger contracts they were taking on weren’t just about sending their best 'Mechs into battle anymore. It was about flexibility, efficiency, and using all the resources at their disposal. He glanced at the other senior staff, their expressions a mixture of concern and curiosity.
Ferdinand smiled, clearly pleased. “Bien sûr, Vulture. Now, let’s discuss how we can make this transition… smoother. First, we’ll need to reassess our current mission roster and start assigning units based on their strengths.”
He swiped through the datapad again, this time bringing up a list of upcoming contracts.