The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, casting long shadows across the MechHarvest Salvage Corps' sprawling HQ. The base, set in a secluded valley, buzzed with activity even in the early morning. Mech techs moved between BattleMechs in their bays, prepping them for the next mission, while the smell of fresh coffee wafted through the air from the mess hall. The soft hum of machinery and the distant clatter of tools provided a constant background noise, underscoring the organized chaos of the morning routine.

Standing on the observation deck was Graham O'Connor. tall and rugged, his weathered face bearing the marks of a lifetime spent in the harsh realities of the battlefield. His piercing blue eyes, framed by a few strands of silver in his dark hair, scanned the horizon with a look of constant vigilance. The sun highlighted the deep lines on his face, accentuating his tan complexion, earned from years under unforgiving suns. His solid, muscular build hinted at the physical demands of his career, while a few scars on his arms and hands told the story of close calls and battles hard-won. Graham sipped his coffee, enjoying the warmth it provided against the morning chill as he thought. The aroma mingled with the scent of grease and metal that permeated the air. Despite the peaceful setting, his mind was already on the next contract, always planning, always thinking ahead. Always thinking...

"Morning, boss," a familiar voice called out.

Graham broke from his musings and turned to see Sarah Greene approaching. She was a lean woman who matched Graham's own 6 feet. Her short brown hair was tousled, and her hazel eyes, sharp with intelligence, reflected the morning light. Her skin had a warm, olive tone, and there was a quiet strength in her posture. She moved with the grace of a dancer, an effect that baffled Graham; how a pilot of a BattleMech could be so graceful was beyond him. A faint scar traced along her jawline, a souvenir from working with the MHSC.

"Morning, Hawk," he replied, nodding. "How's the old girl holding up?" he motioned with his cup towards the bays, at the imposing figure of Sarah's Warhawk.

"She's ready for action, as always," Sarah said with a grin that revealed a small dimple on her left cheek.

"To what do I owe your company, then? Need any new parts?"

"No, she's fine really," Sarah waved off his question and leaned against the railing along with her commander. "But I was thinking, maybe we should run some simulation drills today. Keep everyone sharp."

Graham nodded, considering the idea. "Good call. Set it up for this afternoon. Make sure everyone gets some time in." He looked back to the horizon, thinking the conversation finished.

Sarah lingered for a moment, her expression shifting to something more serious. "Graham, can I ask you something?"

The use of his name surprised him, and he turned back to his lieutenant. "Of course, what's on your mind?" He leaned against the railing, giving her his full attention.

She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "I've been hearing some rumblings among the crew. Some of them are worried about our recent contracts; they feel like we're taking on too much, stretching ourselves too thin. I wanted to get your take on it."

Graham sighed. "I’ve heard the same whispers. We’ve been pushing hard, no doubt about it. But the opportunities are there, and we need to take them before someone else does."

"I get that," Sarah said, her brow furrowing. "But morale is starting to dip. People are exhausted, and some are questioning our direction. It's not just about the workload; it's the uncertainty. They need to know we have a plan."

He nodded slowly, appreciating her honesty. "You're right. We need to address this before it becomes a bigger issue."

"Exactly. Maybe a team meeting or something. Just to reassure everyone, let them know we're all in this together."

Graham looked at her, thinking, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Alright, let's do it. After the drills, we'll have a sit-down with everyone. Clear the air."

Sarah returned the smile, relief evident in her eyes. "Thanks, Graham. I think it’ll make a big difference."

He took another sip of his coffee, enjoying the warmth spread through him. "Anything else on your mind?"

"Plenty. But for another time, boss." As she walked away to relay the orders, Graham watched her go, thinking even more. He turned back to the view, enjoying the calm before the inevitable storm of battle. The crisp morning air carried the distant sounds of engines revving and the murmur of voices and the gears turning in Graham's head, blending into a symphony as it drifted away.

--

The mech bay below was a hive of activity, with techs and astechs bustling around various BattleMechs, each team focused on their tasks. The rhythmic clang of metal against metal echoed through the space, accompanied by the hum of machinery and occasional bursts of conversation. The air was thick with the scent of oil and heated metal, mingling with the faint tang of sweat from hours of labor.

Avery Thompson, the head engineer, was hunched over the open panels of a Nova BattleMech. The 50-ton machine loomed above him, its imposing presence a stark contrast to the engineer's slight frame. His fingers deftly worked on the intricate wiring, his mop of dark hair streaked with oil, and his goggles perched precariously on his forehead. His skin was a pale hue, more accustomed to the glow of workshop lights than sunlight. A faint stubble shadowed his sharp jawline, and his dark brown eyes, often narrowed in concentration, held a spark of relentless focus.

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"Dumbass pilot... who thought that was a good idea?" he muttered under his breath, his voice a low grumble. "Dipshit pilot, always pushing the limits..."

Avery had a habit of talking to the machines as if they were people, believing it improved their performance. He continued his work, his hands moving with practiced ease as he connected circuits and adjusted components. "Alright, Claw, let's see if we can get you patched up before your pilot gets you into more trouble," he said, patting the mech's leg affectionately.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the bay, and Avery didn't bother looking up. He knew who it was.

"Hey, Avery, how's my girl holding up?" Marcus Black's voice cut through the ambient noise.

Avery straightened up and turned to face the MechWarrior. Marcus was tall and lean, his dark hair cropped close to his head. His eyes were sharp, always scanning, always calculating. His skin was a deep bronze, hinting at a life spent outdoors, under the harsh suns of distant worlds. A faint shadow of stubble lined his jaw, adding to the roguish charm that some found endearing—though Avery found it more annoying than anything else.

"Your girl?" Avery scoffed, wiping his hands on a rag. "Your girl would be in better shape if you didn't treat her like a disposable toy. You know, those 250 XL engines aren't exactly easy to replace, and you keep pushing her jump jets like there's no tomorrow."

Marcus grinned, unfazed by the engineer's gruff demeanor. "Come on, Avery, you know I take care of her. She just... gets into a bit of trouble now and then."

"A bit of trouble?" Avery rolled his eyes. "You've got a funny way of putting it. Those double heat sinks barely keep up with the load you're putting on them. Anyway, Claw will be ready by the end of the day, assuming you don't do anything stupid again."

"Thanks, Avery. I knew I could count on you." Marcus hesitated, then leaned against the mech beside the engineer. "Hey, have you been hearing the same things I have? About the crew being overworked?"

Avery glanced at him, his expression guarded. "Yeah, I've heard the rumblings. Sarah brought it up to Graham this morning. Morale's dipping, people are getting tired."

Marcus nodded, his usual carefree attitude replaced by a more serious look. "It's not just the workload, you know. We're not seeing the fruits of that effort so why are we pushing so hard? What's the point?"

Avery sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "I get it, Marcus. But it's not my place to handle that. I fix the mechs; Graham handles the people."

"Yeah, but sometimes I wonder if he's pushing too hard. We're all in this together, right?"

Avery looked at him, a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "Yeah, we are. But Graham knows what he's doing. We've been through worse, and we've always come out on top."

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of boots on metal. Sarah Greene entered the bay, her presence commanding immediate attention.

"Marcus, I need you for the simulation drills," she called out, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Marcus pushed off the mech and gave Avery a nod. "We'll talk more later."

Avery returned the nod, turning back to his work. "Yeah, later."

As Marcus followed Sarah out of the bay, Avery resumed his muttering, the sounds of his tools blending with his words. "Stupid pilots... always something..."

The mech bay settled back into its steady rhythm, the soft hum of machinery and the clang of tools creating a symphony of its own.

--

The mess hall was lively with activity as the MechHarvest Salvage Corps crew took a break from their morning routines. The aroma of freshly cooked food mixed with the rich scent of strong coffee, creating an inviting atmosphere. Laughter and chatter filled the air, a welcome respite from the relentless grind.

At one of the long tables, Troy Hayes was halfway through his lunch, animatedly recounting a recent mission to Nina Brown. Troy was a burly man with a scruffy beard and an easy smile. His sandy brown hair was perpetually tousled, and his sun-kissed skin, gifted by his excursions as an explorer, hinted at his affinity for adventure whenever he wasn’t piloting his mech. His warm, brown eyes sparkled with mischief as he spoke, clearly enjoying the attention.

Nina, a petite woman with short blonde hair and a focused expression, was listening with a mix of amusement and exasperation. Her fair skin contrasted sharply with Troy’s, and her green eyes were sharp, often narrowing in thought as she weighed his words. Despite her small frame, there was a quiet strength in her posture, and a subtle scar above her eyebrow hinted at the toughness beneath her calm exterior.

"I'm telling you, Ferret, you should've seen the look on that guy's face when I charged him," Troy said, gesturing wildly. "He thought he had me, but I turned the tables on him in an instant."

Nina raised an eyebrow. "And then what? You almost got yourself killed, again?"

Troy shrugged, a sheepish grin on his face. "Details, details. The important thing is, we won, right?"

Nina shook her head but couldn't hide a smile. "You're going to get yourself killed one of these days, Jackal. You need to be more careful."

"Hey, you worry too much. I've got this," Troy said, leaning back with a carefree look.

Their conversation was interrupted by Sarah Greene entering the mess hall, her presence commanding attention. She walked over to their table, her expression serious.

"Troy, Nina, we need to gather everyone for the simulation drills," Sarah said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Troy sighed dramatically but stood up, stretching his arms. "Alright, alright. Can't let the boss down. You ready, Ferret?"

Nina nodded, standing up as well. "Always."

As they headed out, Sarah fell into step with them. "Have you two been hearing the same concerns about the workload?"

Troy nodded. "Yeah, everyone's talking about it. We're pushing hard, and it's wearing on people."

Nina added, "It's not just the physical exhaustion. It's the uncertainty. People need to know we're not just running ourselves into the ground for nothing."

Sarah sighed. "I've talked to Graham about it. We're having a meeting after the drills to address everyone's concerns. Just hang in there a little longer."

Troy clapped her on the shoulder. "Roger dodger."

They made their way to the simulation room