The faint smell of antiseptic filled the air as Troy, Marcus, and Graham walked into the medical bay. Their boots echoed on the polished floors as they made their way to the checkup stations. Troy’s Thunderbolt had taken a beating, and though the adrenaline was still running through him, a dull ache had started to throb in his head. Standing by the medical station was Dr. Cassian Voss, the head physician for the MHSC. Tall and lean, Cassian had the posture of someone who rarely left his post. His sharp, angular face was framed by short, graying hair, and a pair of rectangular glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, giving him a strict, calculating air. His pale blue eyes held a permanent expression of mild impatience, as if the rest of the world was always a few steps behind him. Dressed in a crisp medical coat over his standard fatigues, he had an aura of efficiency and no-nonsense professionalism that few dared to challenge.

"Alright," Voss said, his tone clipped as he uncrossed his arms and grabbed a scanner. "Let’s see the damage."

Troy sat on the edge of one of the medical cots, wincing as the motion sent another wave of pain through his skull. The Thunderbolt had held up well under fire, but the same couldn’t be said for his nerves. His head felt like it had been through a grinder.

"How bad?" Graham asked, stepping aside as Voss approached. The doctor’s eyes narrowed as he waved the scanner over Troy’s head. The device beeped angrily.

"Concussion,” Cassian explained, frowning at the reading. “Nothing severe but enough to bench him for a few days at least." He met Troy’s protesting gaze with a hard stare. "You’ll sit out the next op. No arguments."

Troy scowled but didn’t argue. He knew better than to cross Voss when it came to medical decisions.

"Who’s on reserve?" Marcus asked, leaning against the wall with his arms folded.

Graham turned to the nearby console, pulling up the current roster. "Rachel Gale. Hyena." He smirked slightly, knowing she’d been itching for a chance to prove herself in a real fight.

Voss shot Troy another firm look. "Good. Hyena’s ready. And Troy, you need rest. If you fight like this, your next injury could be worse."

Troy, or Jackal as he was known in the field, clenched his fists, frustrated but nodding. "Fine. Guess Hyena’s taking my place this time."

Marcus chuckled softly, glancing at Troy. "Don’t worry, Jackal, I’m sure Hyena will enjoy tearing things up in your spot."

"Yeah, well, if she wrecks my Thunderbolt, you’re all paying for the repairs," Troy grumbled, though there was a faint grin tugging at his lips.

"Don’t worry, old man," Marcus added, nodding to Graham. "We’ll make sure she keeps up the good work while Jackal sits this one out."

Graham grunted, but there was a knowing look in his eyes. "Just make sure the mission gets done. Call it in when you’re ready."

Marcus made his way to the barracks, a place he rarely visited since being promoted to the command lance of the mercenary company. The four top mechwarriors were rewarded with their own quarters, a well-earned privilege that separated them from the ranks of recruits and regular pilots. The barracks were where the fresh blood lived—recruits and trainees bunked together in communal quarters, sharpening their skills until they were ready for real assignments.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The building was small, its above-ground portion little more than a modest entrance next to the sprawling aerospace hangar. Most of the facility extended below the surface, like much of the base. Marcus entered and descended the steps, the familiar hum of conversations and the shuffle of boots drifting up to meet him.

The first floor, half-buried in the earth, served as a common room. It was a mix of makeshift comfort and utilitarianism, furnished with a scattering of worn tables, mismatched chairs, and ragged rugs that did little to hide the cold concrete floor. Jackets and boots were strewn about haphazardly, remnants of pilots unwinding after training. A few recruits sat around a table playing cards, but they immediately stood when they noticed Marcus approaching.

“I’m looking for Hyena,” Marcus said.

One of the recruits, a tall, gangly man with close-cropped hair, jerked a thumb toward the back. "Down the stairs, last room."

Marcus nodded his thanks and made his way further down into the barracks. He could hear the soft footsteps of the card-playing pilots trailing behind him—curiosity no doubt piqued by the rare sight of a senior MechWarrior in their midst. For them, any interruption to their routine was worth investigating.

The lower level was dimly lit, a series of narrow hallways lined with doors leading to the shared bunk rooms. Unlike more rigid military outfits, the MHSC didn’t have the strict separations of gender or rank here. Recruits were expected to govern themselves, which they did well enough, mostly due to Graham’s sharp eye for reliable talent. And when tempers did flare, they had the ever-watchful Sarah to reckon with. Marcus had seen the aftermath of her "disciplinary talks" and hoped he’d never be on the receiving end of one.

Marcus didn’t have to search for long. As soon as his boots echoed down the hall, heads started popping out of doors, curious eyes following his progress. It was easy enough to find who he was looking for.

Capt. Rachel Gale—Hyena to her fellow pilots—stood leaning against the doorframe of one of the bunk rooms, arms crossed, observing Marcus’s approach with that sly grin she always wore. She was a wiry woman of average height, her frame built for endurance and agility despite piloting the larger Grasshopper. Her short, sandy-blonde hair was kept cropped tight, but it seemed like a few strands were always rebelliously out of place. Her sharp, light brown eyes glinted with the same energy Marcus always found slightly unnerving, as if she were constantly sizing everyone up. Faint scars ran along her olive skin, souvenirs from battles long past.

"What can I do for you, sir?" she asked with a mock salute, her grin widening. She had a way of always skirting the line between respect and playfulness, something that might have gotten her in trouble elsewhere, but Marcus knew that Graham appreciated her confidence.

“Troy’s benched,” Marcus said, getting straight to the point. “Concussion. Doc says he’s out for at least a week. We’ve got a contract, though, and we need a replacement for the next op. According to your training logs, you’re the best fit to take over in the Thunderbolt.”

Rachel’s grin faltered for a moment, replaced by something more serious. “Thunderbolt, huh? I won’t be zipping around like in my Grasshopper, but I’m more than ready.” She uncrossed her arms, standing up straighter. “I’ll make sure Troy’s shoes don’t get cold.”

“I figured you’d say that,” Marcus replied with a nod. “Prep starts tomorrow. Meet me in the mech bay for a rundown of the mission at 0700. We’re going to need you in top form.”

“Got it, boss,” she said, giving a proper salute this time. Her eyes flicked toward the pilots who had gathered behind Marcus, still observing. “Guess I’ve got an audience. See you at 0700 sharp.”

With that, Marcus turned and made his way back up the stairs, feeling Rachel’s sharp gaze on him the whole way. She had a reputation for being quick-witted and bold, traits that would serve her well in the coming battle. As he stepped into the crisp air outside the barracks, Marcus couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief knowing that Hyena would be taking over. Rachel wasn’t one to back down, and if anyone could step up and fill Troy’s shoes, it was her.