Sinclair’s boots echoed faintly against the polished concrete floors as he made his way through the main HQ building. The layout was a maze of practicality, clearly repurposed from its original SLDF design. Wide hallways intersected at sharp angles, their walls lined with old schematics, operational charts, and the occasional motivational poster that seemed comically out of place in a mercenary company. A few personnel passed by, nodding politely but avoiding eye contact with the Duke’s regal presence. Sinclair’s polished boots, gleaming cane, and tailored coat stood out starkly against the utilitarian environment. He paused at a junction where the wall bore a recently hung MHSC banner, its logo clean and bold against the aging walls, consulting a small, hand-drawn map he’d tucked into his vest pocket.

“Left at the armory, past the conference room… Ah, yes,” he muttered to himself, pivoting gracefully and continuing down a quieter corridor. The hum of distant machinery vibrated through the walls, a constant reminder of the base’s dual nature as both living quarters and battlefield preparation zone.

Past the armory, beyond the ready room, and up a short flight of stairs, he reached his destination. Graham’s office door, worn but sturdy, stood slightly ajar. Sinclair knocked once for formality’s sake and then strode in, uninvited but unmistakably welcome. The office was a curious blend of the practical and the personal. A large, well-used desk dominated the center, buried under tactical maps, scuffed datapads, and stacks of mission reports. Behind it stood a row of steel filing cabinets whose tops had become makeshift display shelves. There, an eclectic mix of memorabilia told a story Graham rarely shared outright: an old AFFC officer’s cap, its emblem dulled with age; a battered mechwarrior helmet resting alongside a bottle of vintage whisky, unopened but carefully dusted; a small, hand-carved wooden phoenix; and holopictures of various teams over the years, all smiling in post-battle relief. Mounted in a place of quiet prominence was a framed AFFC unit patch, flanked by medals that suggested more accolades than Graham ever let on. Sinclair’s gaze flitted over the room with the sharpness of a man cataloging details but softened with genuine appreciation. “My, my, mon ami. If walls could talk, eh?”

Graham, sitting behind the desk, raised an eyebrow. “You’re awfully chipper for someone invading my office.”

“Think of it less as an invasion and more as a visitation of goodwill.” Sinclair smiled as he closed the door and sank into the chair opposite Graham. He made even the most mundane movements look deliberate, his cane resting across his lap with the wolf’s head gleaming faintly.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you in this chair,” Sinclair said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He removed his gloves and placed them with care on the desk, lowering himself into the chair across from Graham. His cane rested across his knees, the wolf’s head gleaming in the dim light. “It suits you, though. Authority’s always looked better on you than you think.”

Graham set down his coffee mug—an old AFFS-issue cup chipped at the rim—and gave Sinclair a measured look. “Took you long enough to check in, Ferdinand.” The words carried no heat, but there was weight in them all the same. Sinclair met the comment with an easy shrug, though his green eyes softened.

“Yes, I suppose I’ve been a bit of a ghost these past twenty years.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But I’ll admit, I didn’t expect to find you all the way out here, Vulture. The last I saw you, you were putting together some half-mad plan to punch through Steiner lines during the FedCom debacle. And now here you are—mercenary commander, of all things. Tell me, Graham, how in God’s name did you get from there to this?”

Graham sighed, leaning back into his chair. “It’s a long story.”

Sinclair tilted his head. “Good thing I’ve nowhere else to be.”

There was a pause. Graham’s eyes lingered on the desk—a momentary, private inventory of old memories—before he finally began speaking.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“After the FedCom Civil War kicked off, it was obvious to me that things weren’t getting better. I’d seen enough infighting by that point to know I didn’t want to die over someone else’s pride. And then…” Graham stopped, fingers tapping absently against the desk. “Sarah happened.”

“Sarah,” Sinclair repeated, his tone softening as he leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. “The one in the Fenris, yes? You mentioned her being quite young back then.”

“Twelve,” Graham confirmed, staring at the worn map tacked to his wall, though his focus was elsewhere. “A bondsman of the Clans. Her family didn’t make it when the Smoke Jaguars swept through. She was held by a Mechwarrior—one of their freeborns. Arrogant prick in a Gargoyle. I fought him for her.”

Sinclair’s eyebrows shot upward, his emerald eyes narrowing with intrigue. “A Gargoyle? Mon dieu, Graham, that’s not an even fight.”

“It wasn’t.” Graham gave a small, grim smile. “He thought I’d play by his rules. Sit back, trade fire, let him show off Clan tech while he picked me apart. I had other ideas. The Orion’s tough as nails, so I pushed it as hard as I could and rammed him—straight into a cliffside. Caved in his cockpit. Pilot never saw it coming.”

“Shoulder-checking an OmniMech…” Sinclair shook his head, equal parts amused and impressed. “That’s not exactly textbook, mon ami.”

“I wasn’t in the mood for a lesson.” Graham’s voice was low but steady, tinged with something sharper—regret or weariness. “And I couldn’t leave her there. She’d already lost everything. Someone had to get her out. So I did.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, save for the faint hum of the base’s generators outside. Sinclair studied his old friend, a softness in his normally sharp gaze. “You didn’t just save her life, you gave her one.”

“She earned her own place here.” Graham looked back at Sinclair, his tone brooking no argument. “I started this company for me—to do things my way, far from all that chaos—but she’s part of why I kept it going. I gave her the chance to fight, and she took it. Every single day.”

Sinclair leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “That explains much. You always did have a knack for picking up strays, Graham, even back in the day.” His grin turned sly. “But none of those strays could actually pilot a ‘Mech.”

Graham snorted, a rare flicker of humor breaking through. “No, they couldn’t.”

A silence settled between them, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Sinclair turned the moment over carefully, clearly considering his next words. “Twenty years, mon frère. You disappeared off the grid while the Inner Sphere burned itself to the ground. I never figured you for a deserter, but… this?” He gestured broadly to the office, the walls lined with well-worn maps and pieces of history. “The Vulture I knew would have retired to some backwater planet with a quiet farm and a fishing rod. Yet here you are, leading mercenaries, keeping the fight alive.”

Graham’s brow furrowed slightly. “It’s not about keeping the fight alive. It’s about doing it on my terms. I got tired of watching people like us—soldiers—getting ground into paste for causes they didn’t believe in. Here, we choose our battles.”

“And what battles are those?” Sinclair pressed, his voice gentler now. “You’ve built something impressive here, I won’t deny that, but how far are you willing to take it, Graham? A company this size—it’s not just a lance anymore. You’re visible. That means enemies, expectations, alliances.” He spread his hands. “And if I’m to help you, I need to know what your vision really is.”

Graham sighed, leaning back in his chair. For the first time, he looked weary. “We’re surviving, Sinclair. That’s the vision for now. Survive, grow, and keep the people here—my people—safe.”

Sinclair tilted his head, watching him with those piercing green eyes. “And is that enough for you? Just surviving?”

Graham didn’t answer immediately. His gaze wandered back to the wall, where an old holo-image of a younger Sarah and a barely-scruffy Graham stood in front of the Orion. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter. “For now, it has to be.”

Sinclair regarded him for a long moment, before finally nodding. “For now, then.”

The tension in the room eased slightly, and Sinclair stood, dusting off his coat with a flourish. “I’ll not badger you more today, old friend. I have your people to meet—though I suspect none of them will have such harrowing tales.” He turned toward the door, then paused, glancing back with a grin. “Still, don’t think you’re off the hook, Vulture. I’ll be expecting you to share a drink with me tonight. We’ve twenty years to catch up on.”

Graham huffed a quiet laugh. “Fine. Just don’t bring that awful brandy you always used to carry.”

“Ah, but mon ami, awful is subjective.” Sinclair swept out of the room with theatrical flair, leaving Graham alone once more, the faintest ghost of a smile lingering on his face.